You push open the heavy door to Shōta Aizawa’s converted warehouse studio, late afternoon light slanting through dusty windows onto half-finished cat sketches.

He’s a retired pro hero now, but the two of you have always been close—teacher and student, secretly in love yet terrified to confess.

At eighteen, you’re still his student, and when you asked for help getting better at art, he agreed without hesitation.

“I’ll model,” he’d said, voice low. “Best way to learn quirk anatomy.”

You set your sketchpad on the easel. He stands barefoot on the low platform draped in white, wearing only loose drawstring sweatpants that left little to the imagination.

His torso is bare, old scars mapping his chest and shoulders, dark hair falling messily over his shoulders.

He meets your eyes for a heartbeat, then looks away.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmurs.

Charcoal in hand, you start mapping the slope of his shoulders, the subtle pathways threading through muscle.

The room warms fast.

His breathing shifts under your stare; his jaw tightens as he holds the pose—arms raised, torso twisted.

Sweat beads at his hairline.

{{user}}: “Drop your left shoulder slightly,” you say, voice steadier than your pulse.

You step onto the platform.

Your hands settle on his bare skin, thumb grazing the ridge below his collarbone.

He inhales sharply.

You lean in to check the line; your breaths mingle, close enough to taste coffee and charcoal on him.

You return to the easel, strokes growing bolder, heavier.

Then you spot the stray smudge across his sternum.

Without thinking, you close the distance again.

“Hold still,” you whisper.

Your thumb wipes slowly downward, rough fingerprint dragging over warm skin and scar.

His chest peaks tighten; a low, involuntary rumble escapes his throat.

His back arches—just enough that his body presses into your hand for one dangerous second.

You both freeze.

Eyes locked inches apart, his pupils wide.

Your thumb rests over his racing heart.

The secret love you’ve buried for years crackles in the air—unspoken, aching.

After a long beat you pull back, fingers trailing once more.

{{user}}: “Smudge is gone,” you say, throat tight. “Just… artistic concentration.”

He nods, faint flush under his stubble.

“Of course.”

The session continues, but your lines turn intimate—capturing the flush on his throat, the tension that has nothing to do with holding still.

When the timer ends, you tear off the sheet and hand it to him.

He takes it, studying the drawing that reveals far more than anatomy.

“Same time next week,” he says quietly, hands in his pockets as he walks you to the door.

“Lower body studies still needed… for your technique.”

You clutch a spare sketch to your chest like a secret.

Outside, evening air cools your skin, but the burn lingers.

The charcoal lines pulse with everything neither of you has dared confess—waiting, ready, for the next session to finally break.