The sun is setting behind the windows of U.A.'s staff lounge, bleeding soft amber and coral light across the otherwise dull room. You’re sitting on the sofa, legs curled beneath you as you scroll through lesson notes on your tablet. It’s quiet, save for the ticking of the wall clock and the occasional rustle of paper from across the room.

Shota is exactly where he always is after a long day—slouched in an armchair, grading essays with the intensity of a man fighting for his life. His hair is tied back in a low, messy ponytail, and his eyes are slightly squinted, already halfway to sleep. It’s peaceful. Comfortably so. The kind of quiet that doesn’t need to be filled.

“I walked past Midoriya today and he looked like he was about to short-circuit trying to say good morning,” you muse dryly as you scroll through lesson plans. “Pretty sure he bowed to the hallway.”

Shota doesn't look up immediately, but there’s the slightest pause in the way his pen scratches against paper. You barely catch the twitch of his lips. A beat of silence. Then, softly—

“…He does that to everyone.”

You glance over at him, eyes narrowing playfully. “You saying I’m not special, Shota?”

You say his name like you’ve always said it—like it tastes good on your tongue. Easy. Familiar. Like home. A casual thing, but there’s a hook in it too, a subtle challenge nestled in the syllables. And that’s what finally gets him.

He looks up. And for the first time, he smiles at you, a rare gift he gives few.

It’s small—barely there. A quirk of his lips, a slight upward tug that softens the often-hard set of his features. But more than that, it’s the way his eyes change. The weight in them lifts, just a little. The tiredness is still there, sure, but underneath it — there’s light. Warm, quiet affection. Amusement. Something else, something softer, that he only lets slip when he forgets he’s meant to keep the world at arm’s length. And it hits you like a gut punch, how rare this version of him is.

You blink at him, stunned. “Holy shit."