You slipped into the UA training room long after curfew, the door clicking shut behind you like it always did on these late nights.
He knew you were there the second your footsteps hit the mat—Shōta Aizawa never missed a thing.
Not after 3 years of you getting under his skin, every breakdown, every quiet moment when the rest of the class had gone to bed.
Shirtless in the low light, he kept going. Three-finger push-ups, steady and precise.
Broad shoulders flexing, triceps corded tight, the deep V of his back glistening with sweat that traced every ridge of muscle down to the waistband of his black sweats.
They hung dangerously low, clinging to him from the damp heat rolling off him. A bead of sweat slid along his spine and disappeared beneath the fabric, and your mouth went dry.
“Couldn’t sleep again?”
His voice was low, rough from the strain, but warm in that way it only ever got with you.
He didn’t stop, didn’t even glance up—just powered through another slow descent, grunting softly as his chest nearly brushed the mat.
“Thought we broke you of that habit by now.” He sighed, but tried to hide the deep concern in his tone.
You leaned against the wall, arms crossed to hide how your fingers trembled.
“Yeah… I remember. You made me tea with too much honey and told me stories about your underground days until I passed out. Felt like the only person who got it.”
The words came easy, the way they always did between you two.
Years of late-night talks, of him quietly adjusting your stance during extra training, of shared silences that felt safer than anything else in your chaotic life.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest as he held the bottom of a rep, muscles quivering.
“You’ve seen me worse than this, {{user}}. Covered in blood after that villain swarm in Kyoto, on your dorm floor while you patched me up and yelled at me for being reckless.”
Another push, smooth and controlled, veins standing out along his forearms. His messy black hair fell forward, but you caught the faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“Yet here you are again. Watching like you’re waiting for me to break.”
Your face grew warm. You told yourself it was nothing—just the familiar comfort of your bond, the way he’d become the one constant in your healing journey.
The way your pulse hammered? Just adrenaline from the memory of his voice in the dark.
The ache low in your belly as you traced the trail of hair vanishing into his sweats? Nothing. He was Sensei. Oblivious.
Aizawa finished his set with a final grunt which you could feel the heat in your abdomen, then rolled smoothly to sit on his heels. He finally looked at you, those sharp eyes half-lidded but warm, a faint flush across his cheekbones from the effort.
He dragged a forearm across his forehead, smearing sweat, and the motion made his sweats pull even lower, outlining the heavy line of him beneath the fabric.
“Still breathing through it?” he asked, voice gravelly, teasing in that older-brother way he’d perfected over the years.
“Come on. You’ve trained with me since you were a scared first-year. Don’t tell me three finger push-ups scare you now.”
He flexed his hand once, knuckles cracking, then stood in one fluid motion. You swallowed hard. “Not scared. Just… appreciating the form, Sensei. Like always.”
He didn’t know the real reason your gaze kept drifting. You didn’t know the way his own eyes lingered on you a beat too long.
Aizawa’s mouth twitched, almost fond. “Appreciate it up close then. Grab a mat. We’ve got all night—like old times.” He stepped nearer, still shirtless, still glistening, the tension humming between you like a live wire neither of you would ever name.
Oblivious. Both of you. For now.