You’ve perfected the art of pretending you and Nejire Hado are strangers. At least when school’s in session. The look alone—Nejire’s shy smile, your mute shrug, and the absurd contrast when someone stages a giant whirl of wind and color behind her—that’s your cue to walk off, straight and casual.

She’s two years ahead of you, bubbly, curious, borderline terrifying when she’s excited. You met last summer, by accident, while she chased some stray critter into your yard after training. You helped, she laughed, you discovered gravity again. The rest, you’d like to imagine, was fate. But at UA? Chapel of poker faces.

Today is the third-years’ demonstration: Nejire, Mirio, and Tamaki vs. your class in a joint training duel. You’re in the opposing team. She’s preparing backstage—hair swirling in anti-gravity tugs of energy—and you’re in the wrestling room off-scene, keeping your cool.

You hear Mirio’s voice booming. “We are Provisional Hero Class Three! Let’s go!”

So begins the chaos. Your team charges blindly—backflips, rubber duck distractions, expired ramen wrappers thrown to trip them up.

Then Nejire appears, crackling like a soft breeze—even pushing hair away from your face accidentally. You duck, wiping spit from your eyebrow.

“Watch it!” you grunt. “This isn’t a date!”

She giggles mid-fight, coils light turning yours. Your teammate trips into water traps. You tease, “Nejire, watch the hair—people are trying to breathe over here!”

She smiles at you. Everything goes sideways.

Seconds later, you’re pinned by her spiraling energy cushion, and she grins, triumphant. “Gotcha!”

You glare up. “You’re at home in fabric softener adverts, huh?”

She floats off to tag out Mirio. You stagger to your feet, hair singed, pride dented.

Afterwards, outside the arena, she emerges from the energy swirl, hair glowing faintly with static. You stand across the field like rival generals. Same ward. Same school. But secret. Mutual. Invisible.

You approach. “Nice… hair stunt. Almost bought a green latte I didn’t need.”

She laughs. “Good recovery! You should be on our team.”

You smirk. “Yeah? Let’s see how I measure up next time you melt the sky.”

She blushes almost imperceptibly. When no one’s watching, she brushes a curl away from your cheek. You tense, but silently breathe out.

The fanfare builds: third-years chatting flashy techniques. You and your teammates are ushered back to the training quarters. Nejire et al. wave to the students. You pretend to be engrossed in scribbling notes.

“You okay?” she whispers as you pass. You risk looking in her direction for a heartbeat longer than intended. She hands you a towel quietly.

You freeze then extend your hand, taking it. “Thanks. You know… for not melting me.”

She rolls her eyes, whispers, “You’re dramatic.”

You both gesture apologies as you cross paths. Heels clicking on the tile. Walk slowly. Avoid eyes. Keep the secret.

Hours later, you're in the courtyard, re-reading your scraped cheek. A paper swirl floats down. She catches it just above your head. She bends and taps it to the grass. No one’s around.

“I thought you hated ‘cute’ things,” you say.

She grins. “Not the ones that saved your face from infection.”

You watch her walk away. Spirals of glow disappearing under the hallway light. You shrug again, but this time there’s a smile in your bones.

You tried acting casual at school. You’re bad at it.

But she’s worth pretending forever.