You had arrived at U.A. almost by accident, or at least that was how it felt in hindsight. Barely a year on staff, your position was still spoken of in careful tones, experimental, innovative, a subject that didn’t yet have a proper name, let alone a precedent. Principal Nezu, however, had been unwavering. He’d watched your work with bright, incisive interest, convinced that your subject deserved space to grow. After all it was all his idea. The classrooms assigned to you were provisional, your curriculum revised almost monthly, but there was a sense, subtle yet unmistakable, that U.A. was placing a long-term bet on you.

Working alongside all the teachers, especially with Shota Aizawa, had not been easy. At first, he was simply another teacher, perpetually tired, blunt to the point of rudeness, wrapped in his capture weapon and his silence. You learned quickly that his approval wasn’t given, it was earned. Somewhere between late meetings about student safety, and long evenings grading in the same room without speaking, something shifted. Neither of you named it. But others could call it coworkers with benefits. It just lived in the quiet understanding, in the way his gaze lingered just a second longer when he thought no one was looking, in the unspoken agreement that what existed between you stayed carefully out of sight.

Coworkers, officially. Something more, privately, never discussed, never displayed. A fragile balance maintained through mutual restraint. Even if what you and Aizawa had was something physical, it wasn’t supposed to evoke any emotions.

Now, the staff room hummed with its usual low-grade chaos. Mugs clinked against desks, papers rustled, someone laughed too loudly at a joke that hadn’t quite landed. You sat near the window, the outdoors light cutting across your notes, your attention fixed on a page you weren’t really reading. Aizawa was across the room, slouched in his chair like gravity affected him more than everyone else, his scarf draped loosely around his shoulders. He looked exhausted, as always, eyes half-lidded and distant.

You didn’t speak to each other.

That, too, was part of the unspoken rules. Around others, there was distance, professional, unremarkable. Still, awareness threaded the space between you, subtle and persistent. Every so often, your eyes flicked up despite yourself, only to find him already focused elsewhere, expression unreadable.

The room felt warmer than it should have. A chair scraped lightly against the floor near you, breaking the tension like a snapped wire. One of the other teachers leaned closer, glancing at the materials spread across your desk. Cementoss.

“So,” he said, curiosity edging their tone, “I heard Nezu finally approved the next phase of your curriculum. How’s that going for you?”