The dim glow of the underground bar wrapped the room in amber haze, the low hum of jazz and clinking glasses masking secrets.

You perched on a velvet stool at the far end of the counter, legs elegantly crossed, your black dress shimmering just enough to catch the light without screaming for attention.

At twenty, you were far from the nervous UA student who once hung on every word of your homeroom teacher.

Now you were his equal—a fellow instructor shaping the next generation—and the woman who shared his quiet mornings and stolen kisses.

Shōta Aizawa stood behind the bar in a traditional bar tender's outfit- a white, button-down shirt, black bow tie, black vest, and black slacks, hair down, and stubble shadowing his jaw.

Retired from the front lines as Eraserhead, he’d accepted this undercover bartender role to monitor a ring of villains trading dangerous quirk-enhancement intel.

His movements were unhurried, wiping glasses with that familiar precision, but you caught the subtle flick of his dark eyes—checking on you, always.

He was still the same sweet man who’d stolen your heart.

The one who left handwritten notes tucked into your teacher’s planner (“Don’t forget to eat, love”), who brewed your coffee exactly the way you liked it after late-night grading sessions, and who held you close at night with quiet whispers that made the world feel safe.

Even now, in the middle of a mission, he found a way to brush his fingers against yours when he set down your drink, a tiny gesture only you would notice. “Stay safe,” it said. “I’ve got you.”

Your role was clear: the seductive woman drinking alone, drawing eyes while he listened.

You swirled your cocktail in your glass, letting the colorful liquid catch the light, when one of the men Shōta had been watching all night slid onto the stool beside you.

He was broad-shouldered, scar slicing across his left cheek, a shadow quirk user named Kage according to the brief.

He leaned in just enough for politeness, voice low and easy like he’d done this a hundred times.

“Evening,” he said, offering a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Didn’t expect to see someone like you sitting here all by yourself. Name’s Kage. Mind if I buy you the next one? A pretty teacher—I mean, a pretty woman—deserves better company than an empty glass.”

You felt Shōta’s gaze linger from behind the bar, steady and protective, the softest hint of a smile ghosting his lips.

He trusted you. You trusted him. The game was on.