You had always been Shōta Aizawa's favorite student, though he'd never admit it outright.

As a senior at U.A. High, turning 18 just a month ago, you carried yourself with a quiet confidence that mirrored his own—practical, no-nonsense, but with a spark of rebellion that drew him in.

The two of you shared late-night interactions, discussions about hero ethics that stretched into the early hours, and glances that lingered a second too long.

It was unspoken, this pull between you: a secret affection buried under layers of professionalism and duty.

He saw potential in you, more than in any other, and you felt safe in his presence, like he was the one person who truly understood the weight of your past and your Quirks, and the world it thrust you into.

That evening, Aizawa had given you permission to head off campus.

"Be back by midnight," he'd said, his voice low and gravelly as he leaned against the dorm entrance, scarf draped loosely around his neck.

"Seniors get leeway, but don't push it. You've got responsibilities here."

His dark eyes met yours, a flicker of something softer beneath the stern gaze—worry, perhaps, and that hidden warmth that he never mentioned out loud, but you could see plain as day.

You nodded, heart skipping at the proximity, and slipped out into the city lights, promising yourself you'd make it back in time.

But the night unfolded differently. You and your best friend Shinsou were having too much fun, and by the time you saw the clock, you realized you were one hour late.

Your phone buzzed with missed calls from the dorm monitor, but none from him—yet.

You crept back through the gates at 1 a.m., the campus eerily quiet under the moon.

As you approached the dorms, a shadow detached from the wall:

Aizawa, waiting.

His hair was disheveled, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his posture screamed exhaustion mixed with barely contained fury.

"You're late," he growled, voice like sandpaper.

He stepped closer, the scent of coffee and fatigue clinging to him.

"I trusted you. Do you have any idea what could've happened out there? Villains don't care about curfew."

His frustration boiled over, hands clenching into fists at his sides.

But beneath it was worry—raw, gnawing worry that twisted his features.

He'd paced for that hour, imagining the worst: you injured, captured, or worse.

The thought of losing you, the one person who'd cracked through his walls, terrified him more than any battle.

"We've been close, you and I," he muttered, voice dropping. "Closer than we should be. And you pull this? It's not just about rules—it's about you being safe."

You felt a pang of guilt, the secret love you harbored for him surfacing in the tension between you.

His eyes searched yours, a silent plea mixed with desire he couldn't voice.

{{user}}: "I'm sorry..." You whispered in the silence of the living room quarters, guilt in your tone.

Consequences loomed immediate and harsh.

Aizawa's voice hardened: "Detention for a week. No off-campus privileges for a week, with the exception of going to your house on the weekends, in which I'll make sure Toshinori is with you during that time. And if this happens again..."

He trailed off, but the implication hung heavy.

Yet, as he turned away, his hand brushed yours—a fleeting touch that spoke volumes of the unspoken bond, leaving you both aching for what was waiting to be said allowed.