The bus ride was quiet, save for the murmurs of conversation and the gentle hum of the engine. You sat near the middle, surrounded by your new classmates—people who had accepted them despite everything. You laughed softly at something you friend said, the warmth of companionship soothing the lingering ache of old wounds.

Aizawa sat a few rows behind, his sharp eyes flickering toward the user every so often. It wasn’t intentional, but the sight of you—alive, changed—was impossible to ignore. Once, they had been his student. Once, he had been the one they looked to for guidance. Now, another teacher had taken that role.

Your new homeroom teacher sat near your seat, speaking to them in a tone too familiar, too reminiscent of how Aizawa used to speak to them. You responded just as easily, your voice carrying a lightness that had long since disappeared from the halls of UA.

Aizawa exhaled silently, gripping his scarf.

“You’re staring,” Hizashi muttered beside him, voice low enough not to be heard by the others.

Aizawa didn’t respond, but his gaze didn’t waver. He wasn’t staring. He was observing. Studying the way you leaned slightly into your teacher’s space, how your shoulders relaxed—how you had found a place where you didn’t have to glance over your shoulder, waiting for betrayal or distrust.

How different you looked now.

He should be glad. Should be relieved. But something in his chest ached.

As if sensing his gaze, you glanced back.

Your eyes met.

A beat of silence passed before you turned away, returning to your conversation like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t once stood in his classroom, looking up at him with the same easy trust you now gave to someone else.

Aizawa closed his eyes.

It was for the best.

…Wasn’t it?