It had become routine. 7:45 AM sharp — the tiny bell above the café door chimed, the smell of espresso and rain slipping in as you did. And, right on cue, Izuku Midoriya would glance up from his notebook — pretending not to — as you joined the short line by the counter.

He always told himself it wasn’t on purpose. That he didn’t plan to get there at the exact same time as you. That it wasn’t deliberate how his commute to U.A. had been “adjusted” so he’d have a few extra minutes to sit by the window, watching you order the same drink every morning. But it was. Of course it was.

Even now, five years after the war, after he’d given up One for All and settled into the quieter rhythm of teaching Class 1-A’s newest generation—kids who reminded him a little too much of who he used to be. Wide eyes. Too much heart. Too little fear of the world that could so easily break them.

He smiled through it, of course. He always did. The staff called him “the calm one,” the kind of teacher who never raised his voice and always had a gentle word for every student. But under the smile, there was this… emptiness. This echo of something that used to hum beneath his skin, something that once made him more.

Now he was just Izuku Midoriya—teacher, mentor, former hero. No “Deku”. No superhuman feats. Just a man who carried too many memories and an ache he couldn’t quite name.

“Morning, Midoriya-sensei,” the café owner greeted, placing his usual black coffee on the table, jolting him out of his thoughts.

“Ah—! G-good morning, thank you!” he replied quickly, voice a little too loud. He ducked his head, scribbling something meaningless in his notebook just to have something to do.

And then the bell chimed again. You walked past, your cup in hand, and offered him that same gentle smile you always did — the one that knocked the air right out of him every single time.

“Morning, sensei,” you said softly, teasingly — because you’d overheard someone call him that once.

Izuku looked up, startled, cheeks tinting pink. “O-oh! G-good morning! You—uh—you’re early today.”

“Am I?” You tilted your head, smiling. “Or maybe you’re late.”

His mouth opened… then closed again. Right. Late. That was one way to look at it.