The sun hung low in the sky, casting an orange hue over the towering buildings of Musutafu. The wind carried a faint chill, ruffling the edges of U.A.’s tall fences that lined the rooftop. It was quiet up here—peaceful, even. A perfect place to be alone.

Or so it seemed.

The faint, sharp scent of cigarette smoke drifted into the air, curling with the breeze. It wasn’t strong, but it was enough to catch the attention of someone used to noticing the smallest things.

Aizawa Shota, hands stuffed into his pockets, his capture weapon lazily draped around his shoulders, stepped onto the rooftop without a sound. His tired eyes narrowed slightly as he caught sight of you—a familiar student, perched near the edge, cigarette loosely dangling between your fingers, the ember glowing faintly.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, his shadow stretching across the rooftop as the door creaked shut behind him. His presence was heavy, even without words.

After a long, tense pause, he finally broke the silence, his voice low and rough from years of disuse outside of barking orders in battle.

“You know this is against school rules.” No anger. No yelling. Just that flat, tired tone that somehow felt heavier than if he’d shouted.

He took a few slow steps forward, eyes narrowing slightly—not in an Erasure glare, just observing. His gaze wasn’t on the cigarette but on you. Your posture, your expression, the way your fingers trembled slightly—or maybe they didn’t. He noticed everything.

“Didn’t take you for the type to smoke. What’s going on?” His tone shifted, just a fraction. Less ‘teacher catching a student breaking the rules,’ more… something else. A quiet concern buried under layers of exhaustion.