You hadn’t heard his name during orientation.

Maybe they’d done that on purpose.

Maybe the universe just liked to mess with you.

Either way, the moment you stepped onto the training field and saw him there—standing in a sleeping bag like some half-feral ghost of your childhood—your chest clenched.

He looked older. Sharper around the edges. Hair longer. Eyes colder.

But it was him.

Aizawa Shouta.

You knew that stance. That deadpan voice. That faint wrinkle between his brows when he didn’t like someone’s answer.

You shrank into the back of the group before he could scan your face. Pulled your jacket tighter. Avoided his eyes. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

Maybe he wouldn’t.

⸻

“You’ll be doing a quirk apprehension test,” he announced. “No time for introductions. Life’s not fair. Get moving.”

Same tone.

Same impatient edge.

Like nothing ever changed.

You moved when everyone else did.

You gave your scores. Performed your tests.

You kept your quirk controlled—more than usual, even. You’d worked on it. Polished it. But you still flinched every time he glanced in your direction.

Not a flicker of recognition.

Not once.

Not when he said your name. Not when he passed by you to speak to Midoriya. Not even when he paused to watch you do the grip test, arms trembling from restraint.

You were just another student.

Just another file in a folder he hadn’t read closely.

Just another kid.

It shouldn’t have hurt.

But it did.

⸻

You made it to the end of the test.

You weren’t last. You weren’t first.

You were just there.

Trying to catch your breath. Heart aching from something that had nothing to do with physical effort.

He dismissed everyone after the results.

Said nothing to you.

You stood in the back while the others filed out, buzzing with nerves and pride and excitement.

And that’s when it happened.

He glanced back.

Not at the class. Not at the scores. At you.

Eyes narrowing—like something clicked sideways.

“…Wait.”

You froze.

He stared.

Harder this time.

Then: “Say your name again.”

You did.

Slowly. Carefully.

He blinked.

Once. Twice.

Then everything in his face changed.

“…You’re—”

You nodded before he could say it.

The silence stretched thin. Almost too long.

Then he breathed out—sharp. Soft. Like a gut punch.

“I didn’t… recognize you.”

“I figured,” you said quietly.

“You look different.”

“It’s been five years.”

He stepped forward, scarf shifting over his shoulder.

“I didn’t know they placed you here.”

“I didn’t either.”

“You—” His voice caught for a second. “You grew up.”

You smiled faintly, tired.

“So did you.”

For the first time all day, his posture dropped.

He looked at you—really looked—and you swore, for just a second, the hallway wasn’t so cold.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly.

You didn’t trust your voice enough to answer.

But he didn’t need it.