You sat in the quiet hum of the U.A. faculty lounge, the late afternoon light slanting through the blinds and catching on the scattered lesson plans and half-drained coffee mugs.

The day’s classes were over—but the two of you had lingered, as you often did.

Shōta Aizawa, your former teacher, colleague, and husband, stood at the window.

You two had always had a bond had been forged in fire and late-night conversations, helping you to feel safe when nobody else had.

When you returned to U.A. as a sensei, the respect had deepened into something neither of you could deny.

A shared house, quiet evenings where he’d rest his head in your lap while you graded papers, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your wrist.

The wedding had been small, but it had been your dream wedding, the vows had felt as natural as breathing.

Shōta was not a man of grand gestures; but for you, everything he once denied himself was now what he showered you with. Faithful to the core. Unshakable.

The door slid open with a theatrical click of heels.

Nemuri Kayama—Midnight—swept in, her hero costume still on from some off-campus appearance, the fabric clinging like it had been painted on.

Her perfume hit first, overly sweet and heavy, followed by that signature laugh that could disarm villains and staff meetings alike.

“Shōta, darling!” she purred, zeroing in on him like a heat-seeking missile.

She crossed the room in three swaying steps and leaned against the counter right beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his.

“Even retired, you still look like you could erase my troubles in one glance. Remember those night patrols we used to run? Just you, me, and the city lights… the way you’d look at me when the adrenaline was high?”

Her fingers trailed lightly along his arm, playful, teasing—the same tone she used with everyone.

But you caught the flicker in her eyes when they darted your way: sharp, calculating, laced with something colder than mischief.

This wasn’t harmless banter. Midnight had watched your relationship bloom with growing resentment, and these little “jokes” were her latest attempt to chip away at it, to plant doubt, to sabotage what she clearly believed should have been hers.

Shōta’s reaction was instantaneous.

His body went rigid, a flash of genuine disgust tightening his jaw as he stepped sideways, breaking her contact like it burned.

The capture weapon twitched once, an unconscious reflex.

“Nemuri,” he said, voice flat and edged with ice, “stop.”

No humor, no tolerance.

He turned his head toward you, and the disgust melted into something softer, protective—his hand reaching across the small space between your chairs to find yours, fingers lacing tight.

“I’m married. Happily. To the only person who’s ever truly seen me. Your games aren’t cute; they’re insulting. And they end now.”

Midnight laughed it off with a dramatic wave, but the smile didn’t touch her eyes.

“Oh, come on, Eraser! It’s just a little nostalgia between old friends. {{user}} knows I don’t mean anything by it… right?”

She glanced at you again, that saccharine sweetness cracking just enough to reveal the malice underneath, the quiet hope that one day her persistence might finally crack the foundation you and Shōta had built.

The lounge fell into a thick silence.

Shōta’s grip on your hand remained steady, warm, a silent vow louder than any quirk or declaration.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles once—reassurance, affection, the same quiet strength that had carried you both from classroom to home to forever.

He had zero interest in her games. None. You could feel it in the way he leaned slightly toward you, body angled away from her like she wasn’t even in the room.

Midnight lingered by the counter, one perfectly arched brow raised, waiting.

The air hummed with unspoken tension, the open window letting in the distant sounds of students training on the grounds below.

Your move.