It’s late, the sun bleeding orange across the sky over U.A.’s training grounds. Most of the others have already filtered out, their tired chatter fading as you sit on the dirt, knees drawn to your chest, trying to steady your breath. Your arms feel like lead, your legs shaky from the last round of training. It’s been getting worse — the pressure. The weight of expectations pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

You press your palms against your face, hoping to calm down before anyone notices. But you hear him before you see him. The quiet sound of soft footsteps as someone crouches down in front you.

“Not going to eat dinner with the others?” Shota’s voice is apathetic and bland as usual but there’s a gentleness curling around it. It makes your throat feel thick. He cares. You know he cares about all his students but he’s so rare in showing it that being faced with it now makes you want to cry.

You lift your head slowly to find Aizawa crouched in front of you, dark eyes soft beneath the messy curtain of his hair. His scarf hangs loose over his shoulders and his expression is calm, but there’s a sharpness behind it.

He knows what it’s like to be a teenager and wanting to prove yourself, the weight of the world on your shoulders. Hero society is built on the sacrifice of young kids who are too naive to realise that being a hero means feeling like a sledgehammer is working its way at you.

You try to sit up straighter. “I’m fine,” you mutter hoarsely.

“You don’t look fine,” Shota counters, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips.

You drop your gaze, picking at the edge of your sleeve. “Just tired.”

Shota’s eyes narrow slightly. He watches you before he sighs and shifts down to sit beside you, legs stretching out. It’s an unexpected move, to have your teacher and mentor drop down in the dirt to sit next to you as the sun dies in the sky.

“Go on,” Shota mutters as he watches the navy blossom in the sky, stealing the sunlight as stars begin to emerge above. “Tell me what’s going on, kid.”