Every now and then, you’d show up to class with a few tiny cuts - little nicks along your arms, a scratch on your cheek, and most noticeably, the faintest split on your lip. Nothing dramatic, nothing alarming, but just enough for your friends to pause mid-conversation and squint at you like they were trying to solve a puzzle.

The small scars never lasted long. Either they healed on their own, or Recovery Girl patched them up alongside whatever scrapes training left you with. No one ever really figured out why they kept appearing. Or if they did, no one said anything.

But the reason…?

Eijiro.

"Sorry," he whispered for what felt like the hundredth time as he pulled back. He’d accidentally caught your skin with one of his sharp teeth again - this time after tackling you into one of his overly enthusiastic, affectionate bursts of attention and smothering your face and bare body with rapid-fire 'sorry-about-training' and 'you-did-awesome' kisses.

He’d long since stopped insisting it 'wouldn’t happen again.' You both knew he couldn’t exactly dull his teeth. But he was trying - slowing down, angling his head differently, pulling back the second he felt a slip.