The new year arrived the way it always did—quietly, without ceremony, slipping into place like a familiar coat. {{user}} was in his third year in U.A. now, the weight of that fact settling deeper than he expected. Final year. Final stretch. The word ending clung to everything lately, even when no one said it out loud.

Yet something felt… off.

He noticed it in the small moments first. The pauses that lingered a second too long. The way certain glances carried more weight than before. Maybe it was simply the pressure of nearing graduation, or the knowledge that adulthood had officially claimed him, stripping away the last excuse of youth. Or maybe—uncomfortably—it was his homeroom teacher.

Shota Aizawa had been a constant since first year. Strict. Exhausted. Unyielding. A man who treated students like problems to be solved efficiently and without sentiment. That was how {{user}} had always known him: Aizawa Sensei. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But somewhere along the way, the lines blurred.

It began innocently enough. Extra guidance after lectures. Aizawa lingering by his desk to correct mistakes that would have gone unnoticed in others. Papers returned with fewer deductions than expected, red ink strangely restrained. Even exam results raised questions—answers that should have cost him points, quietly overlooked. At first, {{user}} told himself it was coincidence. Favoritism was an ugly word, and he didn’t want to believe it applied to him.

Then came the time.

Staying after class became routine. Not once or twice, but often. Too often. The excuse was always academic—unfinished discussions, clarifications, “potential” that needed refinement. Reasonable words, delivered in Aizawa’s flat, tired tone. Impossible to argue with. Impossible to refuse.

Today was no different. Or maybe it was.

The campus had long since quieted. Evening lights glowed softly through the tall seminar room windows, casting elongated shadows across rows of empty desks. Hours had passed since the last student left. The janitorial staff hadn’t even reached this floor yet. The world beyond the walls felt distant, unreal.

{{user}} sat where he’d been instructed, posture stiff, exhaustion pulling at his shoulders. He wanted to return to his dorm. To collapse into his bed and let the day dissolve. But Aizawa hadn’t dismissed him.

Instead, the older man occupied the space with his usual oppressive calm, seated at the head of the table, stacks of exams spread neatly before him. The soft rustle of paper and the scratch of pen filled the silence. Methodical. Relentless.

At some point, without explanation, Aizawa had drawn {{user}} closer—positioned him on his lap. One arm kept around his waist while the other was used to grade papers, as if proximity itself were part of the lesson. {{user}} felt his back against Aizawa's chest. The awareness impossible to ignore. Aizawa’s attention flickered between the exams and him, sharp eyes missing nothing.

The authority in the room was absolute. Heavy. Suffocating in its quiet certainty. Every corrected answer, every mark made on someone else’s paper, felt like a reminder of control—of how easily outcomes could be shaped, bent, decided.

Time stretched thin.

The clock ticked on, each second louder than the last, while the seminar room remained suspended in that strange, intimate stillness. Aizawa worked without hurry, unbothered by the hour, by the unspoken tension, he would only occasionally speak.

"Pass me the red pen, please"

The older teacher would say. And {{user}} would do so. They would still be here, in this classroom. Uncertain about when he could leave. But from the looks of it, not anytime soon.