You didn’t even ask where he was taking you.

You’d learned not to ask too many questions with Aizawa. Not because he’d snap—but because he usually gave some vague answer like “You’ll see” or “Trust me.”

And today, for some reason, you did.

You sat on the train beside him, backpack against your knees, boots scuffed from your latest garage project. He sipped his coffee. Didn’t say much.

Until the gates of UA came into view.

You stopped walking.

Your eyes went wide.

And he—without even glancing—muttered,

“Keep up.”

⸻

The halls were quieter than you expected. Not loud or chaotic. Just… real.

And that made it feel even bigger.

You passed bulletin boards covered in support department sketches, notes pinned in different colors, gear mockups half-erased. A few students nodded to Aizawa in surprise—he never brought guests.

He didn’t explain anything.

Just kept walking.

Then opened the doors to the gym.

⸻

The sound hit first. Training mats slamming. Boots thudding. Someone yelling mid-spin. Bakugo blowing something up in the corner, obviously.

And Class 1-A—half of them sparring, half practicing solo—barely noticed you two at first.

You froze in the doorway.

Not because you were scared.

But because it looked exactly like you’d always pictured.

Bright. Sharp. Real.

And suddenly—

You were seven again.

Hunched at the kitchen table in Aizawa’s old apartment. Sketching in your notebook, too shy to speak above a whisper.

“It’d be cool,” you’d said one night, when he walked in bruised and tired from patrol. “To, um… see hero students train. Work with them. Y’know. Maybe help them someday. If I get good enough.”

He hadn’t said anything then. Just ruffled your hair.

You thought he’d forgotten.

But now…

Now, here you were.

And you hadn’t even asked for it.

⸻

“Sir,” you said quietly, nudging his sleeve. “You remembered.”

He just hummed.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

“But you did.”

“…Yeah.”

You didn’t say anything more.

You just watched. Eyes wide. Brain already ticking.

“Her boots lag,” you whispered, pointing to a student’s stomp-based quirk. “She’s wasting charge on every lift. And his elbow armor’s slipping—look. He’ll lose traction if he tries a full spin—”

“You’re not supposed to critique them.”

“I’m not mocking them. I’m admiring.”

Aizawa raised a brow. “You sure you don’t want to transfer into the support course here?”

You snorted. “Not if I have to talk to people.”

“Fair.”

⸻

He let you stay the whole session.

You looked back at the gym—at the flying kicks, the clever dodges, the way Bakugo exploded a target like it offended his ancestors—and whispered like it was just for yourself:

“…This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Aizawa didn’t say anything.

And when class ended, he turned to you and said quietly,

“Want me to introduce you?”

You nodded.

Because for the first time… you didn’t just want to build gear for heroes. You wanted to stand with them.

And today, for once, you really felt like you belonged.