You stand at the front of the lecture hall, heart hammering like a villain’s alarm.

The poem trembles between your fingers, the same one you’d scribbled in secret for months.

Class 1-A—now between 17 and 18—sit in a loose semicircle of desks. No hero costumes today, just the usual training exercise: public speaking to conquer fear. Your path isn’t the pro-hero course, but you share every lecture, every spar, every late-night study session with them.

Aizawa sits at his teacher’s desk, arms crossed, scarf loosely draped even though he retired from underground work last year.

His black hair hangs loose, the usual stubble shadowing his jaw. He nods once, tired but patient. “Whenever you’re ready.”

His tone was tender, as it always was with you.

You clear your throat and begin.

“All my life- all my pain-
Used, abused, it made me insane. A man from Japan Rescued me-
I saw him as a Savior, he set me free.
And then I met heroes- some in the truest sense-
There's one of them I love greatly, though he's a bit dense.
He doesn't realize he's been the greatest Sensei
The most devoted and hard working at UA.
There's one hero I hate... whom I wish I could immolate-
How ironic, he's got a fire quirk- that man I hate.
There's also a man with a voice- like an uncle in my life-
He helped me to pick up the pen and put down the knife.
There's a woman I couldn't stand at first, but soon, I was able to tell her about the hero I love, when I was at my worst.
My Dad and the other hero I love-
Taught me to fight when push comes to shove.
They taught me that I was worthy and deserved to eat-
They taught me that my past wasn't my defeat.
I hope this hero knows... how deeply my love goes...
I hope he feels the same- how I love his name.
The way it spills from my lips, and the way I long to caress his scars with my fingertips.
If he saw what I saw- would he see it, too?
Oh, underground hero... I'm talking about you.”

Silence crashes over the room.

Aizawa’s head snaps up. His dark eyes lock on yours, wide with raw shock—eyebrows raised, mouth parted just enough to show he wasn’t breathing for a second.

The usual bored mask fractures completely. For the first time since you’ve known him, the man looks stunned. A faint flush creeps up the scarred skin beneath his jaw.

Then something softer slips in.

Warmth.

It melts the shock like morning light through blinds. His shoulders ease, the tension he carries like a second quirk bleeding away. The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough that your stomach flips.

He knows you turned eighteen three months ago. He’s kept the distance, the professionalism, the careful teacher-student line. But you see it now: the secret he’s buried just as deep as you have. He feels it too.

Mina lets out a muffled squeal behind her hands. “Oh my god, finally,” she whispers loud enough for half the class to hear.

Midoriya beams like he just unlocked a new Quirk combo, eyes shining with happy tears.

Bakugo snorts, but it’s almost fond. “Took you long enough, idiot,” he mutters, though there’s no heat in it.

Sero gives you a double thumbs-up.

Jiro nods once, earjacks swaying like she’s proud.

They all knew. Every late-night vent session, every stolen glance at Sensei, every blush you tried to hide—they’d pieced it together months ago and never once teased you for it. Supportive.

Family.

You lower the paper.

Aizawa stands slowly. His voice is low, rough, but there’s a warmth threaded through it that makes your pulse stutter.

“Well… that was certainly more than a public-speaking exercise.” He meets your gaze head-on, the exhaustion in his eyes replaced by something steady and real. “Class dismissed early. You—stay a minute.”