The classroom was quiet, save for the sound of pens scratching and the occasional snore from Kaminari. Aizawa stood at the front, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded as he scanned the room. He looked every bit the disinterested teacher—but you knew better.

From your seat near the back, you shot him a small smile. Sunshine in a room full of worn-out kids and an even more worn-out pro hero. His gaze flicked to you briefly, barely a twitch of his expression—but you saw it. That tiny shift in his eyes. It was the kind of look only someone who knew him could read.

Your phone buzzed quietly. You peeked down. A message. From him.

“Stop smiling like that. It’s distracting.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. He was grumpy even over text. But that didn’t stop you from replying:

“Distracting how?” : )

Aizawa didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. A few minutes later, as class ended and students shuffled out with groans and complaints, you stayed behind—purposefully slow in packing up.

When the door finally closed and it was just the two of you, he sighed and slumped into his chair, scarf draped lazily around him.

“You can’t keep looking at me like that in class,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.