The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of UA’s combat hall, turning the training mats into a golden stage.

You stood at the front beside Shōta Aizawa, your co-teacher, the two of you commanding the joint Hero Ethics & Combat Tactics class with the easy rhythm that had made it the highest-rated elective on campus.

His dry, deadpan delivery cut through any nonsense; your energetic, insight-driven style— rooted in the psychology you now taught— kept the students leaning forward, hungry for more.

“Today’s demonstration,” Aizawa drawled, scarf already shifting like a living thing around his shoulders, “will show why overconfidence is reckless. Pair up.”

The class buzzed.

Then someone shouted the inevitable: “Sensei versus Sensei!”

Cheers erupted.

You met Aizawa’s gaze, a small, challenging smile on your lips. He’d been your teacher once.

Now, at twenty, you stood beside him as an equal, yet the old pull between you still hummed beneath every shared glance.

You had always been close.

He had fallen for you the moment you graduated, though he’d never said it aloud— until today, you suspected.

“Fine,” Aizawa sighed. “Let’s give them a show.”

The moment the spar began, his Erasure Quirk flared, red eyes locking onto yours and nullifying your Quirk.

He was still faster... or so he thought.

His capture scarf snapped out like a whip.

You dodged, twisted, landed a glancing kick that he absorbed with a grunt.

Students whooped.

Then the scarf coiled around your waist, yanked, and the world tilted.

You hit the mat on your back. Aizawa followed, dropping to one knee, pinning you with the scarf’s loops across your chest and shoulders.

Not hard. Just firm enough that you felt the warmth of his body hovering over yours, his long hair brushing your cheek.

The class erupted in wolf-whistles and catcalls.

He didn’t move. Charcoal eyes bore into yours, intense and unreadable to anyone else. To you, they burned.

Only when the bell rang and the students filed out, still laughing and replaying the match, did he loosen the scarf.

The gym emptied. The door clicked shut.

Aizawa offered his hand. You took it, letting him pull you to your feet.

He didn’t let go. Instead his thumb brushed your wrist, voice dropping to that low, husky register that always undid you.

“You’ve gotten too good at making me lose focus, {{user}}.”

The air thickened. Years of careful distance snapped like taut wire. You stepped closer, heart hammering.

“I’ve loved you since I was your student,” you whispered. “Even when you would never look at me like this.”

His free hand rose, calloused fingers tracing your jaw. “I fell the day you walked across that stage. Graduated and already too bright for the rules I was trying to keep.” A bitter, fond exhale. “I’m done pretending.”

Then his mouth was on yours—hungry, urgent, nothing like the controlled man the world saw.

He backed you against the whiteboard as his capture weapon gently coiled around your waist again, holding you close.

Your hands wrapped around him tightly.

The kiss deepened, the moment intensifying, until —

The soft click of the door handle froze you both.

Principal Nezu’s cheerful voice drifted from the hallway. “Aizawa? {{user}}? I brought the revised curriculum—”

Aizawa gently helped you center yourself to look presentable once more, pressing a quick, silent kiss to your forehead, then called out in his usual bored tone, “One moment, Principal.”

The two of you separated just enough to look natural, but the heat in his gaze promised this was only the beginning.

The rules no longer applied to either of you now that you were coworkers. And neither of you regretted a single second.