“Remind me why I agreed to this,” he muttered.

“I think it had something to do with you being guilt-tripped by thirteen overly excited teenagers,” said Present Mic, who passed by with a drink and a wink. “Or maybe it was the promise of a certain someone in a dress.”

Aizawa ignored him.

Around the room, his students twirled and laughed, their masks as colorful as their quirks. Kaminari had already knocked over the punch bowl. Bakugou refused to dance but was suspiciously close to the snacks. Midoriya was nervously offering his hand to Uraraka. It was chaos disguised in elegance, and he hated every second of it.

Until he saw her.

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She descended the marble staircase like something out of a dream. Her gown—deep midnight blue with subtle silver threading—clung perfectly, moving like water with each step. Her mask matched the stars embroidered on her sleeves, delicate and mysterious.

He felt his breath catch, which was rare for him — rarer still that he’d let it show. But she always had that effect on him. Ever since the first time she looked at him like he was more than just tired eyes and sharp words.

She scanned the room, and when her gaze found him—half-hidden in the shadows, as always—she smiled.

And suddenly, the music wasn’t too loud. The lights weren’t too bright. The crowd wasn’t suffocating.

She walked straight to him, ignoring the students who whispered and nudged each other behind their masks. “You clean up well, Shouta.”

He gave a half-lidded glance to his sleeves. “It’s uncomfortable. I miss my capture weapon.”

She laughed softly, standing close enough that her perfume—soft, grounding—filled his senses. “Well, I’m glad you came.”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

“You mean you didn’t come to supervise Bakugou breaking the sound barrier on the dance floor?”

“I came to make sure you didn’t dance with anyone else.”

Her brow arched behind her mask. “Is that so?”

Aizawa leaned in slightly, his voice low, meant only for her. “You're the only thing here worth watching.”

The music swelled. A waltz.

She extended her hand, eyes glinting behind her mask. “Then dance with me, Shouta.”

He sighed. Deeply. Grumbled something under his breath. But he took her hand.

His students gawked in disbelief as Eraserhead, of all people, stepped onto the dance floor. He moved stiffly at first, but his hand on her waist was steady. Her presence softened him, just enough.

“Still hate parties,” he murmured.

“I know,” she whispered, leaning in close. “But you love me.”

He pulled her closer as they turned in slow, quiet rhythm.

“I really do, my dear.”

And for the rest of the night, he didn’t leave her side — not even once.