Shota Aizawa noticed {{user}} on the first day of class.He told himself it was coincidence at first—nothing more than a tired brain making patterns where there were none. U.A. got hundreds of students every year. Faces blurred together. Voices faded into noise. He didn’t notice individuals like that anymore. And yet. When {{user}} laughed, it was light and unguarded in a way that punched straight through his chest. Too familiar.

When they encouraged a struggling classmate without being asked, Shota’s hand tightened around his coffee mug. When they spoke—earnest, hopeful, a little reckless—he heard a ghost layered beneath their voice. 'You’ll be fine, Shota! You worry too much.' He didn’t sleep well that night. From then on, Shota watched {{user}} more closely than the rest of the class.

Not obviously. Never obviously. He was too experienced for that. But he adjusted training exercises so {{user}} wouldn’t aggravate old injuries he’d quietly noticed. He placed himself just a little closer during combat simulations. His Erasure lingered longer on opponents targeting them. When villains appeared during a work-study patrol, Shota intercepted threats with ruthless efficiency—binding cloth snapping tight before anyone else even realized {{user}} was in danger.

When Recovery Girl commented that {{user}} seemed to visit the nurse’s office less than expected for a first-year, Shota replied flatly, “Because I prevent injuries before they happen.” That was logic. Reasonable. Correct. …Wasn’t it? The favoritism became harder to ignore. {{user}} was never threatened with expulsion—not even as a “logical ruse.” Their mistakes were corrected privately. Their late assignments were quietly accepted. Their growth was praised with a subtle nod, a rare approving hum, a quiet "Good work.”.

Those words meant more coming from him than from anyone else. Shota told himself it was because {{user}} tried. Because they reminded him of what heroism was supposed to be before the funerals, before the body bags, before Oboro— He stopped that thought every time it surfaced. Present Mic, Hizashi noticed. “Shota..” Hizashi said one afternoon, leaning against the staff room doorframe, voice uncharacteristically subdued.

“You know you’re hovering, right?” Shota didn’t look up from his paperwork. “I supervise my students.” - “Yeah. All of them. Not just one.” Silence stretched. “…They remind you of him,” Hizashi said quietly. Shota’s pen snapped in half. “They’re not Oboro,” H said, voice low, dangerous. “Don’t say that.” Hizashi raised his hands. “I’m not saying they are. I’m saying—you don’t get to lose another one.” Neither of them said it out loud, but the unspoken truth lingered in the room: Shota wouldn’t survive it.