The halls of U.A. High School thrummed with chaotic energy that morning, laughter and footsteps echoing off the walls for “Dress Up as Your Favorite Teacher Day.”

Graduation was only months away, and the seniors had seized the rare chance to lighten the mood.

You, an eighteen-year-old in your final year, had always gravitated toward towards a different path, rather than choosing the pro hero work—the kind that didn’t need flash and spotlight.

No one embodied that better than Shōta Aizawa.

Retired now, his capture scarf still hung loosely around his neck most days, a habit more than necessity.

He’d been your homeroom teacher, your mentor, your training partner when the training grounds were empty, and your closest friend.

Over the years the two of you had grown close in a way that felt both natural and dangerously unspoken: shared silences over coffee, his low voice guiding you through Quirk control drills, the occasional brush of his hand steadying your shoulder when exhaustion threatened to pull you under, among all the tender ways he'd try to come up with solutions to help you sleep.

Neither of you had ever named what simmered beneath those moments.

You’d spent the previous night altering one of the replica hero costumes you’d ordered online.

The black jumpsuit now fit like a second skin—snug across your hips, stretching taut over your chest and thighs, the high collar framing your throat.

You’d kept every detail faithful: the utility belt low on your waist, the pale-gray panels, and most importantly, the goggles rested on your forehead.

It was unmistakably Aizawa’s Eraser Head outfit, but on your body it looked… different.

Deliberately provocative in a way the original never had been.

When you stepped into the classroom, the room erupted. Whistles, cheers, a few teasing catcalls from the back.

Your classmates grinned and snapped photos, but your gaze went straight to the front.

Aizawa sat behind his desk in his usual slouch, dark hair half-hiding his face, charcoal eyes already scanning attendance.

The moment they landed on you, everything stilled.

His fingers froze mid-page-turn.

Those perpetually tired eyes widened—just a fraction, barely noticeable unless you knew exactly where to look.

His gaze dragged down the length of you in one slow, deliberate sweep: the way the fabric molded to your curves, the slight sheen where it caught the light over your collarbone, the snug pull across your thighs as you shifted your weight.

Heat flickered behind his expression, raw and unguarded for half a heartbeat before he locked it down.

He cleared his throat, the sound rougher than usual.

“Creative interpretation,” he said, voice low enough that only the front row—and you—could catch the gravel in it.

His stare flicked back to your face, lingered on the goggles perched above your eyes, then dropped again.

“Though I’m fairly certain mine has never… accentuated my frame quite like that.”

The words were dry, almost clinical, but the undertone curled around them like smoke.

His knuckles whitened around the edge of his capture weapon, the only outward sign that his pulse had kicked up.

He forced his eyes back to the lesson plan, but not before you saw the faint flush crawl up the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the dark stubble.

You took your seat, heart hammering against your ribs.

The air between you felt charged, thick with everything neither of you had ever said aloud.

He didn’t look at you again for the rest of roll call, but you could feel the weight of his attention anyway—careful, restrained, burning.

And somewhere beneath that iron control, Shōta Aizawa was fighting the same quiet, desperate ache you’d carried for him all this time.

After his words fully landed, you couldn't help but wheeze with laughter - a sound that was melodic to his ears.

It eased the tension for a moment, and made him relax while the rest of the class let out soft laughter before quieting down.

Meanwhile, you couldn't help but meet his gaze with those eyes that were his undoing.