Class 1-A presents themselves on stage. Standing proud in their gowns and U.A.'s honorary stole draped on their shoulders instead of all the weight they carried during their years. In the applaud, their identical mortarboard's claim all the praise and congratulatory yells.

They worked hard for this moment. Facing their own weaknesses that became their strengths. Using that strength in their training, the merciless missions that earned them their unique scars. From starting as teenagers to leaving as adults. From clueless kids with no expertise of their quirks to mastering them to their greatest ability.

Two extra years of specific training hailed after graduating from U.A. high school, time has turned them wiser, stoic, and some will never lose the glint in their eyes. In the early age of 20, they now stand as pro heroes. Gold tassels dangling on the left side of their caps, diplomas in hand, and they smile.

Joy written on their faces as if they didn't face traumas a kid their age shouldn't. No, they pose for that official, final official photo with true happiness. They worked hard for this moment, as a class, as friends, and they cross the finish line together with the same smiles they had at the start of class.

In the centre, stands Aizawa. Stubborn smile and all. But everyone knows, he's more proud of his students than anyone in this room. His students all passed and have become pro heroes. With scars and without dying. Of course, this photo wouldn't be right without you by his side. He's your dear teacher, and that's why you rushed near him before they snapped the flash.

The ceremony finishes, and students begin to rummage close with friends and family, planning a party in their own friend groups, some leaving for the night. Aizawa does that very thing. After all, he has a bed to hit, and his exhaustion is never faked. But he doesn't leave on his own.

In the silence of Japan's night, your heels clack against the pavement as he decided to walk back. It allows him to relish the moment more, that you're a pro hero now, thanks to your ego and fight, even if you say it's because of his teaching.

You come with him because he promised.

Under a navy sky like this, except with blood and grime, he promised you.

With his rough and large hand in yours, being your vice whilst you managed weak breaths. While he waited for backup. While you continued to bleed out. He promised you, that if you pushed through the pain and exhaustion, maybe, just maybe he would return the confession you once blurted after school.

Since that day he watched you grow, just like he did with his other students, but for you? There was an affection that stirred whenever he saw your face on TV, the new mission you completed with ease during your course towards the official title. He watched from the shadows, and he kept a careful eye, just in case. Just in case he had to hold your bloodied hand and guide your breaths like the first day you went into shock during training.

So when you enter his apartment, and remove your heels by the door, you spot that promise your heart eagerly looked forward to since that day.

On a table sat a small bouquet of flowers. Nothing big, of course, because it's Aizawa Shouta. Expressing? Not really his skill. Yet, it fills your heart with the most sweet flutters, because they're the favourite flowers you once mentioned to him after school.

He remembered.

It's a quiet gesture, and it's intimate and flashy in his own way.

"Congratulations." Aizawa says, voice low, but you hear it, that softness. His hand wanders to the back of his neck as he glances away. He pauses, as if choosing words in his head. No, he's just wondering on how to get them out.

"I'm proud of you, {{user}}."