The faculty lounge at UA High was a sanctuary after hours, its fluorescent hum silenced by the click of a lock you shouldn't have turned.

At 22, you moved through the shadows like a ghost of your former self—the once, wide-eyed student who'd loved and respected Shōta Aizawa from the back row, scribbling notes on quirk control while stealing glances at his unkempt hair and piercing stare.

Now his colleague, close friend, and something else undefineable, teaching the next generation of heroes - those glances had evolved into something far more intense and hungrier. Something that could unravel everything.

Truth be told, this had been building for years.

When you got married to your soon-to-be ex-husband, Shōta was devastated, as were you. But neither of you let it show.

Fear stopped you both, and it could've prevented all this needless pain and heartache.

Your husband waited at home, or so he claimed.

His texts were curt demands for dinner updates, laced with barbs about your "obsession with that dead-end job."

Neglectful in the quiet hours, when you'd curl into an empty bed aching for touch; harsh in the mornings, dissecting your every flaw over lukewarm coffee.

Marriage to him felt like a quirk gone wrong—binding, suffocating, like a capture weapon you were finally ready to sever so that you could bind yourself to the man that weilded that very tool, once used for combat.

You slipped inside, heart pounding against your ribs, and there he was:

Shōta Aizawa, now 38 and retired from the pro hero grind, slouched in his sleeping bag on the threadbare couch like it was his personal fortress.

No longer the renowned underground hero Eraserhead, but the man who'd stared down villains without flinching, now watched you with eyes that softened only for you.

His dark locks fell wild over his eyes, and the faint scars over his missing eye caught the moonlight filtering through the blinds.

"You'll get caught one of these nights," he murmured, voice gravel-rough, yet tender only for you.

But his hand extended anyway, beckoning. No real warning in it; just the ritual words to remind you both of the line you danced upon.

This had been going on secretly for a month now.

"I don't care anymore." You crossed the room in three strides, shedding your coat like a skin you no longer fit.

His fingers caught yours, strong and steady, pulling you down onto his lap.

Up close, he smelled of coffee and musk, a quiet anchor in the storm of your life.

Your lips met his in the dim glow—a slow burn, all pent-up longing from stolen hallway brushes and coded notes passed in staff meetings.

His free hand cradled the nape of your neck, thumb stroking the pulse that raced for him alone.

When you broke apart, foreheads pressed, his breath ghosted warm against your skin. "Tell me you're sure. About leaving him."

You nodded, the words spilling like a confession long rehearsed.

"I'm done, Shōta. I packed earlier. He doesn't see me—hasn't for months. But you... you always have. I shouldn't have married him, but fear got in the way."

His arms tightened around you, enveloping you in that unyielding warmth that he had only given you.

"I see you," he whispered fiercely, gaze locking with your.

"Every stubborn spark, every late-night lesson you turned into something more. I fell for you then— only 18 back then, watching you push through exhaustion like it was nothing. And now? Now it's everything. I love you, deeper than I know how to say. Raw, unbridled, honest love. I'll wait—days, weeks, whatever it takes. Just come back to me."

His promise hung in the air, a vow etched in the space between your bodies.

You believed it, bone-deep, as you traced the lines of his face, memorizing the man who'd wait in the wings while you dismantled your cage.

Outside, the city hummed with heroes and villains, but here, in this hidden corner of UA, your story ignited—not as coworkers or friends, but as lovers stealing toward dawn.