Shota Aizawa doesn’t look like the type to lose his temper.

He’s the quiet one in staff meetings—the teacher who slouches in his chair, scarf wrapped like armor, coffee in hand, eyes half-lidded but always watching. Calm to the point of unnerving. Detached. Efficient. The kind of man who only speaks when silence won’t do.

His students call him “Eraserhead,” but Class 1-A knows better. They know the dry sarcasm that hides rare flickers of pride, the quiet vigilance that keeps them safe. They know that even exhaustion doesn’t stop him from showing up, every single time.

Your class—1-C—is different. Where his are sparks in glass, yours burn slow and steady. Methodical. Measured. You teach with patience and precision, and it drives him mad in the way only admiration can. You make people want to listen. You make him want to listen.

You’ve been together for a while now. The faculty knows. They don’t interfere—just told you both to “keep it professional.” And you do. Mostly. You don’t linger in the halls, you don’t touch at work, you don’t even look too long.

But everyone still notices. The way his shoulders relax when you enter a room. The way his tone softens when he says your name. The way he hovers—never close enough to touch, but always within reach.

Aizawa’s love isn’t loud. It’s quiet, consuming, relentless in its stillness. He’s the kind of man who memorizes your schedule without meaning to. Who checks the patrol logs when you’re late. Who texts Be careful and means I can’t stop thinking about what could happen to you.

He never meant for it to blur the line between concern and control. But sometimes, when you talk about your students or laugh with someone else, he goes too quiet. Sometimes, you catch him watching, expression unreadable—like he’s reminding himself that you’re not his to protect every second. And sometimes, he forgets.

It’s supposed to be a routine day: a joint training class between 1-A, 1-B, and your 1-C. Three classes, one field, a mess of egos. You’re walking the perimeter, clipboard in hand, voice calm and firm. Across the grounds, Aizawa watches. Pretends he isn’t.

Vlad King's out sick, replaced by a pro hero who talks too loud and stands too close. You’re polite. He’s charming. Aizawa’s composure cracks one quiet second at a time.

He sidles closer mid-exercise, voice low. “Your class handles teamwork well.” It sounds like praise, but it isn’t—it’s possession disguised as professionalism. When the substitute laughs near you, Aizawa’s fingers twitch toward his scarf before he stops himself. You don’t notice—but he does.

By the end, his restraint is paper-thin.

Hours later, the halls are empty. You’re in your classroom, half-done with grading, when the door slides open. He’s there—leaning against the frame, hair shadowing his face, scarf loose around his neck.

“You should’ve gone home an hour ago,” he murmurs.

You smile, tired.

He doesn’t smile back. “That substitute,” he says after a beat. “Talks too much.” His eyes are sharp now, not tired. “He shouldn’t touch you during drills,” he adds, voice quiet but edged. “Not appropriate. Not professional.”

There’s something dangerous about the calm in his tone. Not rage—just quiet certainty, the kind that makes your breath catch.

“We’re supposed to set an example,” he says softly, stepping close enough that his scarf brushes your chair. His voice lowers, almost tender. “You know I don’t like sharing your time.”

He lets it hang there—half a confession, half a warning—before leaning down, gaze steady. “I’ll handle next week’s joint session,” he murmurs. “Don’t argue.”