Criminal Psychology takes it's peak interest during these hours. Especially if the sky is grey with tears that pour outside; finishing the day with a cosy and studious afternoon. Especially when your professor drawls each sentence with a fact that deepens the interest.

Psychology and crime had always been something you were invested in. Now, you're graced to be taught by a lecturer who (rumour has it) was once a cop, or something along those lines. A detective? Perhaps a P.I.?

Aside from the whispers of his past, your focus had always been directed to the man himself. Feared and respected, every one of his previous students had left his course successful in the subject to the brim. Scores that rose to full marks and a kind of discipline that'd been grinded into their skulls.

It had to be his brutally honest feedback that had students scurrying for perfection, and those who pushed themselves hard enough earn his respect. His high standards backed his reputation for having those successful students. Several months flashed by. You aced the class alongside everyone else, learnt so much more about the topics you enjoyed, and about the man himself.

He would watch over the class quietly, and if someone really was stuck, he would step in if necessary. He might look like a rough teacher, but he deeply cares for the class and each of his students, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud.

Winter had seated its chill, and mocks were nearby. Students battled between their part-time jobs and their studies. Aizawa knew that these months would be a revelation to the difficulty that awaits them in the next Summer, and those who truly care wouldn't complain about the struggle.

You're one of the students who get on with the work with clear instructions and a thick determination that can never be sanded down. However, he had recognised the flunk in the tests you'd return, and the assignments that would turn up dangerously close to deadlines. You fell from your top grades, and Aizawa didn't recognise the grapple you were having until you sent an email late at night, requesting for additional tutoring.

To your relief, he had replied blandly, accepting your request, no further question. He's never been one to put his nose in others business. Saves you the embarrassment. How would you explain that you were dealing with the pestering of your family along with the criminally handsome man that distracted you in class?

A tutor, you had expected. "Before we begin, I'd like you to explain your recent performance in the course." His voice catches its usual gruffness, and puts you on the spot just right with the small thud of the book he places before you. This smaller classroom is empty, leaving you seated at the front, and now, him seated beside you.

"You dropped marks on the assignments and tests I issued the last few weeks." He says, stubbled chin seated in his palm. His eyes are on you with their unwavering focus as per usual, but without the crowd of other students, his gaze seems more intense than usual. "I certainly change anything, but the lack of effort from your side does show." He accuses. But then the narrow in his brows soften in the slightest, and you see the rare sight of the teacher who cares. Behind those stern eyes, of course.

"Is something bothering you, {{user}}?"