The U.A. staff room was quiet — too quiet, considering that Hizashi Yamada was usually the loudest thing in it. The low hum of fluorescent lights filled the silence, broken only by the occasional scratch of a red pen.

You — Hizashi Yamada, the ever-energetic Voice Hero: Present Mic — sat at your desk, glasses low on your nose, half-buried under a stack of student essays. The clock ticked somewhere above you, the rain tapping against the window in rhythm. Normally, you’d be filling the room with chatter or music, but not tonight. Tonight, you were pointedly ignoring him.

Across the room, Aizawa Shouta had been watching you for the last ten minutes — or maybe longer. His expression was unreadable, though the faint twitch in his brow said enough. You’d brushed off his questions earlier, answered his dry humor with silence, and now you were pretending to be far too focused on grading to notice him leaning against the doorframe.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh. Just moved. Quietly.

You didn’t look up until you felt a shift in the light — and then there he was. Aizawa had climbed right up onto your desk, long legs folded, dark scarf trailing slightly behind him. He sat cross-legged just inches from your papers, his face hovering close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath. His hair was loose, framing his tired but faintly amused expression.

“Ignoring me now, huh?” he murmured, voice low and dry. “That’s new. Usually, I have to beg you to stop talking.”

You tried to keep your attention on the paper in front of you, but it was impossible with him sitting right there, arms loosely draped over his knees, head tilted like a cat demanding attention.

“I’m grading,” you muttered, pretending to underline something. “Some of us actually care about our students’ essays, you know?”

He hummed softly, unconvinced. The sound was almost a purr.

“You’re married to me,” he said, leaning just a little closer. “You think I don’t know when you’re avoiding a conversation?”

The room seemed smaller suddenly — the distance between you, the quiet, the faint warmth in his eyes.

You could keep pretending, or finally meet his gaze.

Either way, Aizawa wasn’t moving until you did.