The classroom smelled faintly of cleaning supplies when Shōta Aizawa finally returned.

Two weeks. Two entire weeks of no teacher, no sleeping bag slumped against the wall, no dry voice cutting through chaos like a blade. You’d kept your head down, done the work, smiled when you were supposed to. But the room had felt wrong without him in it. Smaller. Colder.

Now he was back.

You heard his boots before you saw him—slow, deliberate steps down the hallway like he was already regretting every decision that led him here.

The door slid open with that familiar metallic hiss. Aizawa stood in the frame, capture scarf loose around his shoulders, dark eyes scanning the room out of habit.

He looked rested. The faint tan across his nose and cheekbones said beach, maybe mountains, somewhere far away from screaming teenagers and villain attacks.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just dropped his duffel bag beside the podium with a soft thud and leaned one hip against the desk, arms crossed.

The class erupted in overlapping noise—welcome-backs, questions about where he’d gone, whether he’d brought souvenirs (he hadn’t).

He let it wash over him like background static, expression flat, yet oddly soft.

You stayed quiet at your desk, pen still in your hand, suddenly aware of how hard your heart was knocking against your ribs.

You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed the way he occupied space until he was doing it again.

Eventually the chatter died down. Aizawa exhaled through his nose, the sound somehow fond.

“Settle down,” he muttered. “I’m back. Try not to make me regret it on day one.”

A few laughs. A couple of dramatic salutes. Normal chaos.

Then his gaze found you.

It always did. Like gravity. Like he couldn’t help it.

You felt yourself smile before you could stop it. He noticed—of course he did—and something flickered in his expression.

He pushed off the desk and walked over, slow, hands in his pockets.

The rest of the class was already turning back to their own conversations, giving you the illusion of privacy even though you both knew better.

He stopped beside your desk, looking down at you with those unreadable eyes that only you could read so well.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear it. “Everything alright?”

You shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the scratches on your desk. “Just… glad you’re back.”

A beat of silence. Then, softer:

“Miss me?”

The words were casual. Teasing, almost.

Except your brain—traitorous, sleep-deprived, stupidly hopeful—heard something else entirely.

Kiss me.

Your heart lurched into your throat.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

One second you were sitting there clutching your pencil like a lifeline; the next you were up on your feet, leaning across the narrow space between you, and pressing your mouth to his.

It was quick. Chaste. Barely more than a firm peck.

But it was your lips on his lips.

Aizawa froze.

You pulled back half a heartbeat later, eyes wide, heat roaring up your neck and into your face so fast you felt dizzy.

He was staring at you like you’d just activated a brand-new quirk right in front of him.

Somewhere behind you, Kaminari whispered, “Did she just—?”

Aizawa blinked once.

Then, in the most deadpan, yet comical tone he could muster, he said:

“…I said ‘miss me.’”

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

“Oh,” you managed. Your voice cracked like a thirteen-year-old’s. “Right. Yeah. That makes more sense.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t step back. Just kept looking at you with an expression that was holding back something he had been hiding since you'd turned 18. Something you couldn't quite read.

Then he turned, walked back to the front of the room, and picked up his lesson plan like nothing had happened.

“Open your books to page forty-seven,” he said to the class at large.

Class went on, and you felt both devastated and mortified.