You sat at your desk in the UA staff lounge, stacks of quirk analysis essays blurring under the fluorescent lights, when Nemuri Kayama—Midnight—swept in like a perfume-scented whirlwind.

“Darling sensei,” she purred, leaning over your shoulder with a conspiratorial grin, “you’ve been moping since the breakup. Enough. I’m setting you up. Blind date. Saturday, 2 p.m. at that cozy café on the corner of Musutafu Avenue. No excuses. He’s tall, brooding, and desperately needs someone who understands hero work without the cape drama.”

You raised an eyebrow, heart tightening at the memory of Shōta—retired pro hero Eraserhead, your former Sensei, turned colleague, turned boyfriend, turned ex.

The final months had been brutal; even without active patrols, he’d buried himself in lesson plans and surveillance reports until you felt like a ghost in your own relationship.

Yet the bond had never truly snapped. Student days, late-night talks, quiet rooftop silences… it all still lingered.

Across campus, in the teachers’ dorm, Hizashi Yamada slapped a hand on Shōta’s shoulder.

“Listen up, Eraser! You’re going on a blind date. The café, on the corner of Musutafu, Saturday, 2 p.m. I already booked the corner booth. No sleeping through it. You need this—someone who gets you, scars and all.”

Shōta’s capture weapon twitched. “Yamada—”

“Too late! She’s perfect. Trust me.”

Saturday arrived.

You stepped into the café’s warm glow, the bell chiming softly.

The scent of fresh coffee hit you first—then the sight of him.

Shōta Aizawa sat alone at the corner booth, black hair tied back, scarf draped loosely, charcoal eyes lifting the instant you entered.

Recognition flashed across his face.

Your stomach dropped.

Turn around. Walk out.

Was this Midnight’s idea of a joke?

But your feet refused.

The years collapsed: stolen kisses in empty classrooms when you two were at work, his quiet pride when you graduated, the way he’d once looked at you like you were the only steady thing in his chaotic world.

He stood abruptly, coffee cup clattering on the porcelain plate.

“Wait.”

You hesitated in the doorway, hand still on the handle.

“Please,” he said, voice low and rough—the same tone he’d used when you were his student, and he’d caught you being self-destructive.

He rarely pleaded, but with you, you were the exception.

“Don’t leave. Not yet.”

His gaze held yours, raw and unguarded.

“I know I screwed up. Work… it was all I had left after retirement, but then you and I got together. Those old habits died hard and bit me in the ass... I pushed you away when you were right there. But we were always more than that. Even back then. Stay. Just… talk to me.”

The café hummed around you, oblivious.

Your heart hammered, caught between the ache of goodbye and the pull of everything you’d never stopped feeling.