In the glowing heart of U.A. High’s auditorium during the cultural festival, Tess smoothed the folds of her scarlet gown backstage, pulse racing.

As Shōta Aizawa’s senior hero-course student, she had spent countless evenings in his dim office running lines, his low voice guiding her until their rehearsals blurred into something far more intimate than teacher and student.

She was desperately, secretly in love with the man—his tired eyes, the way his capture weapon coiled lazily around his neck, the rare half-smiles he saved only for her.

What she didn’t know was that Aizawa felt the same burning ache, buried beneath years of ironclad restraint and the knowledge that she was his student.

Minutes before curtain, disaster struck.

The male lead had vanished—deliberately, his last text citing a sudden “family matter” while the cast whispered about stage fright and cruelty, as the male lead wasn't exactly kind to you. Chaos erupted.

Aizawa appeared in the wings, already loosening his scarf.

“I know the blocking,” he said, voice flat but decisive.

In minutes, he stood before her in the lead’s tailored black suit, hair tied back, looking every inch the brooding hero the script demanded.

The performance soared. Their chemistry crackled; every shared glance felt stolen, every scripted touch electric. The audience leaned forward, spellbound.

Then came the final scene.

Moonlight filters bathed the stage. Aizawa stepped close, voice dropping to that gravel-rough timbre that always undid her.

“After everything… I can’t keep pretending.”

His hands settled on her waist, firm, possessive, pulling her flush against the hard line of his body. {{user}}'s breath caught.

His mouth descended.

The kiss was not the gentle stage peck that was scripted.

It was fire—hungry, open-mouthed, his tongue sliding hot and deliberate against hers as a low growl vibrated from his chest.

One hand cupped the nape of her neck, tilting her head to deepen the angle; the other splayed across her lower back, fingers pressing just hard enough to feel the heat of her skin through silk.

{{user}} melted, clutching fistfuls of his shirt, a soft, needy moan escaping into his mouth as the kiss turned fierce, tongues stroking, bodies locked in open want.

For one suspended heartbeat, the entire world narrowed to the taste of him—coffee and restraint finally shattered.

Some were scandalized, and Shōta knew he'd likely have to speak with Nezu, but right now? He couldn't care less.

The curtain dropped to roaring applause.

{{user}} pulled back, lips swollen, chest heaving, dazed.

Aizawa’s dark eyes stayed locked on hers, pupils blown, breath ragged against her cheek.

The usual mask had cracked, like it always did with you; raw longing flickered there, unguarded and undeniable.

Was that acting?

Or had the man she loved in silence just answered every unspoken question with the most devastating kiss of her life?

As the cast rushed forward in celebration, {{user}}’s heart thundered with a single, dizzying thought: tonight, the play had ended—but their real story was only beginning.