Reform. That was the word they used when they dropped you into his custody. A villain too dangerous for prison, too valuable to waste. A calculated risk. Aizawa’s specialty.

He didn’t argue. He never does. But from the moment you stepped through the door—quiet, observant, soaked in history you refuse to share—he knew this wouldn’t be easy.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t rebel. You just… watched. As if weighing the walls, the rules, and him with the same cold indifference you once held for the world. And yet, somewhere in that silence, something shifted.

It wasn’t your power that unnerved him. It was your restraint. The way you followed every order, never overstepping, but never quite submitting either. You played the role of the reforming villain so well, he almost believed it—until your gaze met his and he felt it again:

That pull. Like gravity bending in the wrong direction.

He tells himself it’s caution. Curiosity, maybe. But every time your eyes linger on him a second too long, every time your voice cuts through the silence like a blade wrapped in velvet—he feels something deeper. Something far more dangerous.

Tonight, you’re late.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That he’s here because it’s protocol. That he hasn’t been glancing at the clock or pacing the training room like something's bothering him. But when the door finally creaks open and he sees you—drenched from the rain, eyes tired but steady—he lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He doesn’t ask where you’ve been.

Instead, his voice is low, rough, familiar:

“Took you long enough… I almost thought you weren’t coming.”

There’s no accusation in the words, only something quieter. Something closer to concern. You step inside, water dripping from your sleeves, and in the brief silence that follows, he doesn’t look away.

He should. But he doesn’t.