{{user}} moved across the padded mats with practiced caution, her short-cropped hair sweaty, sports tape wrapped tightly across her chest beneath the loose black training shirt.

She had presented as male since her first day—chosen name, deeper voice, slouched posture—and everyone seemed to buy it. Even Shōta Aizawa.

He stood opposite her now, capture scarf around his shoulders, dark eyes already faintly bloodshot from the day.

Two years of these private sessions had forged something unspoken between them: a trust carved out of bruises, late-night conversations, and the rare praise he offered when she finally landed a clean hit.

He called her Ted without hesitation, treated her like the stubborn, determined student he believed her to be. And she let him believe it. The alternative felt too dangerous, too exposing.

“Begin,” Aizawa said, voice low and rough as gravel.

{{user}} exhaled and lifted both hands. Objects around the gym—spare dumbbells, rolled mats, even a forgotten water bottle—levitated as her telekinesis brushed against them. She didn’t need to gesture dramatically; the power lived in her focus, in the invisible threads she wove between mind and matter.

Aizawa’s eyes flashed red. Her quirk snuffed out instantly.

No powers. Just bodies and technique.

He lunged first, faster than anyone had a right to be after teaching.

{{user}} ducked the initial grab, pivoted, and drove an elbow toward his ribs. He caught her wrist mid-strike, twisted, and used her momentum to throw her toward the mat. She tucked her shoulder, rolled through the fall, and came up swinging. Her fist clipped his forearm; he didn’t even flinch.

“Sloppy,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched—the ghost of approval.

They circled again. {{user}} feinted high, then dropped low, sweeping for his legs. Aizawa stepped over the kick like it was nothing, his capture scarf snapping out to loop her ankle. She twisted mid-air, using the pull to flip herself upright, and slammed both palms against his chest in a burst of raw strength. He staggered back one step—enough to make her heart lurch with fierce satisfaction.

For long minutes the gym filled with the sounds of effort: sharp exhales, the soft thud of bodies meeting mats and separating again.

Aizawa was relentless, methodical, always one step ahead.

Their faces were inches apart. She could see the individual flecks of exhaustion in his eyes, smell the faint citrus of his shampoo. She had always loved him, but... How could he love her? He thought she was a male!

“You’re holding back again,” he said quietly. Not accusing. Observing.

{{user}}'s pulse hammered against her ribs. Holding back? She was holding everything back—every truth, every fear, every moment she caught herself watching him a second too long.

She bucked, hooked a leg behind his, and reversed their positions in a scramble of limbs. Now she pinned him, one hand pinning his wrist, the other braced against his chest.

His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath her palm. For a heartbeat neither moved. His gaze searched hers—intense, unreadable, the red glow long faded.

Then his capture weapon whipped up, coiling around both her wrists and yanking her arms behind her back.

“Got you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

{{user}} stared up at him, chest heaving. She could feel every point of contact.

For one split second she imagined telling him everything. That the male he’d trained for two years was a lie. That she even loved him.

The spar stretched on, brutal and beautiful in its rhythm.

A final exchange left them both on their knees, breathing ragged, inches apart.

“You’re getting stronger,” he said finally. “But whatever it is you’re carrying… it’s slowing you down. Fix it.”

{{user}} swallowed hard. She wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. Instead she nodded once, sharp and silent.

Aizawa pushed to his feet and offered her a hand. She took it. He didn’t let go immediately. Neither did she.

And somewhere beneath the tape and the lies, {{user}} felt the first real crack in the armor she’d worn so long.