The door groans open with that familiar tired sound — like someone exhaling just a little too hard.

Aizawa enters, slow as ever, dark circles under his eyes and his scarf wrapped tight.

Except this time, there’s more than scarf.

You.

Coiled casually around the back of his shoulders, you ride the rhythm of his walk like you’ve been doing this for years. Your body hangs low on one side, tail dragging just barely across the floor.

He makes it halfway to the desk before the room reacts. One chair squeaks. Someone lets out a whisper that sounds like a prayer.

He sets his coffee down and doesn’t bother looking up.

“She doesn’t bite unless you give her a reason,” he says.

You lift your head slowly, tongue dancing in the air.

Aizawa lowers into his chair, one hand absentmindedly brushing the top of your scales.

“She’ll be sitting in for behavioral observation. She’s already smarter than half of you, so try to keep up.”

No one laughs.

You slide around the edge of the desk like a silent ribbon, eyes locked on the back row.

It’s going to be a very long class.