Training had gone on long, too long, honestly—but Aizawa hadn’t called it yet. He stood at the edge of the field with his arms crossed, scarf draped loosely around his neck as his eyes scanned every student like usual—steady, calculating and most of all tired.

Then his gaze caught on you again.

You were keeping up. Maybe even pushing ahead. Your moves were sharp, your focus locked in, but your footing was off—too heavy. Your shoulder was dropping between hits, you were pushing yourself past the line, and he saw it immediately. Though, didn’t say anything at first.

He watched for another minute, letting it be assumed you were going unnoticed before he suddenly moved. He was at your side in an instant before the next strike could land.

“Stop.”

His voice was firm and left no room for argument. The rest of the class hesitated, sensing the shift. But Aizawa didn’t look at them, keeping his gaze on you. “You’re pushing too hard.”

His voice was low, even, but the tone carried weight. It wasn’t judgmental—just observant. He didn’t crouch down or fuss. Just stood there, watching you with narrowed eyes that said he’d been paying attention this whole time.

“You’re not impressing anyone by running yourself into the ground.”

He glanced toward the others, then back at you. His expression didn’t change, but something in his stance softened—barely noticeable to anyone who wasn’t looking closely. “Sit out the rest.” He paused, his eyes narrowing before his tone became quieter—only for you to hear as he turned his heels to walk off like nothing happened. “That’s not a suggestion.”