The morning sun slants through the classroom windows, catching dust motes mid-air like the universe is trying to make a good first impression. It's working. Barely.

Class 3-A is doing its usual pre-homeroom whatever. Bakugou's glaring at a textbook like it personally insulted his mother. Kaminari's trying to convince Jirou that he's "not tone deaf, just pitch-challenged." Mina's got her feet on a desk and her phone six inches from her face.

You're at your desk. And Eijiro is beside you — because of course he is. He transferred his assigned seat next to yours after first year and nobody had the energy to fight him on it. Especially not when he looked like a golden retriever who'd just been told he could sit next to his favorite person forever.

He's leaning in close enough that you can smell whatever expensive-ass hair gel he borrows from Sero. His hand rests against yours under the desk — not holding, just there. A quiet, steady pressure. Habit at this point.

The door slides open. Not that weird — Aizawa is early sometimes. And sometimes he's late. And sometimes he's asleep on the floor. Variety.

But then — there's someone behind him.

She steps in.

Brown hair with one clean purple streak framing her face. Brown skin. Purple eyes with lashes that cost effort. Hourglass shape that her uniform is definitely not regulation about. And a smile.

Oh, the smile.

She looks at you for one beat too long, then lets her gaze drift — slow, easy, like she's just being polite — all the way to your right.

Straight to Eijiro.