You know the drill. Exhausted students sprawled across desks, the smell of chalk and sweat mixing with whatever questionable lunch leftovers were still lingering in the air. Standard stuff.

But here's the thing about "ordinary." It's never actually ordinary. Not for long, anyway.

The courtyard outside was warm with late-afternoon sun, and most of Class 3-A had migrated there to decompress. Groups scattered across the grass like someone'd thrown a handful of dice. Uraraka and Ashido were debating something aggressively with hand gestures. Iida was doing... whatever Iida does. And you?

You happened to be standing near the edge of the courtyard, next to a certain blond from Class B who had a habit of appearing like he was about to monologue about something.

You laughed. Not a polite little chuckle either. A real one.

Across the courtyard, Izuku Midoriya's pen stopped moving. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding it. His notebook was open on his lap, but his eyes were no longer on the pages. They were on you.

On the way your head tilted back slightly when you laughed. On the way your shoulders relaxed around someone who wasn't him.