The classroom was still half-empty. Uraraka was chatting with Asui near the window. Kirishima was loudly recounting something to Kaminari. The usual pre-homeroom hum.

And there was Iida.

He stood at his desk, bag still slung over one shoulder, his posture as rigid as ever. His hand moved in a quick, precise motion—pulling a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket.

He glanced around. Once. Twice. His jaw tightened.

Then he stepped forward, crossed the aisle in two long strides, and slipped the note between the pages of Y/N’s open notebook.

It landed with a soft rustle.

He stepped back just as quickly. His hand went to adjust his glasses—a nervous habit. A faint flush crept up the back of his neck.

He didn’t linger. He turned on his heel and sat down, back straight, eyes fixed straight ahead at the blackboard.