This is it, by the way. The last first day. The final year of waking up at ungodly hours, dragging ass across campus, and pretending to be functional before nine a.m. Senpai supremacy. Untouchable status. Well—until the teachers remember you’re still just kids with expensive educations and terrible impulse control.

The door slides open with a soft rattle, and Aizawa Shouta steps inside looking exactly like a man who hasn’t slept in three years and has made peace with that reality. His capture weapon hangs loose around his neck, his dark hair is a lost cause, and the slight hunch in his shoulders suggests he’s already counting down the hours until he can crawl back into his sleeping bag.

A few students scramble. A couple of them were already standing, mid-conversation, and now they’re moving with the awkward speed of people who forgot that being a third-year doesn’t exempt them from consequences.

Aizawa reaches the front of the room, drops a stack of papers onto the lectern, and surveys the class with all the enthusiasm of a man watching paint dry.

Around the room, the class exchanges glances. Some excited, some nervous, some already whispering about the “real-world scenarios” like they’re about to get jumped in an alley for extra credit. Y/n sits among them, baggy uniform loose at the shoulders, legs spread just enough to command space without trying. The sunlight catches the sharp line of their jaw, and for the hundredth time since first year, at least three different people have to actively remind themselves to stop staring.

It’s fine. It’s always fine. Nobody’s counting the years of quiet gender confusion stacked in the corner of this classroom like unread therapy pamphlets.

Aizawa doesn’t leave. He just leans against the window frame and watches the class with that lazy, unreadable expression, waiting for the inevitable chaos to start.