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Chapter Text

The morning light seeps softly through the blinds of Nozomi Akari’s small Tokyo apartment, streaking across the tatami floor in golden lines that dance like distant starlight. The city hums faintly beyond the walls, a muted pulse of life drifting through the thin windows. She lies beneath the neatly tucked futon for a moment longer, the weight of quiet anticipation pressing gently at her chest.

Her long white hair spills over the pillow in a silky cascade, catching the sunlight in strands that gleam like moonlight on water. Slowly, deliberately, she stretches her arms above her head.

The galaxy-colored skin along her forearms shimmers faintly, specks of light flaring and dimming in time with the subtle twinges of her waking mind. Each star responds unconsciously—morning drowsiness, mild curiosity, faint contentment.

Nozomi flexes her fingers, watching the constellations shift, tiny nebulae glowing and fading across her skin. It’s private. Personal. Beautiful, but hers alone.

She rises, the futon sliding back into place with a soft whisper against the tatami. Her movements are measured, elegant, a quiet choreography perfected over years of deliberate living. White slippers glide across the floor as she walks toward the small sink in the corner.

The bathroom is modest, barely large enough for the essentials, yet she keeps it meticulously arranged. The mirror catches her reflection: pale skin, sharp, calm features framed by her ethereal hair, eyes like galaxies—flecks of violet, blue, and faint gold swirling within the irises, pupils a normal black, though they catch the light in ways that make them seem almost endless.

Nozomi turns the faucet, water flowing in a gentle, steady stream. Her hands move under it, galaxy skin catching faint light through the steam, stars twinkling subtly as if echoing her heartbeat. She tilts her head back, letting the water wash her face, and watches herself in the mirror.

There is a quiet, ineffable weight to her presence—calm, precise, observant—like a night sky stretching endlessly beyond human perception. Her eyes linger on the reflection a moment longer, not out of vanity, but curiosity, a small self-examination: the universe held within a single person.

Dressing is a deliberate ritual. A muted blouse slips over her shoulders, soft fabric brushing against her arms, covering the galaxy-patterned skin but allowing faint hints of light to peek through the edges.

She adjusts the fitted skirt at her waist, smooths down the subtle crease, and slides her feet into comfortable flats, dark and simple. A silver crescent moon pendant rests lightly around her neck, catching the sunlight streaming through the window—a small reminder, a personal talisman of her quiet fascination with the cosmos since childhood.

Breakfast is unhurried. Tea steams from a delicate cup, filling the air with a subtle scent of roasted leaves. She sets it beside a lightly buttered piece of toast on a small plate. Her tablet hums faintly, morning news scrolling in muted colors. She drinks the tea slowly, savoring the warmth and silence.

Occasionally, a speck on her hand flares brightly, an accidental flare of her quirk, unnoticed by anyone but herself.

Her stars respond to the tiniest internal shifts: a memory, a thought, a fleeting emotion. Private, invisible to the world, but marking her inner universe.

She finishes, washes the small dishes, and glances at the clock. Her pace remains unhurried. Nozomi locks the apartment door behind her and steps into the streets of Tokyo.

The city is alive in a way that is almost musical: distant horns, the rhythmic tap of shoes against concrete, faint conversations drifting from the sidewalks.

People brush past, oblivious to the quiet, almost ethereal figure weaving gracefully through the crowd. Her long white hair moves lightly behind her, catching slivers of sunlight, each strand a silent echo of distant moons and stars.

Her posture is relaxed, yet there is a subtle command in the way she moves: head held high, shoulders steady, hands occasionally brushing at her skirt. She is part of the crowd, yet apart from it, an observer more than a participant, taking in the patterns of human behavior like a constellation she is mapping.

A small flare ignites along her wrist as she lifts her hand to adjust the strap of her bag—a single star blinking faintly, reflecting her anticipation for the day ahead.

She is going to the university where she teaches Astrology and Astronomy. Her footsteps echo softly, a quiet rhythm matching the distant pulse of the city and her own thoughts.

As she approaches the station, the hum of trains, the chatter of commuters, and the rolling rumble of wheels on rails blend into a background symphony. Nozomi adjusts her bag, a hand brushing lightly over the silver crescent pendant, and steps onto the train.

The space is crowded, yet she remains a calm island: galaxy arms hidden beneath long sleeves, white hair soft against her shoulders, eyes flicking subtly over the passengers. Observing. Noticing. Recording small details. The universe in microcosm.

By the time the train reaches the university, Nozomi has already cataloged small constellations of human behavior: the nervous student clutching a notebook, the tired salaryman fumbling with his phone, the couple sharing muted laughter. She steps off with quiet grace, slipping seamlessly into the morning flow, heading toward her first classroom.

Even in the mundane—the commute, the crowded streets, the ordinary city sounds—there is a quiet choreography to her existence. Every motion, every glance, every subtle flare of her quirk is a note in her personal symphony. Nozomi Akari moves through the world like a fragment of the cosmos itself: vast, infinite, and quietly luminous.

The university gates rise ahead of her, tall and sleek, the morning sun glinting off the glass and steel like distant stars. Students scatter across the courtyard, voices carrying in lively waves.

She navigates through them with calm precision, unnoticed yet not entirely invisible; a few observant eyes linger on the faint glow along her wrists and ankles.

Inside, hallways echo with the familiar rhythm of shoes against polished floors. Nozomi keeps her pace steady, one hand brushing lightly over the strap of her bag, the other tucked neatly by her side. Her eyes sweep over the passing students, cataloging gestures and expressions in a quiet, methodical way.

Her first stop is a small, lightly-used lecture room. She pauses at the doorway, allowing her gaze to drift over the scattered students already seated, notebooks open, some nervously checking their schedules. She gives a subtle nod to a young man fumbling with a pen—a tiny acknowledgment, almost imperceptible.

The faint twinkle along her arms brightens briefly, a small emotional echo of her soft approval.

As she walks to the front, her movements are precise yet fluid. She sets her bag on the desk and arranges her papers with deliberate care. Students glance up, curiosity piqued, drawn to her quiet presence. A few notice the slight shimmer of constellations beneath her sleeves, others sense the air of composed authority that radiates from her.

Nozomi’s voice, when she finally speaks, is gentle but carries an innate confidence. She introduces herself simply: her name, her position, and a few words about the day’s schedule. She does not raise her voice unnecessarily, but each word is measured, deliberate, and clear, commanding attention without force.

During the lecture, she occasionally demonstrates concepts with her quirk, small, controlled flares that subtly illustrate points without drawing excessive notice.

A tiny star in the palm of her hand bursts softly as she gestures to a diagram, a microcosmic explosion perfectly timed to a demonstration of force and energy.

The black hole she conjures for a physics demonstration pulls small papers together just enough for the class to observe gravity in action, her eyes calm and observant the entire time. Students are fascinated, whispering quietly to each other, yet she remains focused on their understanding rather than the spectacle.

Her galaxy-patterned skin responds almost imperceptibly to the flow of the classroom—the faint dimming as she notes a student’s hesitation, the soft glow when one answers correctly, the sudden flare of frustration when an experiment doesn’t work as planned. It is a language only she and the observant might notice, reflecting her vast internal universe: patient, watchful, and endlessly expansive.

By the end of the session, students leave with a mixture of intrigue and quiet respect. Nozomi gathers her materials slowly, movements serene and deliberate, before stepping into the hall once more.

She is part of the daily rhythm of the university, yet apart from it—like a distant constellation, visible and luminous, influencing the flow without ever forcing it.

The planetarium dome towers overhead, a perfect hemisphere of darkness flecked with pinpoints of light that shimmer like distant stars.

Class 1-A files in, a wave of restless energy in uniforms and hero gear, chattering nervously, backpacks slung, notebooks at the ready. The students’ eyes widen as the projection begins to rotate across the ceiling, a slow, hypnotic dance of galaxies and nebulae.

Nozomi Akari stands at the front, calm and composed, her long white hair flowing over her shoulders like a stream of moonlight.

Her muted professional attire allows glimpses of the galaxy-patterned skin along her forearms and calves, each star flickering faintly with her subtle awareness of the students’ excitement. Her gaze sweeps over the class with quiet authority, guiding minds without drawing attention to herself.

She begins, her voice low and even. “Today we’ll explore celestial mechanics and the physics of gravitational fields. Some of the examples I’ll demonstrate may seem unusual, but they accurately represent physical principles you may encounter in hero work.”

The students lean forward instinctively. Midoriya’s green eyes widen, notebook open, pencil poised.

“Incredible,” he whispers to Uraraka, who tilts her head, a hint of a smile crossing her face. The delicate pink of her cheeks mirrors the faint light flickering along Nozomi’s arms, the stars dimming slightly in response.

Bakugo frowns, arms crossed, muttering, “Huh… so this is science, huh?” Yet he cannot hide the flicker of curiosity in his sharp eyes.

Todoroki’s icy composure is intact, but his crimson and white eyes follow her movements closely, noting each precise gesture. The flare of her galaxy-patterned skin catches the faint light, pulling his attention despite his usual focus on the lesson.

Iida adjusts his glasses, posture perfectly straight, noting the demonstration carefully. “A very effective way to illustrate gravitational forces,” he murmurs, earning a subtle nod from Nozomi.

Kirishima leans toward Kaminari with a low whisper. “Dude… look at her arms! Are those… stars?” Kaminari’s eyes widen, a low whistle escaping his lips. Sero flicks a hand toward the mini black hole forming in Nozomi’s palm, failing to hide his fascination.

She raises her hand deliberately, palm facing upward, and a tiny black hole forms. Papers on a nearby table shiver slightly, pulled inward, then she closes her fingers, dissolving it with a fluid motion.

Jirou’s ears twitch, the residual gravitational pull barely detectable to her keen senses. Hagakure leans forward, hands clasped in excitement, though she cannot see her. Shouji nods subtly, appreciating the precision of her controlled demonstration. Mina gasps quietly, eyes sparkling.

As the mini-sun appears briefly in Nozomi’s palm, Aoyama’s attention flickers to the faint glow along her forearms. A single star twinkles, reflecting the faint sparkle in his eyes.

Even Dark Shadow, peaking from the back, tilts his head. Tokoyami remains stoic, but the tiny celestial flare along her skin draws a subtle flicker of attention.

Sato cranes his neck, whispering, “Whoa… that’s… awesome,” while Ojiro shifts slightly, tail flicking, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Nozomi does not speak unnecessarily; she lets her hands illustrate the points. A moon appears, spinning in miniature above her palm, creating a tiny low-gravity field that causes a feather to float slightly before she dissipates it.

The subtle flares of her galaxy-patterned skin respond with every motion, dimming or brightening almost like a private language only she truly understands.

Aizawa stands silently at the back, arms crossed, his usual veil of dark hair partially hiding his expression. His eyes, sharp and calculating, are locked on Nozomi.

He notices every precise movement, every controlled demonstration, the quiet authority in her posture, the calm, deliberate cadence of her voice—it all mesmerizes him.

Memories flicker faintly: school days long ago, her calm presence then, and now… this quiet power, restrained but undeniable.

Nozomi moves gracefully across the front of the room, a controlled star pulsing briefly in her palm as she gestures to a diagram of planetary orbits.

Midoriya scribbles furiously, Todoroki observes, Bakugo scowls in a mix of irritation and awe, and Uraraka leans forward, curiosity piqued.

The students are captivated yet cannot quite define the strange combination of calm authority and cosmic elegance she radiates.

By the end of the session, the students leave buzzing with excitement, their chatter echoing faintly through the hall.

Aizawa lingers, watching Nozomi gather her materials, hair falling softly around her shoulders, galaxy skin flaring subtly as she adjusts a small object used for demonstration. She is serene, precise, luminous—the kind of presence that changes the rhythm of a room without demanding it.

Later, he speaks with Principal Nezu, describing her calm authority, intelligence, and subtle quirk demonstrations.

“I think she would be a tremendous asset to the students,” he states, a rare note of personal fascination hidden beneath professional tone. “Her precision and control… and the way she commands attention without even trying. We need her at UA.”

And just like that, the quiet, vast, and luminous Nozomi Akari begins the next orbit of her life, on a path that will lead her back to the classroom—this time alongside Aizawa, where her subtle cosmic brilliance will quietly reshape the next generation of heroes.

Chapter Text

The sun has begun its slow descent behind Tokyo’s skyline as Nozomi steps out of the planetarium.

The day has been long, filled with carefully measured demonstrations, student chatter, and the faint hum of awe in the air. She walks along the quieting streets, the city shifting from bustling midday energy to the calm, honeyed glow of early evening. Her white hair catches the fading sunlight, flowing like a river of light against her muted attire.

Her steps are unhurried, deliberate, a rhythm she maintains regardless of the pace around her. The faint shimmer of stars along her arms and calves responds subtly to her mood—dimming slightly with fatigue, then brightening again as she allows herself a quiet moment of reflection.

She thinks of Class 1-A, their earnest curiosity, the way they absorbed the celestial demonstrations she provided.

Their reactions were honest, unfiltered, and, she admits to herself, a little refreshing.

Arriving at her small apartment, she slips inside, closing the door with a soft click. The familiar smell of polished wood and faint incense greets her, the space quiet, simple, entirely her own.

She sets her bag down, loosening the strap, and sits near the low table by the window. Outside, city lights begin to flicker on, small stars reflected against the glass, a subtle echo of the universe she carries within herself.

A soft hum of the intercom interrupts her quiet thoughts. She rises gracefully, moving to the small mailbox near the door.

One envelope stands out—formal, cream-colored, embossed with the UA logo. Nozomi takes it in her hands, the texture cool and crisp against her fingers.

Returning to the table, she carefully opens the letter. Her eyes scan the neatly typed words, calm yet attentive, absorbing each sentence with precision. The letter is an offer: a teaching position at UA, a chance to return to the school for part-time instruction, working alongside faculty to guide the next generation.

She pauses, letting the words settle. Her galaxy-patterned skin flickers faintly in the dim light, stars brightening and dimming in a private, unconscious response to her internal reaction. She does not feel immediate excitement or pride, only quiet, considered curiosity.

Teaching again… in the hero world. A subtle ripple of thought crosses her mind: the balance between staying in the shadows and stepping into a role where she could shape young minds without demanding attention.

Nozomi folds the letter neatly, placing it atop her desk, and sits back. The evening sky outside deepens, the first stars of night appearing, small points of light against the darkening city.

She thinks of Aizawa, of the field trip, of the students’ eagerness. The thought of returning to UA is no longer a distant possibility; it is tangible, quietly pressing against the edges of her calm existence.

Her hand brushes the crescent moon pendant at her neck, the familiar weight grounding her. A small star along her forearm flares brightly for a heartbeat, acknowledging the decision that will soon be made. She exhales slowly, the city’s quiet hum filling the room, and allows herself a faint, private smile.

The universe is vast, endless, and unknowable—and yet, for the first time in a long while, Nozomi feels herself standing at the threshold of a new orbit, one where her subtle brilliance might touch lives beyond her own quiet sphere.

The next morning seeps gently through the blinds of Nozomi Akari’s modest Tokyo apartment, casting soft gold stripes across the tatami floor. She lies for a moment beneath her neatly folded futon, the faint stirrings of anticipation fluttering across her chest.

Her long white hair spills across the pillow, strands catching the light like scattered moonbeams, while the subtle galaxy-pattern along her forearms shimmers faintly, specks of cosmic light blinking in quiet rhythm with her thoughts.

Deliberately, she stretches, rising with the precision of a practiced routine. White slippers whisper against the floor as she moves to the small sink, washing her face in slow, careful motions. Each droplet of water gleams against her galaxy-skin, tiny constellations twinkling as though acknowledging her careful attentiveness.

She dresses in muted professional attire: a soft blouse, fitted skirt, and comfortable flats, her silver crescent-moon pendant catching the first rays of sun.

Breakfast is simple and quiet: lightly buttered toast, steaming tea, and a glance at the morning news on her tablet. Every movement is measured, unhurried, like a note in a silent symphony. A small, accidental flare dances along her wrist—a star blinking faintly—an unconscious echo of her own anticipation.

When she steps out into the streets of Tokyo, the city hums around her. Her white hair flows behind her, soft and luminous, yet she moves as part of the crowd, not apart from it—observant, cataloging, noting rhythms in the chaos. By the time she reaches UA, her pace remains steady, calm, each footfall deliberate.

The gates rise before her, sleek glass and steel reflecting the morning sun. She pauses, taking in the familiar campus: sprawling buildings, open courtyards, students scattering in all directions. A small, private flicker of stars brightens along her forearms, subtle acknowledgment of the new chapter beginning.

Inside, Principal Nezu greets her with polite warmth. “Nozomi-San, welcome to UA. We are honored to have you join our faculty.”

Nozomi inclines her head, voice soft and even. “Thank you, Principal. I look forward to contributing.”

Nezu gestures to various areas: classrooms, staff rooms, practice halls. She follows, cataloging details with quiet precision—student flow, classroom layouts, exits, and safety features. It is part observation, part mental choreography, an internal map forming in her mind.

First stop: the staff room, where she meets other faculty members. Bowed introductions, polite smiles, careful exchanges of names and roles. She offers small nods and soft words, letting her calm presence set the tone without dominating the space. Her galaxy-skin flares faintly as she shakes hands or adjusts papers, a private rhythm of awareness and curiosity.

Next, she is shown the classrooms. Students peek up from their notes, whispering quietly, curious about the new teacher with luminous arms. She notes their movements, expressions, and the energy of the rooms—a subtle cataloging of patterns, her cosmic intuition quietly assessing dynamics.

By mid-morning, she has visited nearly every relevant space: the lecture hall, laboratories, quirk-practice areas, and the staff room. Each step is deliberate, measured, her white hair flowing softly, her galaxy-patterned forearms flickering faintly in response to her observations.

Nozomi pauses briefly in the main courtyard, letting herself absorb the scale of the day. The sun casts long shadows across the polished grounds, students’ voices forming a low, undulating hum. She adjusts the strap of her bag, a tiny flare along her wrist acknowledging the significance of her first day.

Today, she is not here to dazzle or to control. Today is observation, orientation, and quiet integration into a world that, despite the heroics, moves according to rules she has long understood. Yet even in stillness, there is power: a measured presence, subtle brilliance, and the promise that when the time comes, her cosmos will respond.

Class 1-A chatters noisily, their voices bouncing off the classroom walls. Midoriya flips through his notebook, jotting notes on the Sports Festival performances. Bakugou crosses his arms, scowling, while Uraraka whispers excitedly to Ashido. Mina waves her hands animatedly, and Jirou fidgets with her earphone jacks, clearly trying to stay out of the commotion.

The door slides open with a quiet click. The room falls immediately silent as Aizawa steps inside, his dark eyes scanning the class.

The students freeze mid-movement—but then they notice someone behind him. A figure steps into the room: the woman from the planetarium. Long white hair flows over her shoulders, catching the classroom lights, and a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer traces along her forearms.

The students blink. Midoriya whispers, nudging Uraraka. “Is that… her? The planetarium woman?”

Uraraka’s eyes widen. “Yeah… she has stars on her arms…”

Bakugou grumbles under his breath. “Hmph… who even is she?”

Aizawa’s calm voice cuts through the murmurs. “Class, this is Nozomi Akari. She will be assisting with today’s Hero Informatics Period.”

Nozomi inclines her head slightly, offering a soft, composed smile. “Good morning, Class 1-A,” she says. Her voice is gentle but firm, carrying a quiet authority. A single star flares faintly on the back of her hand, blinking once like a signal only she notices.

The students exchange glances. Kaminari whispers to Kirishima, “Dude… look at her arms! Are those… stars?”

Kirishima leans closer, eyes wide. “That’s… insane…”

Aizawa gestures toward the board. “Today, you will formulate your hero names. The nominations from pro heroes are not merely ratings; they are expressions of interest in your potential futures.” He taps the screen displaying the tallies. “This year, the attention mostly points to Bakugou and Todoroki. Regardless of your nominations, each of you will gain work-place experience. The U.S.J. incident provided firsthand experience already, but seeing professional heroes in action will be more instructive.”

Midnight steps in, her presence bright and commanding. Aizawa nods toward her. “Midnight will evaluate your hero names. The image you project through your chosen hero name influences your potential as heroes.”

The students lean forward, some bouncing in their seats, others stiff with anticipation. Nozomi stands at the side, silent and observing. Her gaze sweeps over the class, noting subtle reactions: Midoriya’s nervous excitement, Uraraka’s barely-contained grin, Bakugou’s scowl mixed with curiosity. Her faint star-like flares along her arms pulse subtly, as if responding to their energy.

Midnight claps her hands. “Fifteen minutes. Go!”

Pens scratch across paper. Some students huddle to discuss names; others, like Tokoyami, scribble quietly, lost in thought.

Nozomi glides slowly along the edge of the classroom, almost imperceptibly, observing without disturbing. A faint star flickers along her wrist when she notices Kaminari whispering something to Kirishima that makes him chuckle.

The room hums with nervous energy as the students of Class 1-A reveal their hero names one by one.

Midoriya’s voice rings out first. “Deku!” His eyes shine with pride, and he gives a small bow toward the class.

Uraraka leans forward eagerly. “Uravity,” she announces, hands clasped. Her smile spreads across her face, and a faint flare sparks along Nozomi’s forearm, almost imperceptible. The star dims quickly as if acknowledging Uraraka’s quiet joy.

Bakugou scowls, arms crossed, muttering, “Ground Zero,” though the sharp flare in his green eyes betrays his curiosity. Nozomi notices, a subtle star flickering briefly in her palm—a tiny, private pulse of recognition for the tension in him.

Todoroki simply states, “Shoto,” calm and controlled, eyes flicking only once to see if anyone reacts. Nozomi tilts her head slightly, noting the deliberate restraint in his tone. Another faint flare pulses along her wrist.

Kirishima jumps up, fists clenched in excitement. “Red Riot!” His voice is loud, bold, and unashamedly proud. Kaminari grins. “Chargebolt!” He leans toward his friends, whispering, “Mine’s electric, but I wanted it to sound cool too.”

Jirou speaks quietly, “Earphone Jack,” adjusting her headphones. Mina squeals softly, clapping her hands together, and Hagakure floats in a small circle, invisible, clapping as well. Nozomi observes each movement—the excitement, the pride, the nervous energy—and her stars pulse faintly like a private metronome keeping time with their emotions.

Even Tokoyami, dark shadow stretching behind him, says, “Tsukuyomi,” voice low but firm. Dark Shadow adds, “Shadow,” stoic and unflinching, though he glances at Nozomi with a faint curiosity, sensing her quiet attentiveness.

Sero waves his tape enthusiastically. “Cellophane!” He grins at the class, proud of the connection between his quirk and name. Aoyama twirls dramatically. “Can't Stop Twinkling!” He throws a dazzling smile, and the faint flare along Nozomi’s arms brightens momentarily, reacting subtly to his playful energy.

A subtle murmur runs through the class as students begin whispering reactions to each other’s names.

“Red Riot… that’s intense!” Kaminari whispers to Kirishima.

“Yeah, just like you!” Kirishima replies, grinning.

“Uravity… she’s gonna be amazing in combat,” Midoriya mutters quietly to himself.

Bakugou snorts, muttering under his breath, “Hmph… at least some of them got decent names.” He doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes, but his slight flare of attention toward Deku and Todoroki doesn’t go unnoticed by Nozomi.

Nozomi steps lightly to the edge of the room, almost imperceptibly, her presence like a gentle tide, guiding without touching.

By the end of the period, Class 1-A buzzes with excitement and curiosity. Nozomi Akari steps back to the side, stars along her skin dimming to a gentle glow, letting the students chatter and compare names.

Aizawa stands silently at the front, arms crossed, eyes scanning the students’ eager and nervous faces. “Field training will last one week,” he announces, his voice even, measured. “Students who received nominations from Pro Heroes will get personalized lists of workplaces to choose from. Those who did not receive nominations will receive lists containing forty possible workplaces.”

The students murmur quietly among themselves. Some glance at the slips of paper distributed by Aizawa, their eyes flicking over unfamiliar hero offices, agencies, and training sites.

“You are to choose one workplace from your respective lists,” Aizawa continues. “Decisions must be made by the end of the week. Any questions?”

A few hands go up, but the students are quickly reassured. “Use your judgment. This is part of your growth as aspiring heroes.”

Later, in the staff room, Aizawa sits at a desk, dark eyes narrowing as he reviews the submissions. Nozomi Akari stands nearby, her white hair falling softly over her shoulders, her galaxy-patterned forearms dimly flickering as she watches the interactions.

“Some of the students have already made their choices,” Aizawa murmurs, almost to himself, scanning the neatly written slips. He picks up Ida’s form, noting with slight disapproval: “Hosu City Hero Office… there were better nominations for him.”

Nozomi tilts her head slightly, observing the subtle tension in Aizawa’s posture. “They tend to choose what feels safe or familiar first,” she says softly, her voice calm, melodic, yet carrying a quiet authority. “Exposure and challenge come later… if they allow it.”

Aizawa glances at her, expression unreadable. “You would know,” he mutters, almost a statement, almost a question. Nozomi offers only a small, private smile, her eyes flickering with distant stars as if cataloging the potential each student holds.

Chapter Text

Four days later, Monday, May 13th, the morning air is brisk at the station. Class 1-A gathers, backpacks in place, the hum of commuters and train announcements blending into a subtle rhythm. Aizawa stands at the front, flanked by Nozomi, who exudes calm composure, white hair flowing gently as she shifts her weight slightly.

“While you do have your hero costumes,” Aizawa addresses the students, “you are not to wear them in public, nor lose them. Mind your manners, and conduct yourselves responsibly.”

A soft murmur ripples through the class. Midoriya adjusts his glasses nervously, while Uraraka and Todoroki exchange quick glances. Bakugo crosses his arms, grumbling under his breath but listening intently.

Nozomi steps forward slightly, her presence quiet but commanding attention. “Remember,” she says, her voice smooth, measured, almost like a soft current flowing through the bustling station, “your actions reflect not only yourselves but the heroes you aspire to be. Observe, respect, and absorb everything.”

Aizawa nods subtly at her words. The students stiffen, some blinking in surprise at the calm authority in her tone. Even Bakugo pauses, the scowl momentarily softening.

“Good luck,” Aizawa finishes, and the students begin filing onto the train under their guidance. Nozomi walks alongside, her galaxy-patterned arms dimly twinkling, cataloging behaviors, gestures, small interactions—each a microcosm of hero potential. She does not speak unnecessarily, but her quiet presence is an anchor, a reminder of the measured discipline and expansive awareness they are about to step into.

The train doors close, and Class 1-A is off—each student carrying excitement, nerves, and the weight of responsibility into their first true field training experience. Nozomi observes from the platform until they are safely out of sight, a faint, private smile brushing her lips. The universe within her shifts subtly with anticipation: another orbit begun.

UA Internships Week – Nozomi Akari’s First True Week at UA
(May 13–19, Year 1)

Monday, May 13 — Internships Day 1
UA feels strangely hollow without Class 1-A’s usual energy echoing down its polished hallways. Nozomi notices it the moment she steps inside—an emptiness like a planet without its moons. Her steps are soft against the floors as she makes her way to the staff room, carrying a slim folder of materials pressed to her chest.
Inside, Aizawa is already there, slumped on the couch with a thick stack of paperwork. He glances up.

“Morning, Nozomi-san.”

She bows slightly. “Good morning, Aizawa-san.”

The rest of the day is spent assisting other teachers. Snipe asks her to help calibrate targets in Gym Gamma. She stands beside him, hands raised delicately, creating a palm-sized star that sheds enough gentle light to simulate shifting illumination in the mock cityscape. Snipe whistles.

“Now that’s handy. Real good for visibility drills.”

She only inclines her head in acknowledgment.

In the afternoon she leads a tiny astronomy elective—only five students show. She doesn’t mind. She forms a small moon above her palm, adjusting its gravity to let pebbles on the table drift upward. The students gasp, delighted. Nozomi smiles faintly, the stars on her arms blooming with warm light.

When she finally heads home into the evening Tokyo air, she feels the familiar pulse of contentment: quiet, steady, like a wide and peaceful night sky.

Tuesday, May 14 — Internships Day 2
The school is even quieter today. Nozomi walks the halls with a notebook, making observational notes about UA’s layout and student flow. A teacher passing by comments, “So diligent, Nozomi-san!” She bows politely, used to praise she neither seeks nor needs.

She assists Power Loader in Development Studio B. The space is chaotic—sparks flying, machines humming. Mei Hatsume barrels past, goggles crooked, hair wild.
“Oh! It’s Galaxy Lady!”

“I’m not a hero,” Nozomi says lightly. “Just a teacher.”

“Still cool!” Mei beams before sprinting off again.

Power Loader laughs. “Don’t mind her.”

Nozomi helps stabilize platforms by generating small black hole spheres that create controlled downward pull—enough to keep unstable machinery from wobbling without damaging anything. Power Loader nods, impressed. “You’ve got great control.”

In the evening she refines her seminar handouts in the quiet staff room. Midnight peeks in. “You work too hard, Nozomi-san. Try to have fun here too.”

“I am,” Nozomi says honestly. “In my own way.”

Wednesday, May 15 — Internships Day 3
A campus-wide safety drill is underway, and Nozomi assists Cementoss in Physics Hall B. He shapes walls and pillars while she demonstrates gravity manipulation to support structural lessons.

She lifts a few heavy objects under reduced gravity; they float gently, rotating slowly like drifting satellites. Cementoss strokes his chin. “Your quirk is more versatile than I expected.”

“I’ve… never trained it for combat,” she admits.

“That’s fine. It fits you. You use it for clarity.”

Later she has a brief tea break with Recovery Girl, who clicks her tongue approvingly. “You’ve settled in quickly.”

“Everyone has been… welcoming,” Nozomi answers, choosing her words carefully.

“And Aizawa? Is he behaving?”

Nozomi nearly chokes on her tea. “I— yes. Perfectly.”

The stars on her skin shimmer a bit too brightly.

Thursday, May 16 — Internships Day 4
Nozomi starts the morning observing upperclassmen combat practice from a distance. She stands beside All Might—thin All Might, skeletal and tired yet burning bright with optimism.

“You must be Nozomi-san!” he says.

She bows deeply. “It’s an honor to meet you, All Might-san.”

“Nonsense! We’re coworkers. No need for nerves.”

But she keeps her bow low a second longer anyway.

During the lesson, she demonstrates gravitational arcs for students struggling with aerial maneuvering. A tiny sun flares from her palm, warm and controlled, casting sharp shadows. The students’ eyes widen; she explains the physics behind their movements clinically, quietly, but with a softness that helps them understand.

All Might nods, impressed. “Your presence is very calming.”

She blinks, unsure how to respond. “I… try to be helpful.”

Later, in the staff room, she shares quiet conversation with Present Mic about old UA days—he remembers her vaguely. “You were always so quiet! Still are!”

“I suppose some things don’t change.”

Friday, May 17 — Internships Day 5
Her astronomy seminar is unexpectedly crowded today—word has spread. Twelve students gather, some from other classes, curious about the “celestial teacher.”

Nozomi creates a small-scale planetary system:
a glowing miniature sun,
three orbiting moons,
a tiny black hole acting as a gravitational anchor.

The students watch, breath held, as dust motes drift in spirals. Nozomi explains gravitational wells, lunar tides, orbital decay—all in her soft, measured tone.

One student whispers, “She’s like a real-life cosmic spirit…”

The stars along her arms brighten at that, betraying emotion she doesn’t voice.
She ends the day by assisting in faculty meeting preparations. Aizawa passes by, hands in pockets, glancing at her briefly.
“Good work this week, Nozomi-san.”

Her breath stills. “…Thank you, Aizawa-san.”
Her stars flare bright as he turns away.

Saturday, May 18 — Internships Day 6
UA is nearly empty today, the silence amplified. Nozomi takes advantage of it to refine her quirk demonstrations in Gym Delta. She practices:

• micro black holes with precise gravity
• miniature suns that emit heat but not danger
• lunar spheres with fine-tuned low-gravity effects

She moves gracefully, adjusting each cosmic display with delicate hand motions. When she concentrates, the galaxy on her skin deepens to rich indigos and violets, stars pulsing like distant nebulae.

Later she shares a quiet tea moment with Nezu in the courtyard. “You have adapted well, Nozomi-san,” he says.

“I am… finding my place.”

“You are already part of our constellation.”
His words leave her momentarily speechless.

Sunday, May 19 — Internships Day 7
The end of the week arrives like a soft exhale.

Nozomi spends the morning updating her lesson plans, preparing for Class 1-A’s return. She organizes materials, tidies her seminar room, and writes notes about which students might benefit from specific quirk-physics guidance.

In the afternoon, she walks UA’s grounds slowly, absorbing the quiet. The sun hangs low; her shadow stretches long across the tiled path. She watches the breeze stir the leaves and lets her thoughts drift like stardust.

By evening, she heads home. Tokyo’s lights glitter beneath her as she steps off the train, a living mirror of the galaxy on her skin. She unlocks her apartment, sets her bag down, and breathes deeply. Tomorrow, the students return. Tomorrow, the real work begins.

Chapter Text

The next day Class 1-A pours into their homeroom like a gust of wind after a week away—loud, buzzing, full of overlapping stories.

Nozomi Akari stands near the back of the room beside Aizawa, arms loosely folded, watching the students settle in. She’s already gotten used to their energy in the few days she has worked here… but after a week without them, the sheer noise almost makes her blink.

Kaminari is the loudest, leaning over his desk. “Man, the ones who improved the most are definitely Midoriya, Iida, and Todoroki! No question!”

That gets the attention of everyone nearby. Students crowd around the trio, voices rising in curiosity.

“What happened exactly?”

“Was it really the Hero Killer?”

“You guys fought him, right?!”

Nozomi’s brow lifts—she had seen the news reports, but hearing it from the source, even hinted at, makes her gut tighten. She glances at Aizawa. He stands stiffly, gaze half-lidded but sharp. Yes. He already knows every detail.

Todoroki answers before the excited chatter can boil over. “…Endeavor saved us from the Hero Killer.”

It’s a clean, safe explanation. Nozomi can tell it’s practiced—carefully chosen. Midoriya’s shoulders tense. Iida looks down at his hands.

Kaminari scratches the back of his head. “I mean… I kinda think Stain is cool?”

“Kaminari,” Midoriya scolds, flustered, “you can’t just—he hurt people! A lot of people! He almost—”

“Midoriya,” Nozomi murmurs quietly from the side, her voice not scolding but grounding. “Take a breath.”

He does—because he always listens when a teacher speaks directly to him. Kaminari wilts. “Sorry.”

Iida straightens, adjusting his glasses. “It’s alright. I can understand why some may find him ‘cool’ in a superficial sense. His convictions were… strong. But that does not justify criminal acts.” He suddenly booms, “Now, everyone, please return to your seats!”

Half the class groans. “Too loud!”

“Dude, we JUST sat down from yelling!”

Nozomi quietly stifles a smile behind her hand.

The class moves to their next lesson, filing into the training area where All Might stands waiting, larger than life as always.
“All right, you future heroes! Today we’re doing something special!”

All Might gestures across the looming shape of Playing Ground Gamma—dense, steel corridors twisting like a maze. “A rescue training race! You’ll dash through this labyrinth and reach the central point where I’ll be waiting! You’ll be split into four groups!”

Nozomi stands on the observation platform with him, clipboard in hand, though she’s not really taking notes—just watching, learning how All Might instructs, how these kids fight, how U.A. functions in motion.

Aizawa lingers farther back in the shadows of the catwalk, observing silently.
All Might announces the first group: Midoriya, Iida, Ojiro, Mina, and Sero.

The rest of the class begins debating immediately.

“Midoriya’s at a disadvantage,” Yaoyorozu muses analytically.

“Yeah, his quirk hurts him like crazy,” Jirou adds.

“No way nerd-face beats me,” Bakugou scoffs, arms crossed as though this race is a personal insult.

Others theorize—Ojiro’s balanced skills, Mina’s agility, Sero’s mobility, Iida’s speed. Nozomi listens, absorbing how each student views their own and their classmates’ strengths.

Midoriya stretches nervously. Iida’s engines whir softly. Mina bounces in place. Sero cracks his knuckles. Ojiro stands calm, tail flicking in quiet focus.

All Might throws an arm up dramatically.
“BEGIN!”

The five shoot forward.

Nozomi leans slightly over the railing, eyes narrowed—not in worry, but in concentration. “They’re quick.”

“Mobility-focused group,” All Might laughs. “It’ll be a fun one.”

Midoriya immediately tries using Full Cowling—just a flicker, just enough to propel himself forward without breaking anything. Nozomi notices the concentration in his jaw, how carefully he holds himself. She scribbles a note this time.

Sero swings between beams like he’s in his natural habitat. Mina slides across metal floors in bursts of pink acid, using it to change direction effortlessly. Ojiro leaps with powerful, precise movements. And Iida—he rockets ahead like a bullet, engines roaring in a straight, unstoppable line.

All Might shouts encouragement, booming through the maze. “GOOD! Push yourselves! But don’t forget your surroundings—Gamma punishes tunnel vision!”

Nozomi relaxes into the rhythm of the race, watching how each student adapts to the chaotic environment. She finds herself smiling—not the polite kind she gives colleagues, but the genuine one she wears at the planetarium when kids gasp over a star projection.

“These children,” she murmurs, “they’re remarkable.”

“They’d better be,” Aizawa calls from behind her, tone dry. “I plan to pass all of them.”

Nozomi huffs a small laugh.

As the race continues deeper into the maze, she leans forward again, eyes tracking Midoriya’s movements—each careful calculation, each burst of new control. She can almost feel his heartbeat from here.

UA students, she realizes, don’t just grow fast. They grow explosively. And she is right in the middle of it.

In the final week of June, humid and bright, cicadas are already buzzing in the trees outside U.A.’s main building. Summer break is close enough for the students to taste it, but the looming end-of-term tests hang over Class 1-A like a storm cloud.

Nozomi Akari—Nozomi-sensei to the students—walks the halls that morning carrying a stack of graded elective assignments tucked neatly against her chest.

A little bit over one month in, she now moves through the school with quiet confidence, her presence familiar to most teachers, unmistakable to every student. Her calm voice and star-lit quirk demonstrations have already earned her a quiet sort of respect. The staff room no longer feels foreign; her desk is decorated with a tiny potted succulent, a gift from Yaoyorozu, and a novelty keychain of a cartoon nebula that Hagakure left anonymously.

Today, however, she senses that something in the air is different. Nervous energy. Whispering. The distinct academic dread only students can produce.

Class 1-A, Late Morning
By the time Nozomi reaches the classroom, Aizawa is already slumped at the front, wrapped in his sleeping bag like an exhausted cat in a cocoon. The students chatter loudly. Mina sits backwards on her chair, leaning over to Kaminari as they groan in unison.

“We sooo didn’t study enough,” Mina whines, forehead pressed to her desk.

“Bro, we had internships, villains, explosions—” Kaminari gestures vaguely. “Who had time for textbooks?”

Tokoyami nods solemnly, wings folding. “Dark events have clouded our focus.”

Sato sighs. “Well, the end-of-term test is definitely harder than the midterms.”

Mineta pipes up, smirking as he twirls a pen. “And don’t forget there's an exercise test too! Totally brutal.”

The smirk drops instantly when Mina and Kaminari glare daggers at him.

Midoriya straightens, expression earnest. “I know it’s stressful, but we can all do this together! I—I want everyone to come to the forest lodge this summer! It won’t be the same if people fail.”

Iida nods vigorously. “Midoriya is correct! We must all seize this opportunity with utmost diligence!”

Todoroki quietly flips a page in his notebook. “If I had attended all classes normally, my grades wouldn’t be this low.”

Kaminari looks wounded. “Bro. Please. Some mercy.”

Yaoyorozu offers a shy smile. “If anyone needs help studying, I—I would be honored to assist.”

Ojiro, Jiro, and Sero immediately perk up. “Really? That would be amazing!”

Their eagerness makes Yaoyorozu’s cheeks flush pink with pride.

Kirishima slings an arm around Bakugou’s chair. “Man, Yaoyorozu is being super virtuous!”

Bakugou slams his palms on the desk. “I’M VIRTUOUS TOO, YOU EXTRA. I’ll tutor you until you bleed.”

Kirishima beams. “Hell yeah!”

From the doorway, Nozomi watches the chaos fondly before stepping inside. A few students sit straighter.

Her soft voice glides through the classroom. “Everyone, talking is fine for now, but don’t let the stress spiral. You’re more prepared than you think.”

A few smiles appear. Even Aizawa cracks one eye open at her.

Lunchroom
The cafeteria hums with activity as trays clatter and overlapping conversations swirl. Midoriya, Iida, Todoroki, Uraraka, Tsuyu, and Hagakure sit together, discussing their chances.

“I feel okay about the written test,” Uraraka says, tapping her pencil against her notebook. “But the exercise one? No idea.”

“Nobody does,” Tsuyu adds. “Ribbit.”

Hagakure tilts her head. “Maybe it’ll be something super weird!”

Before Midoriya can reply, a figure bumps hard into him. His tray rattles.
Monoma.

“Oh—sorry!” Midoriya blurts.

Monoma gives a dramatic sigh. “Well, if it isn’t Class 1-A’s walking headline trio. Hero Killer fame, must be nice. Your popularity keeps skyrocketing thanks to almost dying.”

Todoroki narrows his eyes. Iida frowns deeply.

Before anyone else can respond, a cool, stern voice cuts through the tension.
“Monoma-kun.”

Nozomi stands behind him, arms crossed—calm yet sharp as a drawn blade. The students blink; even Kendo, halfway through raising her fist to knock Monoma flat, pauses in shock.

“That’s enough,” Nozomi continues, the stars on her galaxy skin are blazing. “Mocking them for surviving an encounter with a murderer is unacceptable. You’re a U.A. student—a future hero. Act like it.”

Monoma freezes, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “…Yes, Nozomi-sensei.”

Kendo bows quickly. “I’m so sorry about him!”

“It’s alright,” Nozomi replies gently. Then she turns to Midoriya’s group. “I overheard you worrying about the exercise test.”

Six students lean in at once.

“It’s a robot battle simulation,” she says with a playful hum. “Similar to your Entrance Exam.”

Midoriya nearly drops his chopsticks. “You—You know that?!”

A mischievous glint lights her eyes. “I was a U.A. student too, you know.”

On the ground, Monoma grumbles, “Why would you reveal that…? I could’ve used that information to CRUSH Class 1-A…”

Kendo knocks him into the floor with her palm. “STOP causing problems!”

Nozomi only smiles, winks at her students, and heads for the staff room. Midoriya looks starstruck.

Back in Class
Midoriya bursts through the door. “GUYS! The exercise test—It’s robot combat! Like the Entrance Exam!”

Mina and Kaminari cheer loudly. “YES! No human opponents!”

Shoji nods. “That makes it easier for many of us to use our Quirks safely.”

Bakugou scoffs, arms crossed. “Robots, villains, teachers—I don’t care what they throw at me. I’ll blow it all up.”

The rest of the class groans, laughs, or nods nervously. Outside the window, clouds drift lazily across a blue summer sky.

Meanwhile, down the hall, Nozomi returns to the staff room with a faint smile—already settling into her role as both teacher and quiet guardian, guiding her students through the last stretch of their first semester.

Chapter Text

Faculty Lounge — Early Afternoon
The faculty lounge is unusually quiet, bathed in soft sunlight spilling through the tall windows. The air hums faintly with the low buzz of a vending machine. Nozomi sets a cup of green tea on her desk, exhaling as she settles into her chair. The students’ reactions still replay in her mind—Midoriya’s giant eyes, Kaminari’s whoop of relief, Monoma’s melodramatic collapse.

A small laugh escapes her.

“You’re awfully pleased with yourself.”
The familiar dry voice comes from behind her. She turns.

Aizawa leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the slight lift at the corner of his mouth. He looks the same as always—tired, sharp, and quietly amused.

“Nozomi-san,” he says, tone deceptively mild. “You really told them.”

She arches a brow. “Told them what?”

He pushes off the frame and strolls toward her desk. “Don’t play innocent. You revealed the content of the end-of-term practical.”

Her smile tugs wider. “I didn’t reveal anything classified. Just… avoided letting half the class spiral into study-induced existential dread.”

Aizawa stops beside her, gaze steady. “You realize Monoma is probably still frothing at the mouth.”

“That’s an upside,” she says.

Aizawa snorts—quiet, but unmistakably a laugh. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“And you have?” she counters gently.

His eyes flick away for a moment, thoughtful. Then he sits in the chair next to her desk—sideways, long legs stretched out, posture relaxed in a way he only uses around a handful of people.

“Maybe not,” he finally says.

Silence settles between them, not awkward but familiar. Comfortable. She sips her tea, and he watches her for a second before speaking again.

“You handled the class well,” he adds. “They listen to you.”

“They’re good kids,” she replies softly. “Chaotic. Exhausting. Loud. Endearing.”

He huffs. “You forgot ‘danger magnets.’”

“That too.”

Another quiet moment passes before she looks over at him fully. “Do you ever think about our time here? When we were their age?”

Aizawa’s eyes soften—just a fraction, but it’s there. “More often than I’d like to admit.”
“Yamada would be yelling if he heard that.”

She smiles fondly. “He always said you were sentimental under all that grump.”

“He talks too much,” Aizawa mutters, but there’s affection threaded through the words. “Still does. Every day.”

Nozomi laughs—warm and melodic. “And Nemuri?”

“She was thrilled to see you back,” he says. “She always liked you. Said you were the only one who could keep me from dying of boredom.”

Nozomi presses a hand to her cheek, touched. “She said that?”

“Multiple times. Usually loudly.”

The memory pulls a soft, almost shy warmth into her expression. “I missed all of you. Even the chaos. I didn’t expect coming back here to feel so… natural.”

Aizawa studies her, head tilted slightly. “You fit. You always did.”

Her breath catches for just a moment—small, quiet, unnoticed except by someone who knows her well. She looks down at her tea, letting the warmth settle in her chest.
“And you still tease,” she says lightly. “About the test.”

“I wasn’t teasing. I was scolding.”

“No, you were teasing.”

Aizawa sighs with theatrical exhaustion. “If that helps you sleep at night.”

She laughs again, and he looks at her—really looks. For a second, his eyes soften into something almost nostalgic.

“You know,” he adds, “Yamada still talks about the stupid midnight stargazing trip you forced us on.”

Her eyes widen. “That was not stupid. It was bonding.”

“It was freezing.”

“You were wearing a hoodie.”

“A thin hoodie.”

“You refused a jacket.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t want to carry it.”

She groans. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you still dragged me up the entire mountainside,” he reminds her. “Just because the meteor shower was ‘too important to miss.’”

She meets his gaze—not teasing now, but quietly earnest. “It was important.”

Aizawa holds her eyes for a long, soft second. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It was.”

The air between them hums with something old and familiar.

Then he stands, stretching lazily. “Anyway. Don’t reveal anything else.”

She tilts her chin up. “No promises.”

Aizawa gives a small, resigned sigh—the kind that means he is secretly amused—and heads toward the door.

Just before stepping out, he pauses.
“Nozomi-san.”

She looks up.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

He doesn’t wait for her response. He slips out into the hallway, capture weapon swaying behind him.

Nozomi sits very still for a moment, fingers curled lightly around her teacup, warmth blooming through her chest like a rising sun.

Faculty Lounge — Moments After Aizawa Leaves
Nozomi sits there for a breath, letting the quiet settle. The warmth of Aizawa’s parting words still lingers faintly in her chest. She brings her tea to her lips—

The door SLAMS open.

“NOZOMIIIIII-CHAAAN!”

The shout is deafening.

Her teacup jumps. So does she.

Present Mic blasts into the room like a technicolor hurricane—long coat flaring, blond hair a comet trail of chaos, voice reverberating off every surface in the lounge. Midnight follows right behind him, hips swaying, whip at her side, her amused smirk already locked in place.

Nozomi barely has time to stand before Mic swoops in and grabs her into a crushing hug.

“YOU’RE REALLY BACK!” he yells inches from her ear. She winces, laughing. “Like actually back! Not a dream! Not a rumor! NOT AN ASTRONOMICAL HALLUCINATION!”

“Yamada-san—air,” she wheezes.

Midnight snaps her fingers. “Hizashi. Let the poor woman breathe before you break her ribs.”

Mic releases her instantly, stepping back with sparkling eyes. “Right! Right, right—SORRY! I’m just—AAAAH!!” He flails dramatically. “Do you KNOW how long I’ve wanted to scream about this?!”

“No,” Nozomi says, “but I’m guessing I’ll hear it anyway.”

Midnight glides forward, arms spreading in a theatrical flourish before she pulls Nozomi into a much gentler hug. “It’s been far too long, Nozomi-chan,” she purrs. “You look incredible. Cosmic as always.”

Nozomi smiles softly, hugging her back. “Nemuri-san. You haven’t changed at all.”

Midnight pulls back with a wink. “Flatter me more.”

Mic throws himself onto the couch dramatically. “Okay, OKAY. I need answers. I need explanations. I need the UNIVERSE, babe. Start TALKING.”

Nozomi blinks. “Talking about what?”

“About YOU,” Mic cries. “The mysterious reappearance! The sudden UA employment! The Aizawa proximity!”

Midnight gasps. “Oh yes. I heard ALL about it. The two of you walking around campus together again like fifteen year-olds.”

“Nemuri-san,” Nozomi protests, warmth rising in her cheeks. “We were just catching up.”

“Oh please,” Midnight coos, draping herself onto the arm of the couch. “He actually smiled in the hallway earlier. A real smile. Do you know how rare that is? That man only smiles when cats adopt him.”

Nozomi sputters. “He—He smiles!”

“Not like THAT,” Mic says, pointing wildly. “NOZOMI-CHAN, he looked like someone handed him a lifetime supply of dry eye drops.”

She hides her face in her hand. “You two… haven’t changed at all.”

Mic and Midnight exchange a proud high-five.

Midnight flops beside Mic. “So? How’s the first month going? Settling in well?”

“It’s been…” Nozomi pauses, letting the genuine feeling surface. “Good. Better than I expected. The students are… charming. Loud. Emotional. Brilliant. And being back here feels…”

“Like home?” Midnight offers softly.

Nozomi hesitates, then nods. “Yes. Actually, yes.”

Mic beams. “KNEW IT! Once a UA kid, ALWAYS a UA kid!”

Midnight leans in. “And speaking of UA kids… we need to talk about your little heroic moment today.”

“My what?” Nozomi blinks.

Mic slaps his hands on his knees. “You!” he shouts. “Standing up to MONOMA! Telling him off like you were born for it!”

Midnight crosses her arms, pride gleaming. “The way you scolded him? Beautiful. Magnificent. Nemuri-approved.”

Nozomi sighs into her tea. “He was saying awful things. Someone had to intervene.”

Midnight taps her chin. “And the wink at Class 1-A afterwards…?”

Nozomi chokes. “They were scared!”

Mic screeches. “AND YOU LOVE IT!”

She raises a finger. “…I love… keeping them on their toes.”

Both teachers erupt into laughter.
Mic wipes a tear. “God, I missed you.”

Nozomi’s chest warms at the sincerity beneath the chaos. “I missed you too. Both of you.”

Midnight gives her a sly look, sing-song sweet. “So. Be honest. How does it feel working near Aizawa again? Our sweet grumpy Shota.”

Nozomi’s heart stutters. “He’s… the same. Reliable. Observant. Quiet.”

Mic wiggles his eyebrows. “Handsome?”

“Yamada-san—!”

Midnight fans herself dramatically. “Oh, she’s blushing. Shota, you lucky man.”

Nozomi hides behind her tea again. “I regret letting you two in here.”

Mic lounges back, folding his hands behind his head. “Too late, starshine. You’re stuck with us now.”

Midnight lifts her legs to rest them on the coffee table. “Welcome home, Nozomi-chan.”

And Nozomi smiles softly, warmth blooming in her chest, brighter than any quirk-light on her skin.

Faculty Lounge — Late Afternoon
By the time Mic and Midnight finally whirl out of the faculty lounge—Mic shouting something about “cosmic karaoke night!” and Midnight blowing a heart-shaped kiss over her shoulder—the room falls quiet again.

Nozomi exhales, smoothing a hand over her hair as the lingering echo of their energy fades. She collects her tea and turns back toward her desk—

Only to find Aizawa standing in the doorway.

He blinks slowly. “…I could hear them from the hallway.”

Nozomi gives him a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. They were… enthusiastic.”

“That’s one word for it.” He steps fully inside, letting the door close behind him. “Are you alright?”

“Just a little overwhelmed,” she admits. “But in a good way.”

Aizawa nods, almost imperceptibly. His capture weapon shifts with him as he approaches her desk, setting a thick binder down with a soft thud.

She looks at it. Then at him.
“Is that…?”

“End-of-term test prep.” His tone is dry. “I need another set of eyes. You’re the most logical choice.”

Her brows lift. “Logical because we were in the same year?”

“Logical because you’re competent,” he says simply.

The unexpected sincerity warms her chest. “Then yes,” she says softly. “I’ll help.”

Aizawa pulls a chair beside her—closer than strictly necessary—and the two of them settle into an easy rhythm. Papers spread across the desk: charts of quirk categories, student performance logs, test blueprints, robotic unit schematics.

He explains while she listens. “The written test is standard,” he says. “Multiple choice, some short answer. But the practical exam is always the more complicated one.”

Nozomi skims the robot-response charts. “You’re scaling difficulty by quirk category?”

“Partially. But we also test adaptability, teamwork potential, and emergency decision-making.”

She nods, tapping her finger lightly against the page. “Midoriya and Bakugou will overthink the entire exam.”

“You have no idea,” Aizawa mutters.

“And Kaminari needs reassurance or he’ll spiral. Jirou will downplay herself. Yaoyorozu will stress to the point of nausea.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, not judgmental.

Aizawa looks at her, impressed. “You’ve learned their personalities quickly.”

“I observe,” she says quietly. “It’s… instinctive.”

“Still,” he says, “most new teachers need a semester to understand their students. You did it in a few weeks.”

She tries to hide the soft flush rising in her cheeks by flipping a page. “I suppose I pay attention.”

“To everything,” he adds.

There’s something gentle in the way he says it, something that makes her fingers pause atop the paper.

“Only when it matters,” she murmurs.

Aizawa clears his throat lightly, returning to the documents. But the small shift in his posture—the way his shoulder angles slightly toward her—is unmistakable.

They work in comfortable silence for a moment.

Then Nozomi lifts a sheet depicting robot distribution. “These units are the same ones used in our entrance exams, aren’t they?”

“More or less,” he says. “Upgraded. Stronger plating. Faster motor response.”

“Good,” she says. “They’ll manage. More than manage.”

Aizawa gives her a sideways look. “You believe in them.”

“I do.” She rests her hands atop the papers. “They remind me of… us.”

Aizawa’s pen stills.

She continues softly, eyes on the documents rather than his face. “Back then, we were exhausted and stressed and barely holding things together. But we tried. Harder than anyone expected.” Her lips curve faintly. “And look at us now.”

He lets out a breath—not quite a laugh, but close. “Barely holding things together as teachers instead.”

She laughs quietly. “Maybe. But we’re doing something right.”

Aizawa leans back in his chair, studying her with eyes that seem sharper and softer all at once. “You really are the same,” he says. “Even after all these years.”

She tilts her head. “Is that good or bad?”

“It’s…” He pauses, choosing his words with care. “Good.”

Her heartbeat jumps—not dramatically, just enough to warm her skin. She focuses on the papers again, fingers steady.

A moment later, she gestures to a column. “You could adjust this sector pattern. It’s too predictable. Todoroki will breeze through it.”

Aizawa leans over her shoulder to see what she’s pointing at—close enough that she feels the faint ghost of warmth from him. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “Good catch.”

She swallows, keeping her voice steady. “Thank you.”

They go back to work, heads bent close together, exchanging quiet suggestions and occasional dry remarks. Outside the window, the light shifts toward evening, soft and golden.

After nearly an hour, Aizawa closes one of the binders. “This,” he says, “is more progress than I planned to make today.”

“Happy to help,” she replies. “Anytime.”

He watches her for a moment—steady, thoughtful, grateful in a way he rarely shows. “Nozomi-san,” he says finally. “Working with you is… easy.”

She smiles—genuine, warm, soft as starlight. “I’m glad,” she murmurs. “It feels easy for me too.”

Aizawa gathers the papers, and when he stands, he hesitates before adding in a quiet voice: “If you’re free after classes tomorrow… I could use your help finalizing the scenario placements.”

Her heart lifts. “I’ll be there.”

He nods once—small but meaningful. Then he turns, capture weapon swaying gently as he heads for the door.

When he’s gone, Nozomi exhales slowly, staring at the desk covered in neatly arranged plans.

Her stars glow faintly on her skin—soft, bright, warm—responding to an emotion she doesn’t say aloud.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The final week before the end-of-term tests is exhausting, but Class 1-A pushes through. Students cram notes, practice Quirk applications, and quiz one another relentlessly, while the teachers meticulously prepare both the written and exercise tests.

On the day of the exercise test, Class 1-A gathers outside with several U.A. teachers. The air hums with nervous energy. Nozomi stands slightly apart, hands folded neatly in front of her, quietly observing the students. She notices the mixture of anticipation, anxiety, and excitement radiating from them and allows herself a small, knowing smile.

Aizawa’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Without a doubt, some of you have knowledge about the exercise test.”

Mina and Kaminari immediately jump. “It’s against robots, right?!” Mina exclaims.
Kaminari nods eagerly. “Finally! Real fighting practice!”

Nozomi tilts her head slightly, hiding her amusement. She knows more than the students, but stays quiet, letting the moment play out.

Suddenly, Nedzu pops out of Aizawa’s scarf, startling several students. “Ah! Attention, Class 1-A! I have an important announcement!”

The students jump back, wide-eyed, as Nedzu explains.

“This year, your exercise test will not involve robots. Due to the recent surge in villain activity, we’ve upgraded the quality of our training to simulate real-life combat. From now on, U.A. students will face battle simulations closely resembling actual hero work. Class 1-A will be the first to participate in these simulations.”

The class murmurs, caught between disbelief and excitement. Nozomi quietly observes the expressions on their faces, savoring the mix of shock and awe. She remembers her own first experiences with real combat simulations and the thrill that ran through her veins.

Nedzu continues, listing the pairs and the teachers they will face. Todoroki and Yaoyorozu go against Aizawa. Midoriya and Bakugou are paired together—and their shock deepens as All Might’s name is revealed.

All Might leans slightly forward, eyes sparkling. “You’ll need to cooperate to succeed. Work together, and I have faith in you.”

Aizawa’s calm, clipped voice follows. He explains that the ten teams will be transported to an uninhabited training city, where the exercise test will take place.

Each pair has two win conditions: handcuff the teacher or have one member escape the battlefield within thirty minutes. Weighted bracelets courtesy of Mei Hatsume ensure the teachers are formidable but manageable.

Nozomi moves to the monitoring station beside Recovery Girl, who gives her a small nod. “Ready?” she asks.

Nozomi settles in, hands resting lightly on the edge of the console, eyes scanning multiple monitors at once. “Always,” she says softly. The screens flicker to life, showing split views of the deserted city.

As the students disperse with their assigned teachers, Nozomi’s attention sharpens. Todoroki and Yaoyorozu advance cautiously, Aizawa shadowing their movements with lethal precision.

Midoriya and Bakugou radiate tension and energy—one calculated, the other explosive. Nozomi can’t help the faint thrill that runs through her chest as she watches the duo forced into cooperation.

Recovery Girl points to a screen showing Kaminari and Mina with the Principal. “They’re working together surprisingly well,” she notes.

Nozomi nods. “Even smaller teams show impressive adaptability. Every decision, every choice—it’s all vital.” Her eyes flicker to Aizawa’s movements. She feels the same quiet admiration she felt the first time she saw him in action—the way his calm precision controls everything, even against formidable students.

The test begins. Students dodge, attack, and improvise, while teachers counter with strategic restraint. Nozomi’s fingers trace the console edge as she catalogs every movement, every decision, every spark of instinct.

She watches Midoriya and Bakugou cornering All Might. The pair struggles to coordinate, but they adjust in real time, balancing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Nozomi’s fingers twitch slightly, a subtle reflection of the thrill she feels studying such raw hero instinct.

She glances at Recovery Girl, who monitors vitals and stress levels. “It’s remarkable,” Nozomi murmurs. “Even under pressure, they’re learning lessons no textbook could teach.”

Her attention snaps to Todoroki and Yaoyorozu as they dodge and counter Aizawa. Nozomi notes their adjustments, how they cover for each other’s weaknesses and exploit their strengths.

Nozomi watches Aizawa move with effortless precision, blocking Todoroki and Yaoyorozu’s coordinated attacks. His scarf whips through the air with practiced accuracy, and Nozomi can’t help the faint stir of admiration she feels.

Even in this simulated environment, the way he anticipates their moves, adjusts, and counterbalances their strategy—it’s fascinating… and, admittedly, a little hot.

Recovery Girl hums quietly beside her, noting the students’ vitals and their stress levels. “They’re handling themselves well,” she says, eyes scanning a monitor displaying Midoriya and Bakugou’s team. “But they’ll need to focus if they hope to overcome All Might’s strength.”

Nozomi leans slightly closer to the screen, fingers lightly brushing the edge of the console as her galaxy-patterned arms flicker faintly, reflecting her internal excitement. She marvels at Midoriya and Bakugou, forced into cooperation, struggling to suppress their usual rivalry.

The determination in Midoriya’s eyes, the explosive energy radiating from Bakugou—it’s like watching two halves of a universe colliding.

A glance at Todoroki and Yaoyorozu makes her appreciate the tactical subtlety of students who understand one another.

Nozomi studies the movements critically, cataloging not only the effectiveness of their Quirks but the way each pair communicates under pressure. Tiny flares along her forearms pulse in response to her observations—a private echo of her quiet excitement.

“Interesting,” Nozomi murmurs, voice low, almost to herself. “Even under pressure, their coordination… it’s improving.”

Recovery Girl glances at her. “Are you… enjoying yourself?”

Nozomi smiles faintly, her eyes still glued to the monitor. “I’ve always admired skilled teachers. And seeing them challenge the students directly—it’s… inspiring.”

Her gaze returns to Aizawa, who effortlessly adapts to Yaoyorozu’s gadgetry and Todoroki’s dual-element attacks. She notes the subtle shifts in strategy, the way he anticipates each movement without overextending himself.

“And yes,” she admits under her breath, “even… impressive in a way that makes the heart beat faster.”

The monitor flickers to the team of Midoriya and Bakugou versus All Might. Midoriya dodges a swift swing, lands a counter, and Bakugou releases a controlled explosion to flank the hero.

Nozomi watches each motion carefully, analyzing timing, power, and intention, while the stars along her arms pulse in time with the flaring energy of the combat.

Recovery Girl chuckles softly. “You’re very focused.”

Nozomi’s lips curl in a small smile. “It’s hard not to be. They’re learning far more than a simple test can measure. Observation is everything. Every gesture, every reaction, every choice tells you more than a textbook ever could.”

Her eyes linger a moment longer on Aizawa as he counters an especially tricky maneuver from Todoroki and Yaoyorozu.

The way he moves—calm, precise, with an undercurrent of controlled force—it stirs an almost imperceptible thrill in her. Nozomi allows herself a subtle lean, following the rapid sequences of attacks with both fascination and… admiration.

Behind the screens, the other pairs are progressing through their battles. Nozomi takes note of strategies employed by Midnight, Present Mic, and Snipe, cataloging their teaching styles as much as the students’ responses.

The small weighted bracelets, designed to handicap the teachers, add an extra layer of challenge, yet the students adapt, improvising in real time.

For a moment, she lets herself simply watch, allowing the pulse of the simulation to sync with her internal rhythm, the faint flickers along her galaxy skin echoing the sparks of student determination. It’s not just a test. It’s a glimpse into growth, teamwork, and the beauty of raw, emerging talent—and Nozomi Akari, calm and observant, is content to witness it all.

Even when the teachers land powerful counters or clever traps, she only notes them clinically, though a quiet hum of approval escapes her lips for exceptionally clever moves. It’s rare, she admits to herself, to watch both the future of hero society and the mastery of its current mentors at the same time—and all in one controlled chaos of motion, strategy, and skill.

Nozomi glances at Recovery Girl. “I could watch this for hours,” she says softly. “Every choice, every microsecond… it’s like studying constellations in motion.”

Recovery Girl smiles. “I think that’s the kind of dedication our students need to see. And I think you’re learning as much as they are.”

Nozomi’s faint smile widens, the stars along her arms twinkling ever so slightly as the first real moves of the exercise test unfold. The city outside may be empty, but inside the monitor, life—tension, skill, and controlled chaos—burns like a galaxy.

Recovery Girl’s voice carries over the quiet field, crisp and measured. “Time is up. The End of Term Test is over.”

A hush falls over Class 1-A, broken only by the soft shuffle of papers and the occasional exhale. Eyes drop. Kirishima, Sato, Kaminari, and Mina wear the weight of disappointment across their faces, crestfallen. Their failure in the practical portion feels heavier than the written test they all passed.

Back at U.A., the classroom hums with chatter and tension. Midoriya scribbles notes, Uraraka taps her pencil anxiously, and the rest of the class murmurs quietly among themselves, speculation rippling through the room. The door opens, swinging gently inward. Aizawa steps in first, expression unreadable as always, followed by Nozomi Akari.

Nozomi moves with her characteristic calm, white hair falling softly over her shoulders. Her galaxy-patterned skin flickers faintly with quiet light as she surveys the class, stars along her arms dimming and brightening with subtle, internal rhythm. Her presence is understated but magnetic—students notice without quite understanding why.

Aizawa speaks first, his voice steady. “Some of you did not pass the practical portion of the test. As a result…” He pauses, letting the statement settle. “…all of you will be attending the forest lodge.”

Gasps ripple through the room. Kaminari, Kirishima, Sato, and Mina look up in shock, their previous disappointment now mingled with confusion.

Nozomi steps forward, holding neatly stacked lodge guides. “These will help you prepare,” she says softly, her voice calm but authoritative. She distributes them carefully, and the students take them, scanning the lists of gear and supplies.

Her eyes catch each flicker of frustration and uncertainty in their expressions, her own stars brightening subtly with quiet encouragement.

Aizawa continues. “The consequences for failing the practical test were part of a designed ruse to push you toward realizing your full potential.” The statement lands, and the four who had failed gape in disbelief. Sero, also listed as having failed, slouches low in his seat.

“No one failed the written portion,” Aizawa clarifies, “but Kaminari, Kirishima, Sato, Mina, and Sero did not meet the passing requirements of the practical test. The forest lodge trip will act as a boot camp. Those who did not pass the practical portion will receive more intensive training.”

Nozomi observes the students as they glance over their guides, noticing the many items they do not yet have. She kneels slightly to Koda struggling with the list.
“You can tackle this together,” she suggests gently, offering a small, reassuring smile.

Hagakure perks up, voice bouncing with excitement. “Why don’t we all go shopping together? We can get everything on the list!”

Later, in the quiet of the faculty lounge, Aizawa leans against a table, briefing Nozomi. “You’ll be coming along on the lodge trip as well.”

Nozomi inclines her head, maintaining her composed demeanor, but the faint flicker of stars along her forearms betrays her excitement. Her galaxy-patterned skin pulses faintly, tiny points of light dancing with anticipation at the adventure to come.

Chapter Text

The morning sun casts a gentle glow over Kiyashi Ward as Class 1-A gathers outside the shopping mall. Laughter and chatter ripple through the group as students compare their lists of supplies for the forest lodge trip. Bakugou and Todoroki hang back, disinterested in the bustle, while the rest of the class splits into smaller groups to tackle their shopping lists.

Nozomi walks alongside Aizawa, her steps measured, calm, yet carrying a subtle energy that draws a few curious glances. Her white hair flows lightly behind her as she glances at the students, cataloging their patterns even as they chatter and jostle past one another. The faint twinkle of stars along her forearms betrays her quiet anticipation for the outing—a rare moment away from the structured calm of the faculty lounge.

“Do we really have to buy all of this?” Kaminari groans, holding up a backpack that already looks half-full.

“Yes,” Nozomi replies softly but firmly, handing him a lodge guide. Her voice carries a gentle authority, and Kaminari immediately straightens, muttering an apology. She watches as Mina fumbles with a long list of supplies, offering pointers on what might be most practical. A tiny flare brightens along her wrist as Mina nods, grateful.

Aizawa walks quietly beside her, observing how she interacts with the students. “Don’t spoil them too much,” he murmurs, a hint of amusement in his usually deadpan tone.
Nozomi glances at him, eyes glinting. “I’m only helping them be prepared,” she replies, a small, private smile playing on her lips. The stars along her skin flicker faintly, responding to the subtle teasing in his tone.

They move through the mall together, weaving past shops filled with camping gear, snacks, and outdoor equipment.

Nozomi notes small details—the way a student hesitates at the choice of boots, how a clerk smiles when assisting a particularly indecisive Mina, and how Kaminari attempts to juggle three items at once.

Aizawa finally allows himself a small sigh. “I suppose you’re good with them, then,” he says quietly, almost to himself.

Nozomi’s smile deepens just slightly. “They’re diligent, with potential. They just need direction.” She glances at him, and for a moment, the usual barrier of teacher and student—or ex-student in her case—falls away. The two share a rare, quiet camaraderie as they move through the crowds, side by side.

By the time the group reconvenes, shopping bags in hand, the mall is alive with the late-morning rush. Students are buzzing with excitement and the satisfaction of preparation.

Nozomi takes a step back, letting Aizawa corral the students, though she can’t resist offering a few last suggestions: pack the snacks in waterproof bags, double-check the first aid kits, and ensure that everyone has proper boots. Each tip is delivered softly, but her careful attention carries weight; the students listen, nodding earnestly.

The mall hums with activity, but Nozomi and Aizawa move through it almost like they’re in a bubble, walking side by side as they keep an eye on the scattered students.

Nozomi carries a couple of bags, the stars along her arms faintly shimmering with every step. She glances at Aizawa, noting how his expression never betrays the faint amusement she suspects he’s feeling.

“Don’t get too distracted by the snacks,” he murmurs, his voice low, but there’s a teasing edge to it that catches her off guard.

“I’m not,” she replies, though her eyes flick to the nearby confectionery stand. She tilts her head slightly, letting a hint of a smile play at her lips. “Just observing… for potential energy sources.”

Aizawa’s deadpan gaze lingers on her for a beat too long. “Potential energy sources?” he repeats, a dry note in his voice that only makes her smile widen just a little.

“Yes,” she says smoothly, glancing down at a bag of protein bars she’d picked up for the students. “For tomorrow’s boot camp. I wouldn’t want anyone running out of energy.”

He shakes his head, lips twitching as if he’s fighting a grin. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, almost to himself.

Nozomi snickers softly, the sound light and musical. She falls a pace closer to him, allowing her shoulder to brush his lightly.

It’s accidental, she tells herself, though a small thrill flares along her spine. Aizawa doesn’t pull away; he just glances at her, eyes narrowing slightly, and then looks forward again, keeping the pretense of professionalism.

A few minutes later, they reach the camping section. Nozomi picks up a pair of boots, holding them out to him. “You should make sure they’re sturdy enough,” she says, her tone soft but laced with meaning. “Comfortable too. Even teachers shouldn’t underestimate the terrain.”

Aizawa takes the boots, inspecting them carefully. “I’ll be fine,” he says, but there’s a subtle warmth in the way he hands them back to her. “Don’t worry so much about me.”

Nozomi tilts her head, letting her gaze linger on him. “I know,” she says quietly. “I just like to make sure my company is safe.”

He smirks faintly, a rare expression that makes her stars flare brightly. “Company, huh?” he says, tone teasing.

“Yes,” she whispers, just enough for him to hear, her eyes sparkling. “Even when the company is grumpy and distant.”

Aizawa rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirks upward. They move on, side by side, picking up supplies for the students and themselves, and though the mall is busy, it feels like the world has shrunk around them. Small touches—a brush of her hand as she hands him a bag, leaning in slightly to point something out on a shelf—are fleeting, innocent, yet heavy with unspoken meaning.

As they check off the final items on the list, Nozomi catches his eye. “I think we’ve got everything,” she says, voice soft but satisfied.

Aizawa nods, and for a moment, there’s a pause between them. The chatter of students, the hum of the mall, all fade into the background. She smiles at him, shy but confident. “Do you… want to get something to eat before we head back?” she asks.

He hesitates, then shrugs, a slight curve at his lips. “Sure. Just… nothing too sugary.”

Nozomi laughs softly, the sound like a gentle chime, and links her arm lightly with his as they walk toward the food court.

Even with the students nearby, the small touches, shared glances, and quiet teasing make it feel… like their own little world.

The food court buzzes with activity, trays clattering, students chatting, and the faint smell of fried food in the air. Nozomi and Aizawa slide into a quiet corner, far enough from the crowd to feel like a small bubble of calm. She sets her bag down and unwraps a sandwich, while Aizawa carefully unwraps his bento.

“So… what did you end up getting?” she asks, tilting her head slightly as she eyes the contents of his box.

“Chicken and rice,” he replies plainly, though his eyes flicker up at her with a hint of curiosity. “Nothing fancy.”

Nozomi smirks, holding up her own food like a trophy. “I went for the extravagant option. You know, to keep my energy up. Someone has to supervise the chaos.” Her tone is teasing, her eyes sparkling as she glances around the bustling food court.

Unbeknownst to them, not all of Class 1-A is lost in shopping. Mina crouches behind a pillar, binoculars suddenly appearing in her hands as if by magic. Hagakure floats beside her, peeking around her friend.

“I see them!” Mina whispers, eyes wide. “They’re eating together! Look!”

Hagakure giggles softly, barely containing herself. “Do you think they know we can see them?”

Meanwhile, Todoroki wanders by, frowning in confusion at Mina’s intense focus and the binoculars aimed at the teachers. “What are you doing?” he asks flatly.

Mina panics slightly. “Uh… nothing! Just… observing the mall environment for… science!”

Todoroki raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, as she fumbles with the binoculars.

Hagakure nudges her friend, whispering, “Maybe don’t get caught staring at the teachers, Mina.”

Back at the table, Nozomi takes a careful bite, her eyes drifting subtly toward Aizawa. “You should try this,” she says, holding up a piece of her sandwich. “It’s surprisingly good.”

Aizawa glances at her, deadpan, but reaches for it. “I’ll trust your judgment,” he mutters, tasting it. A faint nod acknowledges her recommendation. “Not bad.”

Nozomi’s smile widens, and she leans back slightly, letting her white hair catch the fluorescent light, the faint galaxy shimmer along her skin glowing subtly. “You know,” she says softly, “I didn’t expect a mall trip to be this… relaxing.”

Aizawa lifts his gaze to her, expression unreadable, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “I wouldn’t call it relaxing,” he replies dryly, “but it’s… tolerable.”

Mina’s binoculars wobble in her hands as she whispers frantically to Hagakure, “Did she just wink? I think she winked!” Hagakure floats a little closer to peek, eyes widening.

Todoroki, still nearby, groans softly. “I don’t want to know what you’re talking about.”

From their corner, Nozomi and Aizawa exchange a quiet, shared look. It’s subtle, almost unnoticeable to anyone else, but charged with a private amusement. She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, smiling softly at him.

Aizawa picks at his food for a moment before commenting dryly, “You’re distracting.”

“No, I’m not,” she replies, eyes twinkling. “I’m just… keeping things interesting.” A faint chuckle escapes her lips as she takes another bite, and even Aizawa lets a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Outside their bubble, Mina is nearly shaking in excitement, whispering to Hagakure, “They’re so… cute!”

Hagakure giggles, “Shh! Don’t let them see us!”

Todoroki mutters something unintelligible, but the corner of his mouth quirks ever so slightly, betraying a hint of amusement at the antics around him.

Nozomi finishes her sandwich, her eyes flicking once more to Aizawa. “Ready to head back?” she asks, tone light but holding a note of mischief.

He nods slowly, standing and gathering their things. “Let’s go,” he says.

As they walk out, Mina waves frantically from behind the pillar, binoculars in hand. Hagakure floats beside her, trying to hide her laughter. Todoroki sighs, shaking his head, muttering, “Children…”

But for Nozomi and Aizawa, the mall trip—quiet, teasing, and just a little romantic—lingers in the back of their minds, a small pocket of joy amid the chaos of U.A.

Chapter Text

The day of the forest lodge trip arrives, and both Class 1-A and 1-B gather at the U.A. parking lot, buzzing with energy. Monoma tries his usual taunts at Class 1-A, only to be cut off by Nozomi’s calm but firm interjection.

With a slightly mischievous smile, she reminds him that mocking her students won’t go unchallenged. Defeated, Monoma sulks away, and the students board their bus.

Inside, Aizawa gives his usual briefing, explaining that the bus will stop every hour for rest breaks.

Class 1-A, however, is in high spirits and ignores him entirely, fooling around, tossing snack wrappers, and making playful quips.

Nozomi sits a few rows behind, observing them with soft amusement, her galaxy-patterned skin faintly shimmering in the morning light. She shares a knowing glance with Aizawa, who can’t help but crack a rare, subtle smile at her reaction.

An hour later, the bus stops for a restroom break. Class 1-A steps out, stretching and laughing, only to notice Class 1-B isn’t there. Suddenly, two women in sleek cat-like costumes and a small boy appear.

Midoriya, always eager, introduces them excitedly as the professional Hero Team, the Pussycats. The brown-haired cat-woman explains the day’s task: Class 1-A has three hours to reach the base of a nearby mountain using their Quirks freely, or they’ll miss lunch.

Before anyone can protest, Pixie-Bob activates a Quirk, sending a landslide that drops the students into a dense forest known as the Beast’s Forest.

Aizawa allows the Pussycats to manage the early portion of the exercise while he and Nozomi head toward the lodge to prepare for their arrival.

On the drive, Nozomi remarks quietly about the meticulous planning of the Pussycats’ training area, and Aizawa muses on the necessity of accelerated first-year courses given the increase in villain activity.

Eight hours later, Class 1-A finally arrives at the lodge, exhausted and muddy. Pixie-Bob, impressed, remarks on how quickly they adapted to her Earth Beasts. Aizawa directs them to retrieve their luggage and settle into their rooms before heading to dinner.

The dining hall is lively, filled with chatter and laughter as Class 1-A enjoys the meals provided by the Pussycats.

Afterward, the students head to the hot springs, divided by a wooden wall. Nozomi waits until the hall is empty and the students have retired, then slips into the secluded female side.

Removing her clothes, she ties her long white hair into a neat bun and lowers herself into the steaming water. The heat soothes her, and her galaxy-patterned skin from fingertips to elbows and toes to knees glimmers softly like the night sky.

A creak makes her spin sharply. In the doorway stands Aizawa, clad only in a towel. His usual composed expression falters, his dark eyes widening. A rare flush climbs his cheeks.

“I… uh… used the wrong door…” he mutters, stumbling back and vanishing before she can react. Nozomi exhales slowly, lips twitching into a small, knowing smile. The image of him, momentarily exposed, muscles taut and unguarded, lingers in her mind.

On the other side, Aizawa sinks into the water, letting the heat soak into his tired muscles. His mind drifts, impossibly, to the other side of the wooden divider. He remembers the curve of her shoulders, the smoothness of her skin above the waterline, the way her hair frames her neck. He forces himself to think of something else, yet his imagination betrays him, crafting fleeting images that leave his chest tightening.

Nozomi lets the water cover her to the chin, pressing her shoulders just beneath the surface. Her thoughts are equally unruly. She remembers the rare vulnerability in his eyes, the way his stoicism broke into flustered confusion. It makes her pulse quicken in a way she doesn’t quite expect, a thrill that feels electric against the warmth of the spring.

The wooden divider between them feels impossibly thin. Every faint splash, every sigh carried through the steam, is amplified, each sound a secret only the two of them share. Her thoughts wander, imagining the tautness of his back beneath the water, his dark hair plastered to his head, and the steady, slow strength he exudes even in repose. He thinks of the curve of her neck, the graceful stretch of her limbs, the quiet confidence she radiates even here.

The morning sun burns over the forest lodge clearing, casting long shadows across the assembled students. Class 1-A stands in neat rows, rubbing sleepy eyes and stifling yawns. At 5:30 AM sharp, Aizawa appears, his usual dark eyes sweeping over the group.

“Today we begin reinforcement training,” he announces, voice calm but carrying its usual authority. “The goal is to strengthen your Quirks so you’ll be ready to obtain your temporary licenses.”

A soft shuffle of footsteps draws his attention to the side. Nozomi steps forward, her long white hair is tied in a high ponytail and she is wearing gym shorts and a fitted t-shirt that clings lightly to her form.

The summer heat makes the simple attire practical, but Aizawa can’t help the fleeting pause his gaze takes along the curve of her chest, the subtle line of her arms. He quickly averts his eyes, muttering under his breath, “Focus…”

Nozomi, noticing the faint intensity in his expression, tilts her head slightly, a small, teasing smile brushing her lips, though she keeps it subtle. She positions herself near the students, giving a supportive presence without intruding.

“Bakugou,” Aizawa continues, steering both himself and his mind back to the task at hand, “perform the pitch from the Quirk Apprehension Test.”

Bakugou’s fingers curl around his makeshift ball. With a grunt and a concentrated exhale, he launches it. The ball soars and lands at 709.6 meters. A few students blink in surprise; it’s a minor increase from his previous pitch.

“Not what I expected,” Mina whispers to Kaminari, “I thought it’d be way higher!”

Aizawa glances at the class. “You’ve all gained experience. You’ve grown emotionally and technically. But physical growth is where we lag behind.” His dark eyes sweep past the students, momentarily flicking toward Nozomi again as she leans slightly forward, hands resting on her knees.

There’s an almost imperceptible flush in her cheeks as their eyes meet, and they quickly break apart, each pretending to focus elsewhere.

“From today onward,” Aizawa continues, voice firm, “we focus on upgrading your Quirks. Physical, technical, emotional—everything counts. You’ll push your limits, and you’ll discover what you’re truly capable of.”

Nozomi straightens, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, and lets her gaze drift across the students. She can feel the heat in the air—not just from the sun—and a faint awareness lingers from their brief eye contact earlier. She shakes her head, focusing on her role: she’s here to support the students, not to get distracted.

Still, as she watches Bakugou prepare for his next pitch, and sees Aizawa moving with his usual precise control, she can’t help the subtle pull of curiosity and tension that hums quietly between them, unspoken but unmistakable.

The morning sun beats down over the forest lodge training grounds as Class 1-A pushes themselves to their limits. Steam rises from their exertion, muscles straining, Quirks flaring in the sweltering heat. Bakugou’s explosions make the air sizzle; Iida’s legs pump relentlessly; Ochaco hovers above the ground, fighting nausea; Kaminari sparks, trying to maintain control; Todoroki combines ice and fire, sweat dripping from his brow.

Every student is determined to grow stronger.

Nozomi stands near the edge of the training field, adjusting her gym shorts and t-shirt. The summer heat presses against her skin. For the first time, her galaxy-patterned skin glimmers in full: from her fingertips to her elbows, and from her toes to her knees.

The faint shimmer catches the sunlight as she stretches her arms above her head, a living map of stars on her limbs, her movements fluid and precise.

Aizawa’s sharp eyes flicker briefly toward her, noting the glimmer, before he immediately looks away. His expression remains impassive, but a faint tension lines his shoulders.

One of the Pussycats—Pixie-Bob—moves past Nozomi, demonstrating a stretch to warm up her legs. Nozomi mirrors the movement, her galaxy skin catching the light, and Aizawa notices the subtle shimmer along her exposed arms and knees. He clears his throat, forcing his gaze back to the students.

“Class 1-A,” he calls, voice flat but commanding, “observe your limits. Push your Quirks, and focus on improving technique and control. No shortcuts.”

Nozomi shifts, lifting one leg to stretch against a log, and the stars along her limbs twinkle faintly in the morning sun. She feels Aizawa’s gaze, even if fleeting, and a faint warmth rises in her chest.

“Want to train your Quirk a little, Nozomi?” he asks quietly, stepping closer. The corner of his mouth twitches in what could almost be considered a smirk.

She shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe later,” she replies, keeping her focus on her stretches but feeling the tension in the air between them, a quiet current of awareness neither of them can ignore.

Across the field, Class 1-A continues their grueling exercises, oblivious to the subtle exchange. Yet, in the stillness between explosions and sparks, Aizawa’s eyes drift back for a heartbeat longer than intended, and Nozomi feels the faint pressure of being watched, the heat from training mingling with a different kind of tension she doesn’t fully understand.

Her galaxy skin shimmers faintly with every stretch, every movement, catching the light like distant stars, drawing attention without words. Aizawa notices. She notices him noticing. The forest lodge air hums with energy—Quirks, sweat, and an unspoken, quiet tension shared across the wooden boundary of professional decorum.

Chapter Text

The students’ training fills the forest like a living storm. Everywhere Nozomi looks, her students are pushing themselves to the absolute limit.

Sweat, grit, shaky breaths, strained Quirks — all of it blending into a raw display of resolve that makes something stir uncomfortably inside her.

She watches from the treeline, arms crossed tightly, but it doesn’t help.
That feeling rises anyway. Motivation.

She slips quietly deeper into the forest, letting the branches swallow her until the sounds of training fade into a soft murmur behind her. The sunlight here is gentler, breaking through the canopy in warm, shifting patterns that glide over her skin — pale and smooth on her upper arms and thighs, but shimmering with constellations from fingertips to elbows and toes to knees. Her galaxy markings glow faintly, betraying her restless nerves.

She exhales slowly, lifts her hand, and lets the familiar cosmic energy gather in her palm.

A faint star forms — flickering, unstable.

It sputters out.

She tries again. A Moon this time, pale and trembling, a sphere of soft gravity— It collapses in a small burst of stardust and frustration curls through her chest. “Why can’t I just—”

“You’re hiding.”

The voice is quiet, steady, yet it cuts through her like lightning.

Her spine stiffens. She turns.

Aizawa stands between two trees, half in shadow, arms crossed loosely. His hair is tied back, his shirt sleeves pushed up, and his eyes — sharp, observant, far too knowing — flicker over her glowing galaxy skin before he can stop himself. The smallest flush rises on his cheekbones, quickly suppressed.

Nozomi narrows her eyes. “Were you following me?”

“No.” He steps closer, boots crunching softly over the forest floor. “I was checking on the class. Then I noticed one teacher missing.” His gaze drifts to her again, slower this time, lingering on her forearms.
Her constellations brighten instinctively.
His jaw tightens — almost imperceptibly.
“You’re avoiding everyone,” he says.

“I’m practicing,” she replies, though her voice doesn’t carry much conviction.

“Secret training in the woods?”

“I like the scenery.”

“Hm.”

He doesn’t believe her for a second.

She lifts her hand again, trying to summon another Moon, but it wavers embarrassingly, wobbling like a soap bubble.

Aizawa’s steps stop just behind her.

Too close.

Close enough that the warmth of his body brushes along her back in subtle waves each time he exhales.

Her breath catches.

He studies the faint, unstable sphere hovering in her palm. “You’re locking your shoulders.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

His voice drops lower, gentler — the tone he rarely uses except with students on the brink of a breakthrough.

Before she can object, he lifts a hand and touches her elbow — lightly, almost cautiously, as if testing a boundary neither of them has acknowledged but both have felt growing since yesterday in the hot spring.

Her galaxy skin flares at the contact, shimmering as if stars are bursting to life beneath the surface.

Aizawa notices.

Of course he notices.

His thumb pauses, barely brushing her skin, and for a heartbeat neither of them moves. “Relax,” he murmurs.

“I am relaxed,” she lies, her voice soft and unsteady.

He hums — quiet, skeptical, amused in a way that makes her pulse quicken — and steps even closer, bringing the faint brush of his chest against her back. The forest suddenly feels far too warm.

“Try again,” he says, voice low enough that it almost grazes the shell of her ear.

She swallows and lifts her hand.

The Moon forms again — slow, steady, glowing brighter this time. The low gravity radiates gently, lifting fallen leaves into a quiet orbit around them.

Aizawa leans forward, his breath skimming across her neck. “You’re holding back,” he says softly, almost accusing.

“I didn’t… want the pressure,” she breathes out. “Or the expectations. Or the spotlight.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then his voice softens — almost tender in its quiet honesty. “You don’t have to become what U.A. once pushed you to be,” he says. “But don’t sell yourself short because of that.”

Her hand lowers. The Moon dissolves.
His body is still close. Close enough that she feels the faint brush of heat through her thin shirt.

She dares glance sideways, meeting his gaze — dark, intent, and carrying a simmering warmth she hasn’t seen from him before. The kind that makes her heartbeat slow and heavy. “So,” she says, attempting levity but failing, “you’re offering to train me?”

His eyes drop to her galaxy-marked arms again, lingering for a slow, deliberate second. When he looks back at her, his voice is rough around the edges. “I’m offering to help you become what you could have been,” he murmurs, “if someone had bothered to train you properly.”

The space between them thickens until it feels alive.

Her stars glow uncontrollably bright.
His eyes track the light with something dangerously close to hunger.

“Then…” she whispers, “start again?”

He steps behind her once more. “Again,” he agrees, his voice low and warm against her ear.

And as she lifts her glowing hand, for the first time in years, her power feels not like a burden— but like something reaching back.

The sun hangs low by the time 4:00 PM hits, washing the mountainside in warm orange light.

Class 1-A gathers near the open clearing where oversized cooking stations have been set up. Pixie-Bob practically bounces on her toes while Ragdoll grins with unrestrained energy, dropping crates of vegetables, rice, spices, and packaged meats in front of the students.

“Alright, kiddos! From now on, you make your own meals!” Pixie-Bob announces, hands on hips.

Ragdoll nods vigorously. “Think of it as survival training!”

Iida stiffens, saluting as if this were an official government operation. “Understood! This is an important skill for future heroes! Class 1-A—let us prepare curry with discipline and teamwork!”

Most of the class cheers; others sag in despair.

Near the edge of the clearing, Nozomi stands beside Aizawa, clipboard in hand as they supervise. She’s in her gym shorts and fitted U.A. shirt still, hair tied up from the afternoon’s training. Sweat has dried along her temples, leaving faint wisps of curled hair framing her face. Her galaxy-patterned arms catch the last rays of sunlight, glowing faintly.

Aizawa’s eyes flick to her without meaning to—then flick away just as fast.
He thinks he’s subtle.
He is not.

Nozomi pretends not to notice, though the corners of her eyes soften with a hidden smile.

The class breaks into groups immediately. Mina dumps ingredients on the table with dramatic flair. “Alright! Who knows how to cut onions without crying?”

“No one,” Kaminari groans. “This is suffering.”

Nearby, Todoroki calmly sets up his cutting board. Mina whirls on him. “Todoroki! Fire! Please? My hands are cold and these vegetables are aggressively solid.”

Before Nozomi or Aizawa can intervene, Yaoyorozu interjects primly, “We must learn self-sufficiency. We cannot always rely on others.”

Todoroki nods politely at her… and then lights Mina’s stove with a quiet burst of flame anyway.

“Todoroki!!” Yaoyorozu sputters.

He just blinks. “It would have taken her thirty minutes.”

Nozomi laughs softly under her breath. “Some things never change.”

Aizawa shifts beside her. “Like Todoroki ignoring half the instructions.”

“Or students relying on the one kid with fire,” she adds.

He glances at her, deadpan. “You used to do the same. You always partnered with Yamada when we cooked during training camps.”

Her eyes widen. “I did not.”

“You did,” he insists, voice low but undeniably amused. “Because you hated chopping garlic.”

She crosses her arms defensively, galaxy skin shimmering as she does. “Garlic is… aggressive.”

He snorts—quiet, but definitely a laugh.

As the students work, the scent of cooking spices slowly fills the air. Nozomi stands with one hand on her hip, watching Kaminari accidentally electrocute the pot lid, causing a puff of smoke. She sighs and steps forward to help.

Aizawa moves at the same time. Their hands brush. Just a graze—barely a second. But both freeze.

Her fingers are warm. His are calloused.
For a moment, neither speaks. Then Nozomi pulls back with a tiny inhale, eyes darting away. Her stars brighten faintly against her will.

Aizawa clears his throat. “I’ll… handle the cookware situation.”

“No, I— it’s fine, I can—” she starts, flustered.

But he’s already stepping in, giving Kaminari a look that makes the boy squeak and straighten up instantly.

Nozomi retreats half a step and exhales, trying to calm the sudden flutter behind her ribs.

She’s still thinking about the hot spring.
He’s still thinking about her silhouette in the water.

Neither dares to say a word.

Eventually, Class 1-A gathers with bowls of curry—some edible, some questionable, all proudly made. They sit in groups, laughing and complaining as they eat.

Nozomi watches them affectionately.
Aizawa watches Nozomi—before catching himself and looking away.

Pixie-Bob leans toward Ragdoll, whispering far too loudly, “Oooh, look at those two! Such tension!”

Ragdoll gasps. “I knew it! I sensed something spicy!”

Aizawa turns, dead-eyed, and the two Pussycats scatter like startled cats.
Nozomi presses a hand over her smile.

Chapter Text

The third day Class 1-A and 1-B push themselves through their Quirk strengthening exercises. In the afternoon the air smells faintly of dirt and smoke from Todoroki’s fire, while the rustle of leaves punctuates the students’ exertion.

Aizawa moves among them like a silent shadow, giving concise, sharp advice.
“Mina, focus on controlling the acids duration,” he instructs, eyes narrowing. “Sero, keep the spin consistent; don’t just throw it wildly.”

Sato grumbles under his breath but obeys, straining as he tries to push the limits of his Quirk. Kirishima sweats profusely, gritting his teeth as he hardens every part of his body in rapid succession. Kaminari mutters a joke about overcharging, only to receive a scowl from Aizawa that makes him freeze in place.

Nozomi moves through the group with a calm, observant presence. Her eyes flick from student to student, noting each adjustment, each push to the limit. She crouches beside Mina, showing a small hand movement to refine her acid control. “Try keeping your fingers relaxed, Mina. Your Quirk flows better that way,” she says, voice gentle but confident.

The remedial group—Mina, Sato, Kirishima, Sero, and Kaminari—begin to respond more fluidly to Aizawa’s critiques, but they steal glances at Nozomi when they think he isn’t watching. Her calm energy, and the subtle shimmer of her galaxy skin in the late afternoon sun, seems to make everything a little more manageable, even inspiring.

Later, as they prepares for the test of courage at night, Aizawa approaches the remedial five. “You’re coming with me for supplementary lessons,” he says flatly.

“Ah, come on!” Mina groans. “But everyone else is getting ready for the test of courage!”

Sato sighs dramatically. “I guess we’re doomed to… extra practice…”

Then Nozomi steps forward, a small smile on her lips. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll be there too. We’ll get through this together. You might even find it fun if you focus.”

Her tone is light, but there’s an undercurrent of authority that commands attention without scaring them.

Kaminari perks up. “Y-You mean, Nozomi-Sensei is coming too?” He nudges Kirishima. “We might actually survive this.”

Kirishima beams. “Yeah! At least we have the galaxy sensei on our side!”

Even Sero smirks, and Mina huffs but manages a small smile. Aizawa drags them toward the supplementary training building with his capture weapon, their earlier frustration softening with Nozomi guiding them.

Inside the remedial building, the five remedials—Mina, Sato, Kirishima, Kaminari, and Sero—notice Monoma sitting quietly, his usual smugness subdued by the need for supplementary lessons.

The room is tense, the air thick with anticipation. Before the lessons can even start, Mandalay’s telepathy cuts through the silence, reaching Aizawa, Nozomi, Vlad King, and the students.

“Villain invasion,” her voice warns in their minds.

Aizawa’s eyes narrow. “Vlad, protect the remedials. Nozomi, stay with them,” he orders. Then, without hesitation, he darts outside, assessing the unfolding chaos.

Nozomi doesn’t hesitate either. Her sneakers hit the pavement as she follows, her eyes scanning for threats, her hands itching to manifest her quirk. Already, the air smells of smoke and burning wood.

Suddenly, Dabi appears, igniting a wall of blue flames directly at Aizawa.

In an instant, Nozomi reacts. She thrusts out her palm, and a miniature black hole forms midair, sucking in the flames and collapsing them silently into nothing.

Aizawa recovers quickly and strikes, his Capturing Weapon wrapping around Dabi with precise force. He controls the fight like a storm—efficient, deadly, and unyielding.

Nozomi watches, her heart hammering in her chest, the tension and adrenaline making her stars glow faintly across her forearms and shins. She knows she should stay back, but every fiber of her wants to be part of the action, to prove herself—not just to Aizawa, but to herself.

Dabi struggles, flames licking the edges of the black hole, but Nozomi maintains the gravitational pull, drawing his fire inward until it fizzles. Aizawa interrogates, but Dabi’s silence is as cold as his smirk.

Then, Dabi begins melting, his form collapsing into a puddle of dark sludge.

“Take them inside,” Aizawa orders sharply, gesturing to Iida, Ojiro, Mineta, and Koda, who just arrived.

Nozomi moves immediately. Her galaxy-patterned skin shimmers faintly in the shadows, a quiet reminder of the immense potential restrained by her limited control.

Inside the building a few minutes later, chaos erupts again. Flames blast the door open, but Nozomi’s reflexes are faster.

Another black hole forms, swallowing the impact and shielding Kirishima and Mina, who gape at her in awe. Vlad King restrains the Dabi clone with precise Blood Manipulation, keeping it from acting while explaining the Vanguard Action Squad’s broader plan: to break society’s trust in heroes.

Aizawa returns just in time to finish the fight, his movements fluid, efficient, and terrifying. The Dabi clone collapses into a puddle. He glances at Nozomi as he puts Kota down. “Protect Kota,” he orders, and she nods, clutching the small boy to her chest.

The students plead to fight, eyes bright with determination, but Aizawa shakes his head. “They’re targeting students. You stay here.”

Nozomi watches him go, her expression softening. Her heart aches just slightly as she follows his every movement, longing mixed with the steady hum of responsibility.

The weight of the moment presses on her chest, and she finds herself standing a little taller, her quirk’s stars pulsing faintly, reflecting the fire and courage she feels stirring inside.

Nozomi steadies herself in front of the restless students, holding Kota close. Her natural mother instincts make the stars on her skin blaze with the urge to protect.

Her eyes constantly scan the shadows outside, alert to every movement. She feels the familiar pull of her quirk under her skin, her galaxy-patterned forearms and legs subtly shimmering as her tension mounts. Aizawa trusted her with the students’ safety, and she intends to prove herself.

A sudden crack of timber and a flare of flames make her react instantly. She forms a small black hole in her palm, drawing the debris inward, extinguishing sparks before they can spread. Kota gasps, wide-eyed, and clings to her, trusting her instincts. Her stars flare brightly in response to her heightened alertness, reflecting both fear and determination.

From the corner, Vlad King watches her silently, giving a nod of approval. “Good work,” he says, his voice steady.

The noise outside crescendos, and she quickly forms another black hole, positioning it defensively along the side of the building.

The minutes stretch taut. Every time she moves to protect the students, every time her quirk flares, she feels the responsibility weighing heavily. Her galaxy skin pulses faintly with her emotions—alertness, fear, determination—each star reflecting the stakes of the moment.

She forms another small black hole, maintaining the perimeter as Aizawa continues his frontline defense. Despite the danger outside, Nozomi’s mind is clear.

She knows what is at risk and what she must do to protect the students. The villains’ shadows loom, but so does the resolve of those standing against them.

For the first time since her days as a student, she feels fully accountable—not just to her quirk, but to the people depending on her. And as the villains falter, seeing her control her power with growing precision, she allows herself a small, quiet exhale.

Fifteen minutes after the Vanguard Action Squad’s attack, the remnants of chaos hang heavy in the air.

Medical teams rush between the burned-out sections of the training facility, tending to the injured students, while firefighters extinguish out the remaining flames.

Smoke curls lazily into the sky, carrying with it the acrid scent of scorched earth and panic. Twenty-seven students lie wounded, Bakugou is missing, and Ragdoll has yet to be found. The arrests of Muscular, Moonfish, and Mustard are small comfort; they barely ease the collective tension. The sense of failure presses on everyone, a weight that refuses to lift.

Back at U.A., the next day is grim. Outside the gates, protests echo, citizens demanding answers. Inside, the faculty gathers in an emergency meeting, the room tense, air thick with fatigue and worry. Aizawa stands at the head of the table, his usual stoicism frayed, eyes shadowed. He briefs the group on the attack, the methods of the Vanguard Action Squad, and the gaps in U.A.’s defenses.

Nozomi stands nearby, her arms crossed loosely, her galaxy-skin glimmering faintly under the harsh fluorescent light. She watches, absorbing every word, every grim statistic, every flicker of fear in the seasoned heroes’ eyes. Despite her calm exterior, she feels a knot of worry tightening in her stomach. Her students—her responsibility—have been through terror beyond what anyone should endure at their age.

Principal Nezu speaks next, his voice carrying both concern and authority. The thought of Bakugou turning to villainy rattles him, the implications for U.A.’s credibility and the hero community weighing heavily on his small frame. Present Mic’s voice slices through the room, sharp and worried, pointing out the possibility of a traitor. Only the teachers and the Pussycats knew the camp location, he says, implying someone inside may have betrayed them.

Snipe’s hand rises in a firm, dismissive gesture. “Speculating on a traitor will only breed mistrust. That destroys us from within,” he says.

Nozomi nods quietly, feeling the truth in his words. She glances at Aizawa. Even in the face of disaster, he maintains his rigid calm—but she sees the flicker of worry in his dark eyes, the tension in his jaw. Their shared understanding is wordless but profound.

The meeting ends, but the tension lingers. Nozomi and Aizawa step aside, near the large window that looks out over the campus. Outside, the sun glints off the charred trees, a reminder of the destruction from yesterday. They stand silently for a long moment, the weight of the attack pressing on their shoulders.

Finally, Nozomi speaks softly, her voice almost lost. “I hate seeing them like that,” she says, nodding toward the direction of the infirmary. “They’re just kids.”

Aizawa exhales slowly, his usual monotone voice softer than usual. “They’ll recover. They always do.” He pauses, then adds, “But… it doesn’t make this easier.”

Nozomi shifts slightly, her hand brushing against the edge of the table. “It doesn’t,” she murmurs, her galaxy-patterned skin faintly shimmering as if reflecting her tension. “Seeing them afraid… feeling powerless… it makes me think of the times we were at U.A. when things went wrong. I… I didn’t push myself back then, and I became a Professor of Astrology and Astronomy instead of going pro.”

Aizawa’s eyes flicker toward her, understanding softening his usual stern gaze. “None of us can go back,” he says quietly. “But you’re here now. And you’re doing more than you know. You protected them yesterday.”

Nozomi lets herself exhale, a tiny tremor in her shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispers, just loud enough for him to hear. She feels the weight of responsibility, yes, but also a strange comfort in standing beside someone who has seen the same fear, the same failure, and yet continues forward.

Aizawa gives a small nod, barely perceptible, but enough to let her know he acknowledges her. The two of them stand together for a moment longer, a quiet solidarity forming between them, before the bustle of the faculty room slowly draws them back into the real world.

Chapter Text

2 days after their faculty meeting U.A holds a press conference. It's already a battlefield by the time they step onto the stage.

Cameras flash in rapid bursts, like static lightning. Reporters shout fragmented questions, the air crackling with tension and accusation. Nozomi feels the weight of the lights settle on her skin, hot and suffocating — but she doesn’t flinch. She straightens her spine, lifts her chin, and stands beside her colleagues with the solemnity the moment demands.
Aizawa stands to her right.

In the corner of her vision she sees him adjust the cuffs of his black suit jacket — not out of vanity, but habit. Something to occupy his hands. His hair is pulled into a loose half-updo, a compromise between formality and the part of him that resists looking “put together.” He looks sharp. Controlled. But when Nozomi looks closely, she can see the faint tremor in the muscle under his eye — the exhaustion, the pressure he refuses to admit he’s under.
He’s been blaming himself since the moment the villains struck.

Nezu steps up to the podium.
“Thank you all for coming,” he begins, voice calm, commanding. “We would like to begin with a formal apology—”

They bow. Cameras explode with light.
When Aizawa lifts his head again, Nozomi sees something flicker behind his eyes — a momentary crack in the armor. She subtly shifts closer, letting her sleeve brush his. It’s the smallest touch, but it steadies him. His jaw relaxes a fraction.

Nezu finishes the schoolwide apology, and then it’s Aizawa’s turn. He exhales once before stepping to the microphone.

“I was responsible for the students during the training camp,” he says, voice low and even. “I take accountability for the decisions I made that night.”

His tone is calm, but Nozomi hears what the reporters don’t — the tired rasp underneath, the weight he’s carrying.

“I let them fight,” Aizawa continues. “Because I didn’t have the full picture, and letting them defend themselves was the only way to prevent the worst-case scenario.”

A pause.

“None of them died. That is the only part I’m grateful for.”

Nozomi’s heart twists. She knows the way his mind works. It wasn’t enough. They were hurt. Bakugou was taken. He’ll shoulder every piece of it alone if someone doesn’t cut through that.

When the reporters start their barrage of questions, she leans slightly toward him and murmurs under her breath — quiet enough that only he hears: “You’re doing fine, Shota.”

His fingers tighten around the edge of the podium, then slowly loosen.

“Don’t sugarcoat it,” he mutters. But his voice is calmer now, the tension in his shoulders less severe.

The questions escalate.
“What specific security measures is U.A. implementing?”
“Should the public trust a school that allowed villains to infiltrate it again?”
“Is the current generation of heroes truly prepared for these threats?”

Nezu handles most of it, his polite tone a shield sharper than steel. Vlad King adds his own explanations about future safety protocols. Nozomi answers one question regarding support and observation of students after the attack, her tone professional and gentle.

Then a reporter raises his hand, eyes sharp.
“Regarding Bakugou Katsuki—given his violent behavior during the Sports Festival, do you believe U.A. failed to address clear warning signs? Does this kidnapping fall under the school’s negligence?”

The air tightens. Nozomi’s stomach dips.
Of all the questions… this one…

She turns her head just enough to watch Aizawa. She can practically see the irritation spike in him — not anger, exactly, but the deep, simmering frustration he always feels when his students are reduced to sensational headlines.

Quietly — carefully — she lets her arm brush against his again and whispers,
“Focus on truth. Not their provocation.”

Aizawa’s breath steadies. Then he steps forward. “Bakugou has a strong desire to win,” he says. “His intensity is not villainous. It’s part of his drive to be number one.” He pauses, meeting the reporter’s gaze with cool sharpness. “If the League thinks they can twist that into something else, they’re underestimating him. Severely.”

There’s a confidence in his voice that makes Nozomi’s chest tighten. It’s not arrogance. It’s belief. Unconditional belief in a student who would rather die than be manipulated.

Nezu adds on, “We are working closely with the police and are pursuing every lead. We intend to bring Bakugou back safely.”

More questions. More noise.
But Aizawa now stands straighter, his voice steady, his gaze sharp. Nozomi keeps close, offering the occasional quiet comment when his jaw tenses, when his shoulders draw taut again.

“You’re holding your breath,” she murmurs at one point.

He exhales — long, controlled — as if he didn’t realize he was. “Thank you,” he mutters.

When the conference finally ends, the four of them step backstage. The noise fades behind the walls, the bright lights replaced by the dim, empty quiet of the corridor.

Nozomi barely lets the door close before her shoulders drop. “God, that was tense…”
Vlad King groans openly. “I need a nap. Or a drink.” Nezu chuckles.

But Aizawa stands silent, rubbing his brow with two fingers. The exhaustion hits him all at once now that the cameras are gone.

Nozomi steps in front of him. “You handled that better than I expected,” she says gently.

He snorts. “I didn’t start a fight with a reporter. I’d say that’s good enough.”

“You did more than that.” She meets his eyes — soft, steady. “You were honest. And strong. And you defended Bakugou without dismissing the seriousness of what happened. That matters, Shota.”

He looks away, but she steps closer, lowering her voice even more.

“You’re allowed to be tired,” she whispers. “You’re allowed to feel the weight of it. But you’re not carrying it alone.”

His shoulders relax, the fight draining out of him.

Without fully thinking about it, Nozomi reaches up and gently straightens the knot of his half-up hair — it had loosened during the conference. Her fingers brush his temple, barely a touch, intentional but soft.

Aizawa freezes for a breath. Then his eyes close, just briefly, in something like relief. When he opens them again, he looks steadier. Grounded. “…Thanks,” he mutters.

Nozomi smiles faintly. “Anytime.”

For a moment, in that quiet backstage hallway, it’s just the two of them — two tired teachers leaning on each other in the aftermath of a disaster.

Then Nedzu clears his throat politely.
“Shall we return to the staff room?”

Aizawa sighs. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Nozomi walks beside him. This time, it’s Aizawa whose sleeve brushes hers.

Chapter Text

The halls of U.A. feel strangely hollow after the press conference — too quiet, too dim, as if even the walls are holding their breath.

Most of the staff scatter to their duties, to paperwork, to planning, to meetings with security personnel and the police. Nozomi and Aizawa walk together down the corridor, neither speaking. Their steps echo behind them.

It’s only once they reach the staff room — empty, lights low — that Aizawa finally breaks the silence. “I need to check the news feed,” he says quietly.

Nozomi nods. “I’ll stay with you.”

He doesn’t argue.

They move to the large monitor mounted on the wall. Aizawa grabs the remote, flips through channels—news, emergency broadcasts, breaking reports, scrolling red banners.

Nozomi sits beside him on the couch, her knees almost touching his. The silence stretches just a little too long.

Then—

A channel cuts to a shaky aerial camera over Kamino Ward. Smoke. Debris. Sirens. Crowds held behind police lines. Reporters yelling over one another.

Aizawa stiffens. “Something’s happening.”

Nozomi’s pulse kicks. That camera angle—
That skyline— “That’s where they said the police traced movement…” she whispers.

Before either can process it, the feed cuts to a zoomed-in shot of two figures colliding in a shockwave of raw power.
All Might. And— Nozomi’s breath stutters. “All for One…”

Aizawa’s hands tighten around the remote until the plastic creaks. Neither speaks.
The two of them sit forward, elbows on knees, their shoulders just barely grazing as they stare at the screen in horrified silence.

All Might is already injured. Blood streaks his face. One arm hangs limp. Nozomi feels her heart hammer against her ribs.
“He’s… he’s not at full power…” she murmurs.

“No,” Aizawa replies. His tone is flat, tight, too calm. “This… this isn’t good.”

The fight escalates. Buildings crumble like sand. Shockwaves rattle the camera drone. All for One taunts him relentlessly. All Might pushes himself further, further, too far— and for the first time, Nozomi sees fear flash in All Might’s eyes.

She presses a hand over her mouth.
Aizawa doesn’t move. Not even to blink.

“Where’s the team?” Nozomi whispers, scanning the edges of the broadcast for signs of the heroes sent to retrieve Bakugou. “Where’s Bakugou? They should’ve—”

Aizawa cuts in quietly, voice thin. “They’re keeping that off the air. They have to.” But his eyes don’t leave the screen.
He’s terrified.

He hides it well — too well — but Nozomi recognizes that look in him, the one he wore during the press conference, after the attack, after nearly losing several students.
She reaches out and places her hand gently on his forearm.

He goes still, but he doesn’t pull away.
They watch as All Might reels backward, blood flying, the camera shaking violently. Nozomi’s fingers tighten on Aizawa’s sleeve.

“This is bad,” she whispers. “He’s… he’s struggling.”

Aizawa inhales shakily. “All Might doesn’t struggle.”

But he is. Painfully, visibly. The villain’s voice booms through the speakers, distorted and cold. “No more hiding. Show the world your real form!”

Nozomi feels all the air leave her lungs.
Aizawa’s breath stops altogether. The smoke clears. All Might — gaunt, skeletal, exhausted — stands small on the battlefield.

Nozomi whispers, “Oh… my god…” The crowd on the broadcast gasps. Reporters shout. The entire world seems to freeze.

Aizawa bows his head, hand covering his mouth for a long, shaking moment. That, from him, is practically a scream. “He didn’t want them to see,” Aizawa murmurs, sounding suddenly so human, so tired. “He didn’t want… anyone to see…”

Nozomi slides closer to him until their shoulders press. He doesn’t move away.
He leans, just barely, into the touch.

All Might stands again on-screen, fire in his eyes, even as his body threatens to collapse. Then—

“UNITED STATES OF SMASH!”

The shockwave cracks through the speakers. The screen goes white.

Aizawa and Nozomi both flinch, bodies tensing at the same moment like they’re connected.

When the image returns — All for One is down. The dust settles. And All Might lifts his arm in victory.

The reporter screams, “HE DID IT! ALL MIGHT HAS—”

And then the hero points toward the camera. Toward the entire world. A single phrase on his lips. “You’re next.”

Nozomi doesn’t breathe. Aizawa doesn’t move. They know what it means. What it REALLY means. His era— his power— his flame— is ending.

The silence is suffocating.

After a long moment, Nozomi turns to him.
Aizawa sits with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight enough to turn his knuckles white. His hair has come loose, falling around his face in messy strands.

His eyes look darker than usual — heavy with grief, fear, and the crushing knowledge of everything that will change now. He doesn’t notice the tear that slips down his cheek. But Nozomi does.

Without a word, she reaches and gently brushes it away with her thumb. Aizawa finally looks at her — exhausted, raw, hurting in a way she’s never seen from him.

She whispers, “He protected them. He protected all of us.”

Aizawa lets out a hollow breath. “And now the kids… the world… they’re going to realize what comes next.”

“And we’ll face it,” Nozomi says, firmer. “Together.”

For a long moment, Aizawa simply stares at her — as if grounding himself in the only steady thing left in the room. Finally, he exhales, shaky but controlled. “…We need to wait for updates on Bakugou,” he says.

“We will,” she murmurs. She shifts closer — slow, gentle — and rests her shoulder against his. He allows the contact. He needs it.

The battle replay continues silently on the screen. And Nozomi stays beside him, their bodies pressed together in quiet solidarity, watching the world change in front of them — anxiously waiting for news that one fiery, stubborn boy is safe.

Aizawa and Nozomi sit together in the dim staff room for what feels like hours. The broadcast keeps looping the final moments of the battle, reporters shouting, experts speculating, crowds crying, the sky lit by the devastated cityscape of Kamino.

But neither of them looks away from the screen.

Not until Aizawa’s phone vibrates.
It’s a small sound — bzzz — but Aizawa reacts instantly, snatching the phone like it’s life or death.

Nozomi straightens, heart pounding. She watches his face, her breath caught in her throat, waiting.

Aizawa reads the message. His shoulders loosen — only a fraction, but enough to be noticeable. “…He’s safe.”

Nozomi exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Bakugou?”

“And the others.” Aizawa lifts the phone slightly so she can see the Police notification. “They found him. Kirishima and Midoriya made contact. He… escaped.”

Nozomi covers her mouth with both hands, tears springing to her eyes in sudden, overwhelming relief.

Aizawa stands abruptly. It’s instinct — leftover adrenaline, fear, leadership. He paces once, dragging a hand down his face. His whole body trembles—not visibly, not dramatically, but in the subtle way only someone who knows him well would catch.

Nozomi rises and steps in front of him. “Shota.”

He stops. His breathing is shallow. Almost uneven. Like he's been holding everything inside since the camp — and now the dam has finally cracked.

Nozomi reaches out. Her fingertips gently brush his wrist. That tiny contact is all it takes.

Aizawa exhales, long and unsteady, and lowers his head until his forehead nearly touches hers. Not quite an embrace, not quite anything romantic — just a desperate, grounding closeness. “…He’s alive,” he murmurs.

“We didn’t lose him,” Nozomi whispers back, voice shaking.

Aizawa doesn’t respond. He stands rigid, shoulders squared, chin lowered as if bracing against a blow. His long hair hangs around his face, hiding his expression. He hasn’t taken a full breath in hours. Not since he heard Bakugou was rescued. Not since the kids were checked one by one for injuries. Not since the last parent phone call ended. He’s still locked tight.

Nozomi watches him quietly. She doesn’t approach. She knows him well enough to wait. Finally, the tension inside him snaps like an overstretched thread.

Aizawa’s breath catches. His hands curl into fists at his sides, bones trembling.
“I thought…” His voice breaks rough and low. “I thought I was going to lose them.”

Nozomi steps closer—but not touching. Just close enough that he can feel another presence. “Shota—”

“I should’ve been there faster. Should’ve—should’ve seen something. Should’ve—” His voice stops; the words choke out. “I’m their teacher. I’m the one who’s supposed to protect them.”

Nozomi doesn’t interrupt.

He rarely lets himself unravel like this. He never cries. Never breaks in public. Only now, with the kids safe and the crisis over, does the weight crash onto him. He grips the wall suddenly, leaning a forearm against it, head bowed. “I can’t—” His voice trembles again. “I can’t lose another child.”

There it is. The truth he never says aloud.

Nozomi steps into his space now, slow and deliberate. Not touching him still — but her presence is solid, steady, warm. “You didn’t lose anyone,” she whispers, voice trembling too.

Aizawa shakes his head, hair falling around his face. “But I could have. I… I failed them.”

“You didn’t,” she says firmly. “You gave them the training that kept them alive. You made the right calls. They’re alive because of you, Shota. Look at them. Hagakure. Shoji. Todoroki. Kirishima. And Bakugou—he’s home because you never gave up on him.”

Aizawa squeezes his eyes shut. A single tear slips down. He doesn’t wipe it away.
He doesn’t hide it. He is shaking — quietly, violently — as the adrenaline drains out of him and the fear he locked away surges back.

Nozomi steps even closer, finally lifting a hand toward him. She brushes her fingertips against his sleeve, light and unobtrusive — giving him the option to pull away.

He doesn’t. He breathes in sharply as if that small contact is the thing that finally breaks the dam. His shoulders fold. His forehead lowers until it rests against the wall. He exhales — deep, ragged, painful.
And that’s his breaking point.

Aizawa’s voice comes out hoarse and raw:
“I thought one of them was going to die.”

Nozomi places her whole hand on his arm now, gently. “I know.”

“I can’t do that again,” he whispers. “Not ever.”

“You won’t.” She squeezes his arm.

For a long moment, he just stands there — shaking, exhausted, finally letting himself feel all of it.

And Nozomi stands beside him silently, steady as stone. Until his breathing slowly evens. Until he straightens a little. Until the worst of the storm inside him passes.

Only then does he whisper, so soft she almost misses it: “Thank you… for staying.”

She gives a tiny, tired smile. “Always.”

Chapter Text

U.A. is silent as they step out into the evening air.

The sky is deep blue, clouds streaking across the moon. The path leading away from the dorms is wet with dew, lamps casting dim halos of yellow around their feet.

Aizawa walks slower than usual. Exhaustion pulls at his limbs, but something else weighs on him — the remnants of fear, the vulnerability he never allows himself.

Nozomi walks at his pace. Neither speaks for a while.

His hair sways slightly as he walks, loose now that he finally removed the bandages and ties. His pace is steady but heavy, like each step takes effort after everything he’s held up today.

After a long stretch of silence, Nozomi says softly, “Do you want company tonight?”

He doesn’t look at her immediately.
He keeps walking, eyes forward, hands in his pockets. The wind rustles the leaves overhead. His breath fogs faintly in the cool air. Finally, he murmurs, “Yes.” The word is quiet. Barely there. But real.

Nozomi nods once and keeps walking beside him.

They pass the empty train stop. The vending machines humming softly. The closed convenience store. The quiet residential streets where no one knows what nearly happened that day — how close the world came to losing children and heroes alike.

Aizawa’s steps slow again as they turn onto their street. He exhales, tired. Mentally drained. Emotionally torn open and stitched back together in the span of hours.

Nozomi looks at him gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head once. “Not yet.”

She nods. “That’s fine.”

Another minute passes. Then quietly, barely audible: “Thank you… for being there earlier.”

A pause.

“For not pushing.”

“I know you,” she says softly. “You don’t need pushing. You need space until you don’t.”

He glances at her sideways. A faint, weary almost-smile touches his lips. “Yeah.”

Their footsteps continue in sync, slow and steady. By the time they reach his building, the exhaustion radiating from him is almost palpable. But the sharp, overwhelming grief from earlier has softened — replaced by something steadier, something calmer.

He unlocks the door. Nozomi steps inside after him, closing it gently. It’s quiet. Warm. Safe. And for the first time all day,
Aizawa breathes a full, deep breath.

Aizawa’s apartment is dim the moment he turns the lights on — warm, soft yellow that spills across the living room. It’s tidy in that understated “I don’t own anything unnecessary” way. Blankets folded. Books stacked. Everything quietly lived-in.

He toes off his boots with a sigh that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest all day.

Nozomi closes the door behind them, her own breath soft. For a moment neither speaks. The quiet is different here. Not the tense silence from the hospital. Not the brittle silence of fear or adrenaline. This is warm. Private. Heavy.

Aizawa rakes a hand through his hair, letting it fall loose around his shoulders. The gesture exposes the line of his throat and the stress still coiled beneath his skin.
“You should sit,” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion.

“You sit,” Nozomi counters gently. “You’re the one who looked like he was held together by sheer spite and caffeine for the last thirty-six hours.”

Aizawa huffs — almost a laugh. Almost.
He sinks onto the couch, leaning back, eyes closing for a moment. Nozomi steps forward and carefully drapes the folded blanket beside him, just in case he needs it.

She’s about to sit in the armchair — giving him space — when his voice stops her.
“…Sit with me,” he says quietly.

Not an order. Not even a request. Just a soft admission. Her heart flips, just once.

She sits beside him. Not touching — yet — but close enough that their knees almost brush.

For a long stretch, neither of them moves.
Aizawa’s breathing slowly steadies. The shadows under his eyes are deep, but he looks less haunted now, more human. More real.

“You didn’t… have to stay,” he murmurs, head turned slightly toward her.

“Did you want me to leave?” Nozomi asks.

He shakes his head. A tiny motion. Barely there. But certain. “No.”

The word hangs between them — heavy, warm, intimate.

Nozomi shifts, slowly, her thigh brushing his just enough to be felt. His breath catches. Not dramatically. Not visibly.
Just enough. “How long has it been since you let someone see you like that?” she asks softly.

Aizawa’s eyes open. Dark. Tired. Barely hiding the storm behind them. “Too long.”

She studies him — the man who never lets his guard down, the one who carries everyone’s burdens but his own. “Shota,” she says gently, “you’re allowed to fall apart when you need to.”

He doesn’t reply. But his hand shifts — just a fraction — until it rests on the couch cushion between them. Close enough that her fingers could reach if she wanted. He doesn’t make the first move. He won’t. He’s too careful, too respectful, too aware of lines. But he leaves the space open.

Nozomi inhales — steady — and places her hand lightly atop his. Not gripping. Not claiming. Just offering.

Aizawa’s fingers curl around hers instantly, like he’s been waiting the entire night.
His shoulders soften. The tension in his jaw loosens. He breathes out, long and slow, as if her touch siphons off the last of his fear. “You’re warm,” he murmurs without thinking.

Nozomi smiles faintly. “Is that your way of saying you needed this?”

He glances sideways — the faintest hint of embarrassment slipping through. “Maybe.”

She laughs quietly. Warm. Soft. A sound he hasn’t heard in days. Their hands stay linked, neither pulling away.

Minutes pass like this — the outside world silent, the room dim, the only sound their breathing and the occasional soft hum of the heater.

Then Aizawa speaks again, even quieter than before: “I didn’t realize how badly I needed someone here… until you were.”

Her heart stutters. And she says, barely above a whisper: “I’m not going anywhere.”

His thumb brushes over her knuckles — slow, deliberate, almost reverent. A subtle, intimate touch that sends warmth crawling up her arm and straight to her chest.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, maybe months— Aizawa lets himself lean. Just slightly. Just enough that his shoulder presses lightly against hers. His hair brushes her cheek. Not too much. Not overwhelming. Just honest.

Nozomi leans back. A perfect fit.

Their shoulders rest together now, warm and steady through the thin fabric of their clothes. The television sits dark across the room, forgotten. The only light is the faint amber glow of Aizawa’s lamp, soft enough to make the shadows gentle.

Nozomi can feel his breathing—slow, deep, finally calm—though every now and then it hitches, like he’s remembering the night again. She squeezes his hand, a reminder that he isn’t alone.

Aizawa’s thumb brushes her knuckles, absentminded at first… then purposeful.
“Nozomi,” he says quietly.

She turns her head at the same moment he turns his. Too close. Their faces stop inches apart. His breath fans across her lips—warm, steady, just slightly uneven. Her heart trips.

Aizawa’s eyes flick down—just once—to her mouth, then back up. And the shift is subtle, but unmistakable. He’s not thinking like a teacher or a coworker or the Shota Aizawa who walls himself off from the world. He’s thinking like a man who almost lost too much and came home with the one person he wanted beside him.

Nozomi’s voice barely makes it out. “Shota…”

He exhales, eyes closing just for a moment, as if trying to rein himself in.
But when he opens his eyes again, they’re softer. Unshielded. Warm in a way she’s never seen.

His forehead lowers slightly toward hers—hesitant, tentative—until the tips of their noses almost brush. The electricity between them hums warm and low.

Nozomi doesn’t move away. She can’t. Every part of her is drawn to him like gravity.

Aizawa tilts his head—just barely. Enough that she can feel how easily a kiss could happen. How natural it would be. His voice is a whisper against her lips. “I shouldn’t…”

Her eyes half-close at the heat in his tone.
“Then don’t,” she whispers back.

Aizawa swallows. His hand tightens around hers. His other arm shifts like he wants to touch her—her waist, her cheek—something, anything. For a heartbeat, he leans in. Just enough that his lips graze the corner of hers. A breath. A spark. A promise.

He stops there—just shy of kissing her—his lips hovering, touching-but-not, the lightest brush of warmth that sends a shiver down her spine. “Nozomi,” he breathes, and there’s something strained in it, something wanting.

She tilts her chin up a little more. One more inch. One single choice. And the line between them will be gone.

Aizawa’s forehead rests against hers, his hair falling around them like a curtain. “I want to,” he whispers. Raw. Honest. Bare.

Her breath catches. “So do I.”

His fingers loosen on her hand only so he can interlace them more securely, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, pulse to pulse. The moment stretches—
fragile, heated, perfect— and then—

He pulls back half an inch. Not coldly. Not abruptly. But with a soft exhale that trembles just a little. “If I kiss you now,” he murmurs, “I’m not going to stop at just a kiss.”

That sentence hits her like a shockwave.
Her heartbeat stutters, heat curling low in her stomach. “So what?” she whispers, breath brushing his cheek. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He lets out a quiet, strained laugh. “You should be,” he says, voice low, “because I don’t think I can pretend this is nothing anymore.”

She reaches up—finally—fingers brushing the side of his jaw, slow and gentle. A touch that makes his eyes fall half-lidded.
“It’s not nothing,” she says softly. “We both know that.”

Aizawa leans into her palm, eyes closing, savoring the contact he’s denied himself for too long. Then—slowly, painfully—he lifts his head, breaking the almost-kiss with a shaky breath. “Let me… not rush this,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I don’t want the first time I touch you like that to be because we’re exhausted and scared.”

Nozomi’s hand stays on his jaw. He stays there, leaning into her. Their breaths still entangled. Their bodies still close enough to feel every shift. No kiss tonight.

But the promise of one hangs in the air—
hot, undeniable, and steadily growing. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft. “Okay. We’ll wait.”

Aizawa lifts her hand and presses a slow, gentle kiss to her knuckles— not restrained, not accidental but deliberate. Intimate.

Her breath catches again. His lips linger for one heartbeat longer than they should. Then he pulls back, eyes warmed by something deeper than she’s ever seen in him. “Just… not for long.”

Nozomi yawns softly, exhaustion finally creeping in once the adrenaline and fear of the night drain from her system. Aizawa watches her rub her eyes, her movements slow and unsteady, and that’s what does it.
“You’re not going home tonight,” he says gently.

It isn’t a command. It isn’t a question. It’s concern, wrapped neatly in that Aizawa way of pretending it’s logic.

Nozomi blinks up at him. “Oh— I didn’t bring any pajamas…”

Aizawa clears his throat, trying—to the best of his ability—not to stare at her mouth again. “I… have a shirt you can use.”

He goes to his dresser and grabs one of his black shirts—soft, worn, smelling faintly of soap and his cologne. He holds it out to her with studied casualness.

But when she takes it and her fingers brush his, his composure cracks—just barely. “Thanks,” she whispers. She disappears into the bathroom.

Aizawa leans against the wall and covers his face with his hands. Get it together. Then he hears the door open.

She steps out wearing his shirt—
long on her thighs, slipping off one shoulder, the fabric hugging lightly to her figure. Her legs are bare and her hair is loose. Her skin is glowing softly in the dim light.

Aizawa forgets how to breathe.

She tugs at the hem shyly. “I hope this is okay…”

He nods too quickly. “Fine. Perfect. I mean—the shirt is fine. It fits. Good. Perfect.”

She smiles, amused. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”

He averts his eyes, but his ears turn red.
They slip into bed—his bed—quietly, carefully, both lying on their sides so they face each other. There’s space between them. A responsible amount of space.

But their knees brush under the blanket.
Accidentally. Not pulled away. The room feels too warm.

Aizawa watches her eyelids droop slowly.
For a moment, he thinks she’s fallen asleep— Then she quietly says, “Thank you… for letting me stay. I feel safe here.”

Aizawa’s throat tightens. “You are safe,” he says. And he means it more than anything he’s ever said. Her hand drifts across the sheets, searching. He hesitates only a heartbeat before linking his fingers with hers. They fall asleep like that, hands entwined, breaths mingling.

The next morning Aizawa wakes first. It’s habitual, instinctive—years of training and vigilance. What isn’t habitual is the sight that greets him:

Nozomi curled into his chest, her fingers still tangled with his, her face peaceful, hair messy and perfect.

The temptation to kiss her forehead is… dangerous. Instead, he quietly slips out of bed.

She stirs awake shortly after, blinking up at him in his kitchen, his shirt still hanging off her shoulder.

The sight of him—hair down, hoodie half-zipped, making coffee—hits her like a warm wave.

“Morning,” she says, voice sleepy-soft.

He looks over his shoulder, eyes lingering on how she looks in his clothes. “Morning. Hungry?”

“No, let me cook,” she says, standing and padding over with bare feet. “You always take care of everyone else. Let me take care of you for once.”

Aizawa opens his mouth to refuse, but she’s already tying her hair up and checking his cabinets. The sight of her moving around his kitchen— comfortable, natural, like she belongs there— makes something ache sweetly in his chest.

She whistles a bit under her breath as she works, pulling out rice, miso paste, eggs, some fish she finds in his fridge.

“You don’t need to do all that,” he tries again.

She turns and gives him a warm, crooked smile. “You deserve a home-cooked meal. Don’t argue.”

He doesn’t. He just watches.

She cooks with small, practiced motions.
The pan sizzles. The miso broth steams. The scent of grilled fish fills the room.

Aizawa realizes he can’t remember the last time anyone made breakfast for him. Not since… No one, really. His chest tightens—not painfully, but in a way that feels almost like hope.

She sets the plates on the table.
“Come on, sit. And don’t just stare at me like that.”

He sits and they eat together quietly, the comfortable kind of quiet. After a few bites, Aizawa murmurs, “…It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten like this.”

Nozomi pauses, chopsticks halfway to her mouth. “Oh. I… I’m glad I could do it for you, then.”

He watches her, eyes slightly softened.
“You’re good at taking care of people.”

She nudges his foot under the table. “So are you. But someone needs to look after you, too.”

His eyes drop to her shoulder—the one bare beneath his shirt. He clears his throat. “About last night…”

Her cheeks color. “Mm?”

He reaches out, gently brushing a stray hair from her cheek, fingers lingering longer than necessary. “We’ll take it slow,” he says quietly. “But I meant what I said.”

Her heartbeat jumps. “What part?”

He leans in just an inch— not kissing her,
but making her breath catch. “The part where I said I wanted you.”

She swallows hard. “Good… because I want you too.”

His thumb grazes her jaw— a touch that isn’t quite a kiss but comes dangerously close. “Finish breakfast,” he murmurs, voice low. “If I kiss you now, it’s not going to stay innocent.”

She flushes, heat rushing right to her core.
“…Then maybe don’t finish breakfast,” she whispers.

He exhales sharply. “Don’t tempt me.” But he’s smiling— softly, finally, like a man who realizes he’s allowed to have something gentle.

Chapter Text

On the 20th of August Class 1-A gathers in front of Heights Alliance, buzzing even though the August heat is sticky and relentless. The dorms tower above them—sleek, brand new, and absurdly impressive for something built in only three days.

Aizawa stands in front with his usual slouch.

Nozomi stands beside him—hands behind her back, posture casual, eyes warm as she watches the kids chatter.

“Alright, brats. Listen up,” Aizawa deadpans.

The class snaps to attention.

Nozomi smirks softly. They still respond to him like scared kittens, she thinks.

Aizawa continues, “Before you get excited about the shiny new building, we need to address something that many of you apparently forgot.”

Immediately everyone tenses.

Nozomi glances sideways at him. “You’re starting with the scolding? Really? Couldn’t let them enjoy the view for five seconds?”

“I’ll let them enjoy it after they remember they’re not licensed heroes,” he mutters back.

“Nozomi-sensei, save us…” Mina whispers dramatically.

Nozomi smiles kindly. “I can’t save you from the truth.”

Aizawa clears his throat. “At the training camp, you were supposed to take your Provisional Hero License test. Thanks to the attack, you didn’t. Meaning none of you have licenses.”

The class collectively stiffens.

“And despite that,” Aizawa continues, eyes narrowing, “a few of you decided to act like you did.”

He calls the names—Todoroki, Kirishima, Midoriya, Yaoyorozu, Iida.
Everyone gasps.

Nozomi looks over the five with a soft, tired exhale. “Honestly, I’m impressed you pulled it off without dying. But also—don’t ever do it again.”

“It was reckless,” Aizawa adds.

“It was very reckless,” Nozomi chimes in.

Aizawa shoots her a faint look. “You’re not helping.”

“They need the emotional weight,” she shrugs.

He turns back to the class. “You acted without permission. If All Might hadn’t retired during the incident… with the exceptions of Bakugou, Hagakure, and Jirou—I would have expelled every one of you.”

The room drops into stunned silence.

Nozomi folds her arms gently. “But… you’re here. All of you. And that means you still have a chance to earn our trust back.”

Aizawa nods. “Exactly. Follow the correct procedures next time.”

The mood grows heavy. The guilt settles hard.

Then—

Bakugou stands up without a word, grabs Kaminari by the back of the collar, and forces a spark out of him.

Kaminari immediately fries his own brain.
“WHEEEEEE~” Kaminari chirps, eyes swirled.

The tension shatters.

Jirou chokes on a laugh.
Mina bursts out giggling.
Even Todoroki’s mouth twitches.

Aizawa sighs. “Of course this is how they cope.”

Nozomi leans toward him. “Better than crying.”

Bakugou tosses money at Kirishima with a grunt. “For the crap you bought to stalk me. Pay it back.”

“No way— we were rescuing you!” Kirishima argues, flustered.

“That’s worse,” Aizawa mutters under his breath.

Nozomi snickers. “He’s saying he didn’t need rescuing.”

Aizawa gives her a side-eye. “Don’t translate Bakugou.”

“I’m bilingual in teenage gremlin,” she whispers conspiratorially.

The class dissolves into chatter again—Kirishima promising barbecue as apology, Mina already planning the menu, Midoriya freaking out quietly in the corner.

Only when the energy resets does Aizawa gesture to the towering building behind them. “Alright. Now that you’re all feeling less like criminals… let me show you your new home.”

Class 1-A rushes toward the dorm in a stampede.

Nozomi calls after them, “Don’t break the doors! They were expensive!”

“Three days,” Aizawa mutters, rubbing his temples. “Nezu really pushed construction workers into overtime.”

“Be grateful he didn’t make you help build it,” Nozomi teases.

“I would have quit.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

He glances down at her with a faint smirk—barely there, but real. “That obvious?”

“To me? Always.”

Inside, the kids explode with excitement—touring the common space, racing toward the baths, shouting about the laundry machines like they’re some kind of miracle.

Aizawa watches them with a look Nozomi remembers well from their own days at UA: exhausted affection.

She nudges his arm lightly. “See? They’re already feeling better.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t ‘hm’ me. You did good.”

He exhales slowly. “Maybe.”

She tilts her head. “We survived worse when we were their age.”

“Yes,” he says dryly. “But we had fewer gremlins.”

“The hell we did,” she laughs.

Aizawa almost smiles. “Fine. We were the gremlins.”

“Exactly,” she beams. “So we’ll manage these ones too.”

He looks over the noisy, chaotic class.
“…Yeah. We will.”

The moment Aizawa dismisses them to unpack, Class 1-A explodes into motion like a flock of particularly excitable pigeons.

Doors slam. Laughter echoes. Someone (likely Kaminari) shouts, “SHOTGUN THE ROOM WITH THE BIGGEST WINDOW!” followed by Iida yelling about fair and proper room allocation procedures.

Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose.
Nozomi bites back a laugh. “Three years,” she murmurs. “Think you’ll survive?”

“Barely,” he says, deadpan. “If I disappear, tell the staff I died doing my duty.”

“You mean ‘smothered by noise.’”

“…That too.”

Once everyone has dumped their luggage and done the lightning-fast teenager version of unpacking (read: throwing clothes into drawers and calling it “orderly”), they regroup in the first-floor common space.

Sero is practically vibrating. “Sensei, can we explore now?”

Aizawa sighs. “You’re going to do it anyway.”

“THAT’S A YES,” Mina declares, already dragging Jirou toward the dining area.

Nozomi falls into step beside Aizawa as they follow the herd — more like supervise, but “follow” sounds nicer.

The dining hall is massive, bright, and open. A long communal table dominates the center.

Mina gasps. “Look how big this is! It’s like a banquet hall!”

Sato is already examining the kitchen corner. “The stove is huge. I could bake so much here.”

“Please don’t burn the dorm down,” Aizawa reminds, monotone.

“Sir,” Kaminari calls, “can we, like… cook late at night?”

“No,” Aizawa answers instantly.

Nozomi gives him a gentle elbow. “Maybe within reason,” she adds, “if you clean up after yourselves.”

The class cheers.

Aizawa gives her a betrayed look.

“What?” she whispers. “You’re too strict on day one.”

“Day one is the best time to be strict.”

The next stop is the laundry area.
Ochaco stares at the multiple washing machines like she’s seeing heaven. “There are so many… We won’t have to fight for turns anymore!”

Bakugou scoffs. “If any of you mix your laundry with mine I’ll blow you up.”

“See?” Aizawa mutters. “Strictness is contagious.”

Nozomi snorts.

The baths get the biggest uproar. Huge communal areas separated by gender, sleek tile, steam room capability — way nicer than anything these kids have used before.

Kirishima whistles. “Man, this is like a resort!”

Mineta looks like he’s ascending to an unholy plane of existence until Aizawa grabs him by the collar mid-thought.
“No,” Aizawa says simply. “Whatever it is: no.”

Nozomi pats Aizawa’s arm approvingly.

In the common room is where they really start to buzz — couches, a giant TV, game consoles, bookshelves, tables for studying, soft lighting.

Midoriya’s eyes sparkle. “It’s amazing…”
“And it’s all ours for three years…”

Yaoyorozu smiles softly.

A warmth settles over the entire class.
A sense of home.

Aizawa feels it too, though he hides it well.
Nozomi catches the slight softening at the corner of his mouth. She leans in slightly. “You’re proud,” she teases gently.

“I’m relieved,” he replies. “They need this.”

“And you deserve a space like this too,” she says before thinking.

He glances at her — something quiet, unreadable, but not unpleasant.

Then Kaminari trips over the rug and faceplants, and the moment evaporates.

“Hey!” Mina claps her hands. “We should have a competition!”

Sero nods vigorously. “Yes!! Room showdown! Winner gets bragging rights!”

A chorus of WE’RE IN!!! echoes.

Aizawa groans under his breath.

Nozomi grins. “You have to admit, that’s kind of cute.”

“It’s chaos,” he counters.

“But controlled chaos.”

“…I’ll allow it,” he sighs.

And that is how Class 1-A officially begins their life in Heights Alliance — with laughter, excitement, and a general sense of warmth filling every corner.

Nozomi sneaks a look at the building around them, then at Aizawa.

Three years here. With these kids. And… with him. Yeah. This place already feels like a home.

A minute later it happens completely by accident.

Everyone is mid-Room King competition preparations — rooms being decorated, cleaned, rearranged, scented, sparkling — when Sero suddenly pauses at the first-floor teacher suite door.

“…Wait.”

He looks around.
Back at the door.
Back at his classmates.

“This is just one room.”

Mina freezes.
“ONE room??”

Iida adjusts his glasses. “Naturally, there would be one dedicated suite for the homeroom teacher—”

“But Nozomi-sensei lives here too now! Wait, doesn't she??” Mina cries, confused.

The entire class gasps as one.

Yaoyorozu blinks. “Wait. You’re right. Where is her room?”

Everyone slowly turns to stare at the single teacher apartment door like it personally offended them.

Mineta whispers: “…Is she supposed to sleep in the hallway…?”

Twenty-four teenagers: “NO.”

Aizawa and Nozomi arrive at the bottom of the stairs just in time to witness the uprising.

Mina launches herself forward, eyes blazing like a revolutionary leader.
“Sensei. We have a PROBLEM.”

Aizawa raises a brow. “…Already?”

Jirou points at the door. “There’s only one teacher room.”

Kirishima: “But Nozomi-sensei also lives here now!”

Tokoyami steps forward like a doom prophet. “The shadows whisper of injustice.”

Nozomi blinks. “I—I wasn’t expecting a room? That room is for the class homeroom teacher, it's designed like that in all the dorms.”

“NOZOMI-SENSEI, YOU HAVE TO STAY! AND YOU DESERVE COMFORT!” Mina practically screams.

Iida does a dramatic karate chop in the air.
“It is UNACCEPTABLE for faculty to lack proper lodging!”

Midoriya is mumbling a mile a minute:
“Senseiworksalldayandgetshomeatmidnightandifthere’snotaroomthenshehastotravelandthenthat’sdangerousand—”

Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose. “They’re spiraling,” he mutters.

Nozomi whispers back, amused, “They’re sweet.”

“They’re loud.” Aizawa argues.

“They’re your class.” Nozomi points out.

A beat.

He sighs. “Unfortunately.”

The class circles Aizawa like a pack of dramatic, imploring puppies.

Mina clasps her hands. “Please let her stay with you!! You have a big suite, right?!”

Sero adds, “It’s only logical.”

Ojiro nods. “And safer.”

Kirishima beams. “And MANLY!”

Aizawa deadpans, “We are not discussing my living arrangements in front of the entire class.”

But Nozomi sees it: The moment the kids start to genuinely worry about her commute, their safety, the late hours, the villains targeting teachers…

Aizawa caves internally. Reluctantly, softly, with a sigh of defeat: “…Fine.”

The class erupts like they just won the sports festival.

Five minutes later, Aizawa calls Nedzu on speakerphone.

Bad idea.

Class 1-A hovers around like nosy gremlins.

Aizawa: “Nedzu. There’s an issue with faculty room allocation.”

Nezu’s voice comes through cheerfully:
“Oh! You mean Nozomi-sensei discovering she doesn’t have a room?”

Twenty-four students gasp. “He KNEW!”

Aizawa narrows his eyes. “Nedzu.”

“Consider it… an opportunity,” the principal purrs.

“For what,” Aizawa asks flatly.

“For fostering strong cooperation between co-teachers! Isn’t sharing living space an excellent team-building exercise?”

Aizawa glares. Nozomi turns pink.

Nedzu adds innocently: “You have my full support. The suite is large enough for two professionals.”

Then hangs up before Aizawa can argue.

Mina screams. “MISCHIEVOUS LITTLE GENIUS CREATURE— I LOVE HIM.”

Aizawa contemplates retirement.

The class, vibrating with excitement, pushes them toward the teacher apartment.

Aizawa opens the door and they step in. It’s… surprisingly spacious.

The apartment is small but functional: a combined living room and kitchenette, a single bedroom with a modest bed, a small desk in the corner, and a shared bathroom just off the main space. The decor is minimal—neutral tones, a single potted plant, papers neatly stacked, and a few coffee mugs.

Nozomi steps inside, quietly taking it all in.
“…This is… cozy,” she murmurs, half to herself.

Aizawa rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes flicking toward the bedroom. “I usually just… use the space. You can—uh—take whatever you need,” he mutters, stiff but careful.

She glances at the small bed, then at the narrow desk. “…We’ll manage,” she says softly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

The quiet moment between them stretches just long enough for them to notice each other—small, lingering glances, the warmth of shared space, the faint thrum of familiarity—but then the door knocks echo from the hallway.

Class 1-A has somehow caught wind of the situation, and there’s a muffled chorus of “WHAT?!” and “No way!” outside.

Aizawa sighs, closing the door quickly.
“Not a word,” he mutters, voice low, though his ears betray a hint of red.

Later, the dorm is finally quiet.

Nozomi emerges from the tiny kitchenette in an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair loose over her shoulders. She carries a mug of tea, inhaling the faint warmth.

Aizawa sits on the edge of the bed, papers spread out on the small desk, glasses sliding low on his nose. His hair, loosened from its usual tied-up style, brushes his collar.

They glance at each other. The room is small enough that every movement feels shared, intimate in its domestic simplicity. No tension—just quiet awareness of one another.

Nozomi sets the tea down beside the desk and perches on the edge of the bed. Their shoulders brush lightly as she moves, almost accidental, almost electric.

Aizawa glances at the mug. “Chamomile?” he asks.

She nods. “Helps me unwind.”

“…Good. Long day,” he mutters, voice softer than usual.

They work side by side in silence, the occasional brush of arms sending an unnoticed charge between them. Around midnight, Nozomi stretches and yawns.

Aizawa stands, straightening, then glances at her. “You should sleep. It’ll be crowded in the morning,” he says, the words casual but carrying a quiet care.

“Right,” she murmurs, eyes soft. “Goodnight, Shota.”

He freezes, just slightly, at the use of his first name. “…Goodnight,” he replies, voice even, but his gaze lingers as she slips under the covers.

Closing his own eyes that night, the small apartment suddenly feels less like a place of work and more like a home. For the first time in years, he doesn’t dread being here.

Aizawa and Nozomi exit the teacher suite together at 7:00 AM.

Big mistake.

The class is waiting.

Mina SCREECHES. “THEY CAME OUT OF THE SAME APARTMENT—”

Aizawa: “We share a professional living space—”

Mina: “PROFESSIONALLY SHARING A HOME??”

Sero fans her. “She’s going to pass out—”

Kirishima is crying because he thinks they’re “bonding manfully.”

Midoriya is mumbling relationship analysis theories.

Uraraka whispers, “This is just like those slow-burn dramas…”

Aizawa looks directly at Nozomi. “…This is your fault.”

She smiles, completely unrepentant. “My fault? You agreed.”

He groans. The class screams. And that’s how their shared living arrangement officially begins.

Chapter Text

The next day, Class 1-A gathers in their classroom, buzzing with excitement about the new school year and the opportunity to earn their Provisional Hero Licenses.

Aizawa stands at the front, expression neutral, while Nozomi quietly observes from the side, taking mental notes on each student’s posture and energy.

“Our first objective is earning your Provisional Hero Licenses,” Aizawa begins. “These licenses grant you permission to intervene directly when people’s lives are at stake. The exam has less than a five percent pass rate, so your training must be thorough.”

Nozomi steps forward slightly, her voice calm but warm. “We’ll be assisting you as well. Think of this as an opportunity to truly understand the strengths and limitations of your Quirks.” Some of the students glance at her, impressed that a teacher so new (3 months here now) is already providing guidance.

Aizawa continues, “To prepare for the Provisional Hero License Exam, you will each develop at least two signature special moves that you can rely on in combat. Cementoss, Ectoplasm, and Midnight are here to help.” The class erupts into murmurs of excitement, students immediately discussing ideas with each other.

When the students change into their Hero Costumes and meet at Gym Gamma, Nozomi walks alongside Aizawa, keeping a watchful eye. She smiles faintly when she sees the students’ eagerness—it reminds her of her own first days at UA.

“Remember,” she calls, “special moves aren’t just about offense. They should reflect your style, your strengths, and your instincts in battle.”

Cementoss demonstrates by shaping the gym terrain, explaining how he can adjust it to suit each student’s training needs. Iida raises his hand, asking why special moves are necessary.

“Special moves give you an advantage in battle,” Aizawa replies. “They test your aptitude for mobility, judgment, leadership, and information gathering. Most importantly, they show how you handle combat under pressure.”

Ectoplasm steps in with examples, showing Iida’s Recipro Burst and Kamui Woods’ Lacquered Chain Prison. “A good special move isn’t just about attacking,” Ectoplasm says. “It’s about control and strategy.”

Nozomi observes quietly, nodding along. “Even a move that doesn’t deal damage can be decisive. Use your abilities to create opportunities, not just attacks,” she adds. Several students glance at her, impressed by how insightful her guidance is, despite being a new teacher.

Aizawa then directs the class to the prepared terrain. Ectoplasm creates multiple clones of himself for sparring, and Class 1-A begins their training.

Nozomi moves among the students, offering subtle advice, adjusting stances, or helping them understand how their moves could flow naturally in combat. She pauses at Bakugou, who frowns at her corrections but grudgingly follows her tips, and then at Midoriya, whose enthusiasm makes her smile softly.

Even as the students push themselves, she allows herself a small moment to reflect on her own Quirk. Watching them, seeing their determination, she feels the motivation stirring within her. She glances at Aizawa, who keeps a neutral watch, and wonders briefly if he notices the same spark she feels in the students’ drive.

Later that night the dorms are quiet. The students are asleep, their rooms dimly lit with the soft glow of night lights. Nozomi moves silently through the hallways, sneakers whispering against the polished floors. Gym Gamma lies ahead, empty and still except for the faint hum of the emergency lights.

She pauses at the doorway, taking a steadying breath. Watching Class 1-A push themselves today… it’s reminded her why she needs to push herself, too. She wasn’t here to show off—tonight is just practice.

Inside, she raises her hands. Stars embedded along her skin—fingertips to elbows, toes to knees—flicker softly, mirroring the quickening rhythm of her heartbeat.

She summons a small black hole in her palm, no bigger than her hand, and tosses it toward the far wall. It hovers, swirling briefly before vanishing safely, pulling only the air around it.

Her lips twitch into a small smile. Next, she conjures a tiny sun, the brightness blinding even her momentarily, then flings it, watching it arc through the air and vanish before it can burn anything.

Her confidence grows, each summon sharper, faster, more precise. Moons and stars follow, each moving like tiny projectiles, testing distance, trajectory, and control.

A faint sound makes her freeze—a chair scraping, a shadow shifting.

“You’re up late,” Aizawa’s calm voice says from the doorway. His towel hangs loosely over his shoulder, dark eyes unreadable.

Nozomi freezes, her hand still raised as the final star fizzles out in the air. “I… I just wanted to practice a little,” she admits. “Seeing the students today… they reminded me why I need to push myself.”

Aizawa steps closer, silently observing. His gaze flickers briefly to the faint glow of stars along her arms and knees, recognizing both the aesthetic and her latent potential. “Show me,” he says evenly. “I can help.”

Her shoulders relax, and she raises her palms again. Black hole, sun, moon, star—each appears in turn, hovering in her hands before she tosses it with controlled force.

Aizawa watches, occasionally stepping in to adjust her stance or her throw, offering quiet, precise corrections. “This one,” he says, indicating the arc of a black hole she threw, “slightly higher. Control the spin—it affects the pull.”

She nods, letting the next one soar, her confidence growing. “I… didn’t really train this properly at UA,” she says softly. “I went to university afterward, studied astronomy and astrology … but watching them today, I realized there’s still so much I can do.”

Aizawa doesn’t answer, simply gestures for her to repeat a throw. She complies, tossing another miniature sun, then a moon, refining her control.

Minutes pass. The night stretches around them, filled with the hum of her Quirk and the quiet precision of his guidance. When she finally lets her Quirk dissipate, her hands are tingling, her hair damp with sweat. She wipes her palms on her shorts and glances at him.

“Thank you,” she whispers, a faint smile on her lips.

He inclines his head slightly, voice even. “Don’t stop here.”

She returns the smile, feeling a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. “I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Nozomi stands quietly near the edge of Class 1-A’s huddle, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket. She watches her students, sensing their nerves and excitement, and feels that familiar swell of pride.

Even after all these months, she still marvels at how much they’ve grown. Her galaxy-patterned skin faintly shimmers where the sleeves of her jacket have slipped, a subtle reflection of the sun.

Aizawa’s voice cuts through the murmurs, steady and calm. “Remember your training. Focus on your strategy and your partners. Do not underestimate the other schools.”

The students nod, their tension palpable, when a sudden burst of energy interrupts them. Inasa Yoarashi crashes into their huddle, bowing with exaggerated vigor, his head smacking the ground hard enough to draw a wince from several students. Mina gasps audibly, while Kaminari leans back in shock. Even Bakugou scowls, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Inasa lifts his head, grinning broadly despite the small trickle of blood. “My apologies! I didn’t mean to interrupt your huddle, but I wanted to wish everyone good luck!”

Nozomi’s lips twitch into a small smile at his boundless enthusiasm. She leans slightly toward Aizawa, who is observing the scene with his usual neutral expression. “He’s… intense,” she murmurs under her breath.

“Be careful,” Aizawa replies without looking at her. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scan the field. “He’s powerful. Ranked first at his entrance exam, declined U.A., but still extremely strong. Do not underestimate him.”

Nozomi nods, straightening. She feels a quiet thrill—her students will be tested against some of the best. It makes her own resolve stir. Watching Class 1-A now, seeing their courage and teamwork, she feels a twinge of motivation to train more herself. Perhaps tonight, after the exam, she’ll test her Quirk in the empty training grounds…

Meanwhile, Class 1-A murmurs among themselves about Inasa’s odd behavior, with Sero asking why anyone would decline U.A., while Yaoyorozu whispers about his potential strategies.

Nozomi watches, her gaze softening as she takes in their camaraderie and determination.

Aizawa’s glance briefly flicks to her, a silent acknowledgment that she’ll need to stay alert. No words are exchanged, but the mutual understanding is clear: today, they all have a role to play—not just the students.

Suddenly a familiar, teasing voice rings out.
“Shota! It’s been ages!”

Nozomi stiffens immediately at the sound. She doesn’t even need to see the speaker—her instincts flare. That voice belongs to the infamous “Smile Hero,” Ms. Joke.

Back in their UA days, she and Nozomi had competed for Aizawa’s attention, and hearing her now makes her blood simmer.

Aizawa’s expression remains stoic, unreadable, as if the years have only sharpened his indifference. Ms. Joke, however, is all bright energy, striding up with her usual mischievous grin.

“Oh, come on, Shota,” she teases, nudging him lightly. “You’re just going to let me walk by without proposing already? I’ve waited long enough!”

Aizawa doesn’t even flinch. His monotone response is a blade in contrast to her grin.
“I’m not marrying you.”

Nozomi, standing just behind him, suppresses a sharp laugh, her fists curling at her sides. The audacity of Ms. Joke. The memory of those endless, irritating competitions back at UA flickers in her mind, and her glare could probably cut steel.

“Now, now,” Ms. Joke coos, stepping closer to Aizawa, “don’t be so cold. You always were such a hard one to crack.” Her Quirk hums in the air—a subtle tingle as she radiates that infectious energy.

Nozomi feels a tickle at the corner of her mind as she keeps herself rigid, glaring daggers at the intruder.

Tsuyu, watching from the sidelines, tilts her head. “They seem… close,” she murmurs.

“Oh, we’ve been coworkers,” Ms. Joke explains, waving a hand as if to dismiss everything serious. “We used to help each other with trouble at work all the time. That’s why he’s… well, familiar to me.”

Aizawa gives a rare sharp glance, dismissing the implication. “Familiar. Nothing else.”

Nozomi’s eyes narrow. Her chest rises slightly with a mix of irritation and suppressed competitiveness. Ms. Joke seems to notice her finally. Her gaze slides to the new teacher standing next to the stoic pro hero, and her grin widens like a shark smelling blood.

“Well, well,” Ms. Joke says, stepping up, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Her posture is imposing, her curves pressing forward slightly as if daring a challenge. Nozomi mirrors her, folding her own arms, their chests colliding in a comically dramatic harem-style face-off.

Aizawa, normally all restraint, lets his eyes flicker for just a moment—subtle, unspoken acknowledgment of the absurdity of the standoff.

The two women remain locked, chest to chest, arms crossed, unspoken tension thick in the air. Ms. Joke radiates playful chaos; Nozomi radiates controlled fire.

Aizawa, as always, silently observes, eyes calm yet darting between them, just enough to note the ridiculousness without intervening.

From a few meters away, Class 1-A has noticed the escalating standoff. Mina, ever the dramatic one, whips out a pair of sunglasses she “just happened to have,” watching the teacher face-off.

“OH MY GOD,” Mina whispers, her voice high-pitched. “Nozomi-sensei and Ms. Joke are literally boob-to-boob!”

Hagakure, floating nearby, giggles, “Wow… they’re huge!” before leaning over to peek herself. Her visibility quirk causes her to shimmer almost invisibly, which makes the spying slightly more effective.

Todoroki frowns, tilting his head. “Why are you two staring at the teachers like that?”

“It’s… scientific research,” Mina insists, waving the sunglasses vaguely. “We’re analyzing, uh, battle readiness post-emotional confrontation!”

Kaminari snickers and leans toward Sero. “She’s totally gonna explode if they touch. I mean, literally!”

Meanwhile, Bakugou is cackling and nudges Kirishima. “Bet Nozomi-sensei could take her in a fight. Not that she’d ever need to, but… look at that.” He points, laughter dripping from his voice.

Inside the standoff, Nozomi and Ms. Joke both stiffen slightly as their arms brush—an accidental touch that sends a subtle shiver through both of them.

Ms. Joke grins, clearly enjoying the game, while Nozomi suppresses a blush, eyes narrowing with a mix of challenge and amusement.

Aizawa, hands in pockets, lets out a faint sigh and mutters under his breath, “…children.”

Mina squeals into the binoculars. “Oh my god, I think she blushed! Did you see that?!”

Jirou, headphones on, simply shakes her head, earbuds rattling. “Honestly, they’re acting like students themselves.”

Finally, Ms. Joke steps back slightly, giving Nozomi a mock bow. “Well, I’ll let you have this round, newbie. For now.”

Nozomi flips her hair, sharp and precise. “Next time, don’t expect mercy.”

The students erupt in whispered commentary, snickers, and low-key cheering. Even Bakugou is grinning in spite of himself. Aizawa just closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing his temple, wishing he could erase everyone from existence simultaneously.

From the sidelines, Todoroki mutters to Midoriya, “Why do I feel like this is going to be a regular occurrence?”

Next to him Midoriya can only nod, eyes wide, already imagining the inevitable future standoffs.

Meanwhile, Nozomi and Ms. Joke finally straighten, a mutual respect—or at least understanding—passing between them, as if the ridiculousness itself was enough to defuse the tension.

But Mina isn’t done. She presses her sunglasses to her face again, muttering, “This is way better than any simulation combat training we’ve done…”

Hagakure floats closer, giggling, and Todoroki just groans. The battle of the teachers has officially begun—and Class 1-A is here for all of it.

Once inside the stadium the exam is explained and it starts immediately. Class 1-A are targets now, again.

From the bleachers, Nozomi watches the sprawling stadium below, her arms crossed as her jaw tightens. She’s trying very hard not to glare at Ms. Joke, who is leaning just a little too close to Aizawa, her presence a constant, teasing shadow beside him. The heroine’s teal hair bounces slightly as she shifts, her large chest pressing into Aizawa’s side at a ridiculous angle.

Nozomi’s patience wanes. “…Seriously,” she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for Aizawa to hear, though he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Aizawa, meanwhile, shifts slightly, trying not to notice—or react to—their respective body contact. He adjusts his glasses, already feeling the faintest twinge of heat in his ears. “Keep your distance,” he mutters, not moving. Ms. Joke laughs, clearly amused.

“Don’t be so cold, Shota,” she teases, nudging him again. “You let your students go through all that, and now you’re all stiff about me?”

Nozomi narrows her eyes. She leans a fraction closer, her own chest pressing against the other side of his arm, a silent challenge. “At least my concern comes with effort,” she says quietly, her voice low, calm, but sharp.

Aizawa’s expression remains impassive, but inside, it’s a battle of focus versus the absurdity of the situation. He doesn’t comment, instead scanning the field below where the 1540 examinees begin to line up for the preliminary round.

Ms. Joke glances down at the crowd, still smirking. “You really do care for them, don’t you? I never expected this from Eraser Head.”

Nozomi’s lip quirks up into a small smirk. “Care? That’s one way to put it,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking toward Aizawa. “But it’s not just about them… I think you enjoy seeing them reach their limits.”

Aizawa finally allows a small exhale. “They need to understand consequences,” he says flatly, though his eyes linger on the students below—focused, determined, preparing to push themselves in a way only heroes in training could.

The tension between the two women is electric, yet neither moves away. Instead, they continue their quiet, pointed standoff, each fully aware of the other’s proximity, while Aizawa stands like a straight line between them, stoic and impossibly calm, though his ears betray him slightly.

The preliminary round begins, balls in hand, and the students dash into the stadium’s varied terrain. Nozomi’s attention flicks to her class, watching their movements, timing, and strategies. For all the ridiculous energy between herself, Ms. Joke, and Aizawa, her mind is drawn to the students, quietly proud of how far they’ve come.

And Aizawa, silently observing, finds his focus divided: one half on the chaos below, the other half keenly aware of the constant push-and-pull beside him.

Neither woman seems to notice—or care—that he’s stuck squarely in the middle.

The examinees finish being tended to their injuries and change back into their school uniforms. Class 1-A gathers near the large screen set up in the stadium.

Nozomi stands slightly apart, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, watching the students with quiet attentiveness.

Beside her, Aizawa maintains his usual stoic composure, but Nozomi notices a subtle tension in his shoulders as he surveys his students.

Yokumiru Mera steps forward, thanking everyone for their effort. He explains that HUC members and his colleagues have carefully reviewed the conduct and performance of each examinee during crisis situations. “The results,” he says, “will be displayed in alphabetical order on the screen behind me.”

The large screen flickers to life, listing the names of the successful examinees. The crowd murmurs and shifts as each student scans for their own name. Midoriya’s eyes widen in disbelief when he sees his own name. His mouth opens, but no words come out at first. Beside him, Inasa frowns, already expecting his absence on the list. Todoroki’s expression remains solemn, as if he already understands why he isn’t on the screen.

Class 1-A erupts in a mixture of cheers and gasps. All of them have passed—except for Bakugou and Todoroki. Bakugou’s jaw tightens, and his anger is immediate, his fists clenching at his sides. Todoroki simply stays silent, his eyes on the floor, knowing the reason behind his failure.

Midoriya and Yaoyorozu approach him, offering quiet words of consolation.

Nozomi steps a little closer to Aizawa. “They all worked so hard,” she murmurs softly, watching her students celebrate. Her voice carries a warmth that even Aizawa can’t ignore. He glances at her briefly, just long enough to acknowledge the truth in her words, before turning his gaze back to the students.

Yokumiru begins distributing sheets detailing the students’ scores and performance. The point reduction system used to tally results is explained again, though Midoriya tilts his head, still confused about why students under fifty points weren’t removed immediately during the exam. Yokumiru congratulates those who passed, explaining that their Provisional Hero Licenses now grant them the authority of a professional hero. “This authority,” he adds, “does not make you true heroes. You must continue learning and developing until graduation to truly uphold what All Might built.”

Turning to the failed examinees, Yokumiru’s tone softens slightly. “Do not be discouraged. A special training course in March will give you the chance to rectify your mistakes, and you may even surpass those who passed today. You will be given another opportunity to take the exam in April if you choose.”

Nozomi’s gaze drifts over to Todoroki and Bakugou. She steps closer, offering a gentle nod toward Aizawa, who gives a subtle, almost imperceptible nod back.

Later that night the clock on Aizawa’s wall blinks 23:48 in soft red light. Most students are asleep, exhausted from the earlier Provisional Hero License Exam.

Papers are spread across the low coffee table. Two mugs of tea sit beside them—his long forgotten, hers half-empty.

Aizawa sits cross-legged on the couch, hair down, glasses slipping low on his nose, wearing his loose black shirt and sleep pants. His posture is relaxed, shoulders slouched with exhaustion… but he looks oddly peaceful.

Across from him, stretched sideways on the floor with her legs swaying lazily, Nozomi grades her own stack of reports — wearing one of his shirts. It hangs off one shoulder, barely reaching her mid-thigh.

She pretends to be focused on the paper in her hands.

He pretends he hasn’t been glancing at her every thirty seconds.

Aizawa clears his throat softly. “You took another one.”

She doesn’t look up. “Did I?”

“That’s my good shirt.”

She taps her pen against her lips, deadpan.
“Should’ve hidden it better.”

His eye twitches — just a little. She catches it and hides her smile.

Just as Aizawa reaches for another paper, a sharp beep echoes from the wall screen. A red alert flashes.

“Security Alert: Student Quirk Discharge — High Intensity. Location: Ground Beta. Subjects: Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou Katsuki.”

Aizawa is on his feet instantly.

The shift is immediate — teacher mode slamming into place like a steel door. Hair swinging, eyes sharp, shoulders squared.
“Nozomi. Stay here.”

She rises too. “Shota—”

But before he even makes it to the door, another voice cuts him off: “Hold on, Aizawa.”

Standing in the doorway is All Might, thin and gaunt in his weakened form, breathing heavily but steady. The dim apartment lighting makes the hollows of his cheeks even deeper.

Aizawa stiffens. “All Might?”

All Might lifts a hand. “Let me go.”

Aizawa’s jaw clenches, irritation flashing in his eyes. “They’re my responsibility. And those two—”

“All the more reason I should be the one to confront them.” All Might steps closer, gaze firm but pleading. “It’s my burden to settle.”

The air goes quiet.

Nozomi watches Aizawa’s shoulders tense, the conflict in him is obvious. Responsibility. Pride. Fear for his students. The weight of everything after Kamino still heavy on him. Her hand gently touches his arm. Soft. Grounding. He exhales slowly.

All Might nods, grateful, and slips past him toward the door. Aizawa watches him go, expression unreadable.

When the door slides shut again, silence settles. Nozomi steps closer. “You okay?”

Aizawa runs a hand over his face. “Those two… they’re going to tear each other apart one day.” He sighs, exhausted. “I should’ve gone.”

“Shota.” She nudges his shoulder lightly. “Let Toshinori carry this one.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer.
Then he lets himself lean, just a fraction, into her touch. “…I hate this feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“Being helpless.”

Her hand slides down his arm, fingers brushing his wrist in a slow, comforting sweep. “You’re not helpless. You’re resting. That’s allowed.”

Aizawa huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “Since when?”

“Since I said so.”

He finally meets her eyes. The weight in his expression eases just a touch. “We should finish grading.”

“Mm. And maybe drink tea that isn’t stone cold?”

“I wasn’t drinking it anyway.”

She smirks. “I noticed.”

A few minutes later Toshinori pushes open the front door of Heights Alliance with Midoriya and Bakugou trailing behind him, both looking like they’ve been chewed up and spit out.

Nozomi and Aizawa are already waiting.
The low dorm lights catch the worry on Nozomi’s face immediately. She steps toward them, voice low but sharp. “So it really was a fight.”

Aizawa gives one curt nod. “Security bot wasn’t exaggerating.”

Bakugou clicks his tongue. Midoriya wilts.
Nozomi’s expression softens only a fraction. She moves without being asked, helping Aizawa guide the two boys to sit in the common room as if they’re dealing with triage after a battlefield incident.

Aizawa starts re-checking Bakugou’s bandages; Nozomi quietly wipes dried blood from Midoriya’s jaw, her movements precise and practiced.

“You two scared half the building,” she says—not raised, not scolding, just disappointed in a way that makes Midoriya shrink more than any shout would.

Aizawa finishes securing a wrap around Bakugou’s ribs and straightens. “All Might filled me in. Doesn’t change the consequences.”

Midoriya tries to speak, but Aizawa’s gaze silences him instantly. “Who started it?”

“I did,” Bakugou answers immediately, eyes hard but honest. “Hit him first.”

“And I… hit back,” Midoriya says, swallowing.

Aizawa lets out a long, tired exhale.
“Midoriya: three days house arrest. Bakugou: four. You’ll clean common areas twice a day, and you’ll write a full reflective statement.”

Bakugou’s jaw clenches. Midoriya nods miserably.

“If you’re in real pain, go to the infirmary. Do not rely on Recovery Girl unless necessary.” Nozomi steps back, arms folding. Her gaze sweeps over them with a mixture of concern and disappointment.

Aizawa closes it with a firm: “Go. Bed. Now.”

The boys limp toward the elevators, heads low, leaving silence behind them.

Aizawa rubs his forehead, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. Nozomi watches him, softening again now that the crisis is over.

“You handled it,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “Better than last year’s teachers would’ve.”

“That isn’t a compliment,” he mutters, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

Nozomi nudges his elbow. “Come on. Papers aren’t grading themselves. And you still owe me tea.”

He lets out a tired sigh. “Right. Tea.”

They head back into their shared apartment. She tugs the hem of the shirt she’s stolen from him, and he eyes her in that way he always does—half exhausted, half smitten, wholly defeated by her. The door closes softly behind them, the long night finally easing into quiet.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the truth spreads through Class 1-A faster than any rumor ever has.

Midoriya and Bakugou fought.

The two of them are currently under house arrest, sentenced to clean the dormitory from top to bottom. From the common room windows, their classmates can see them scrubbing the floors in stiff, miserable silence.

Uraraka presses her hands together anxiously. “So… did you guys make up?” she asks softly.

Midoriya pauses in his cleaning, sweat on his brow. His eyes flick briefly toward Bakugou, who pointedly refuses to look back.

“It’s… hard to put into words,” Midoriya admits with a weak, uncertain smile.

Iida adjusts his glasses, trying to keep a neutral tone despite his relief. “At the very least, house arrest is a light punishment compared to what could have happened. And the rest of us will still attend the opening ceremony.”

Todoroki turns to Bakugou. “What are you going to do about the Provisional License supplementary lessons?”

Bakugou clicks his tongue sharply. “None of your damn business.”

The tension lingers in the air even as the others prepare to depart.

Outside, Iida takes charge immediately. “Everyone, please stay in formation and do not fall behind!”

As Class 1-A moves across campus, a familiar smug voice cuts through the orderly atmosphere.

“Well, well. Losing two students right at the finish line, Class 1-A?” Monoma of Class 1-B strolls alongside them with his usual infuriating grin.

Kirishima frowns. “Did anyone from 1-B fail?”

Monoma laughs loudly, dramatically. “Fail? Not a single one. Every last student in Class 1-B passed.”

Behind him, his classmates beam with pride.

Todoroki lowers his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I let everyone down.”

Kirishima immediately shakes his head. “Don’t say that. You did your best. That’s what matters.”

Pony Tsunotori, walking with 1-B, tilts her head. “According to Kan-sensei, second semester, our classes will be training together.”

Kaminari squints at her. “Whoa… you’re really a foreigner, huh?”

Pony bristles instantly, misunderstanding his tone thanks to Monoma’s influence. Her reply comes out clipped and defensive, prompting Kendo to smack Monoma across the back of the head. “This is your fault!”

A sharp, no-nonsense voice interrupts the growing noise. “You’re blocking the path.”

Everyone turns.

Hitoshi Shinsou walks past them, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp and focused in his new U.A.-issued uniform.

Sero watches him go with mild surprise. “Man… he’s gotten way more serious.”

The walk resumes, quieter now.

All of U.A. gathers at Ground Beta—students from every department filling the wide training field.

On the raised platform stands Principal Nezu, his presence calm but heavy with meaning.

After a brief, oddly cheerful remark about his disrupted eating habits, his tone shifts. “The reason my lifestyle has become inadequate,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, “is because of what occurred during this past summer.”

The crowd stills.

He speaks of All Might’s retirement—of how deeply it will affect society, of how the Department of Heroics will feel the impact most of all.

He turns his gaze toward the second and third years. “Those of you currently engaged in Hero Work-Studies must conduct yourselves with full awareness of the crisis we now face.”

From the staff section, Aizawa stands with his arms crossed, eyes half-lidded but fully attentive. Nozomi stands beside him, expression solemn. She watches the students—their students—with a quiet mix of worry and pride.

Nezu dips his head slightly. “I apologize for lowering the mood. But the heroes are facing this new era with everything they have.”

His small form seems to carry enormous gravity as he continues: “And we, as educators, wish for nothing more than to raise you into those who will one day take our place.”

He looks out over all departments—Heroics, Support, General Education… and even the staff. “Whether you stand on the front lines or behind the scenes, never forget this: You are the successors of Hero Society.”

Silence follows. Then resolve settles in.

From the edge of the field, Aizawa exhales slowly. Nozomi glances at him, reading the quiet tension in his shoulders. She says nothing—but her presence is steady at his side as the new semester, and a new world, begins.

The familiar scrape of Aizawa’s capture weapon against the floor signals the true start of homeroom. Class 1-A straightens almost on instinct as he stands at the front of the room, eyes half-lidded but sharp as ever.

“Starting today,” he says evenly, “we resume normal classes.”

A few groans ripple through the room.

“And don’t get comfortable,” Aizawa adds without missing a beat. “Training will be tougher than last semester.”

The groans intensify.

Tsuyu raises her hand, calm as always. “Sensei—what about Hero Work-Studies? Ribbit.”

At that, several students lean forward. Tokoyami’s shadow curls with interest. Yaoyorozu straightens in her seat. Sero perks up.

Aizawa studies them for a moment. “Hero Work-Studies are formal hero activities conducted off campus. Think of them as an upgraded, long-term version of the agency internships you did before.”

Ochaco tilts her head. “Then… what was the point of being scouted at the Sports Festival if we’d get real experience anyway?”

“Connections,” Aizawa replies simply. “The Sports Festival wasn’t about handing you jobs. It was about putting your names in the public eye. Work-Studies now operate mostly at the students’ discretion. In the past, hero offices fought over U.A. students. It became… inefficient.”

A few students blink at how casually he says that. “Now that most of you hold Provisional Licenses,” he continues, “you’re eligible for longer-term, official field work. You’ll be expected to document your experiences in detail. I’ll explain that later.”

Positive murmurs spread through the room—nervous excitement, anticipation, a few anxious laughs.

Aizawa glances at the clock. “That’s all for homeroom.” He steps aside, already turning for the door—and pauses just long enough to tilt his head toward Nozomi.
“You’re up.”

Nozomi pushes off the wall where she’d been leaning, lips curving with quiet confidence as she moves to the front. Aizawa slips out, the door sliding shut behind him.

She faces the class, arms loosely crossed. “Alright. Since you all survived the motivational speech portion of the morning—congratulations.”

Soft laughter breaks the tension immediately.

“We’ll be easing back into rhythm today,” she continues. “Light combat drills, reaction training, and Quirk control. No one’s throwing buildings. No one’s breaking limbs. Bakugou, that’s directed at you even though you’re not here.”

A few students snort.

Her gaze softens just a little. “You’ve all been through a lot. That doesn’t make you fragile. It makes you experienced. Today, we build on that—step by step.”

The room settles into focused attention.
Nozomi claps her hands once. “Now—we start with Astrology.”

As the class takes out their notes, Nozomi allows herself a small, proud smile. The rhythm of U.A. is back—and so are they.

Midoriya’s house arrest ends after three agonizingly slow days. The moment he steps back into Class 1-A, he bows so deeply it looks like his spine might snap. “I—I’m so sorry for the trouble I caused everyone!” Midoriya blurts out. His eyes flick to Iida in particular. “And Iida… I’m sorry for disappointing you.”

Iida adjusts his glasses, posture stiff as ever. For a heartbeat, the room holds its breath. Then he nods firmly. “Your actions were reckless, Midoriya, but you have reflected on them. That is what matters. I accept your apology.”

The tension eases just a little. Midoriya exhales, shoulders sagging in relief. “I’ll… I’ll bridge the gap,” he says quietly. “From the last three days. I promise.”

Before anyone can respond, the classroom door slides open. Aizawa steps inside. The room straightens instantly.

“Since everyone’s finally present,” he says flatly, scarf hanging loose around his shoulders, “we’re going to properly discuss Hero Work-Studies today. You’re not just going to hear about Work-Studies from me,” Aizawa continues. “You’ll hear it firsthand. From people with real experience.”

The door opens again. Three third-year students enter.

The first is a thin young man with shaggy black hair and pointed ears who immediately looks like he regrets every life decision that led him here. The second is a tall girl with flowing, glossy hair and an impossibly bright smile. The third is a broad-shouldered blond boy with an easy grin and confident posture.

A ripple of recognition runs through the class.

“T-The Big Three…!” someone whispers.

Aizawa gestures toward them. “These are the top three students across all of U.A.’s Hero Course. They’ll be explaining how Hero Work-Studies differ from your previous internships.”

Nozomi’s eyes flick over them with interest. “They’re even more intimidating in person,” she murmurs under her breath.

Aizawa hears and gives a faint huff that might almost be a laugh. He turns back to the third-years. “Tamaki. Start.”

The black-haired boy stiffens like he’s been sentenced. Tamaki Amajiki steps forward slowly, shoulders hunched. He lifts his head—and immediately locks eyes with the entire class. His soul visibly leaves his body.

A chill runs through 1-A at the intensity of his stare.

“…I’m Tamaki Amajiki,” he says, voice low. He seems unimpressed. Distant. Almost hostile. In reality, his mind is screaming. They’re staring. They’re judging. They’re definitely judging. Turn them into potatoes. Turn them into potatoes— He tries. It doesn’t work. They’re still people. His shoulders slump in defeat. With a soft thud, he presses his forehead against the chalkboard.

“I want to go home…”

The class blinks.

Silence.

Then Mina leans forward slowly. “…Is he okay?”

Nozomi presses her knuckles to her lips to keep from smiling.

Before the atmosphere can fully collapse, the girl with the long hair steps forward in a sudden burst of energy.

“Hi! I’m Nejire Hado!” she chirps brightly. “We’re here to talk about Hero Work-Studies—”
She squints at Midoriya.

“—But wow! Your freckles are super cute! Are they natural? Do they show up when you tan? Do your hands shake when you’re nervous or is that just your default state?!”

Midoriya short-circuits instantly. Steam might as well be coming out of his ears. “Ah— I— I— um—!”

Aizawa’s eye twitches. “These three,” he says flatly, “rank at the top in combat ability.”

“…But not necessarily in social function,” Nozomi mutters.

Nejire has already moved on, now circling Tokoyami with sparkling curiosity. “And you have a bird head! Is it heavy? Do you molt? Do you—”

Tokoyami silently leans away.

At last, the blond third-year steps forward with a booming laugh. “Haha! Sorry about them!” he says cheerfully. “I’m Mirio Togata. Don’t worry, Aizawa-sensei—” He flashes a huge grin. “—I’m today’s main act!”

Aizawa exhales slowly, already exhausted. Nozomi, however, is smiling fully now. “…This is going to be a long lesson,” she murmurs.

Mirio then challenges all of Class 1-A to a battle. Aizawa, to his class's surprise, says it's fine, and now they find themselves in Gym Gamma.

Gym Gamma hums with low echoes and shifting concrete as Class 1-A gathers on the wide training floor. The air feels different today—charged, restless. Aizawa stands at the edge of the arena with his arms folded, capture weapon resting loosely at his side. Nozomi stands a step behind him, hands clasped behind her back, galaxy-patterned skin faintly shimmering under the gym lights as she watches the students with quiet curiosity.

Mirio suddenly throws both arms into the air.
“The journey ahead!” he shouts with booming enthusiasm.

Class 1-A stares at him in silence.

“…Will be full of difficulties,” Mirio adds weakly, blinking. “You were supposed to say it back.”

A few students glance at one another. Kaminari whispers, “Are all upperclassmen like this?”

Mirio laughs it off easily. “You guys just got your provisional licenses, right? I get it. You’re fired up. Confident. I was too once.” He steps forward, eyes bright.
“So instead of just talking… how about we fight?”

The class erupts instantly.
“All of us?!” “Seriously?!” “Is that even allowed?!”

Aizawa barely shifts his weight. “Do as you please, Togata.”

Nozomi tilts her head slightly, watching Mirio with interest. She can already tell—this boy isn’t just strong. He’s polished in a way that only constant real combat can create.

The Challenge Begins

At Mirio’s insistence, they move into combat formation.

Sero squints at him. “You sure you don’t want just, like… a team of us?”

“I’m serious,” Mirio replies cheerfully.

Tamaki, pressed against the wall with his hood half-pulled up, mutters, “Try not to traumatize them…”

Nejire is already beside Mina, gently tugging on one of her horns. “Mirio had a really rough childhood, you know! So don’t hold back, okay?”

Tokoyami spreads his shadow slightly. “We have the numbers.”

Kirishima cracks his knuckles. “You really see us as small fry?”

Mirio grins. “Yep!” He plants his feet. “Come at me whenever you want.”

Midoriya and Kirishima both step forward at once. Kirishima pauses, glances at Midoriya’s focused face, then nods. “You go first.”

Green lightning crackles around Midoriya’s limbs as Full Cowl surges through him. He explodes forward—

And in that exact moment, Mirio’s clothes abruptly slip off as his body destabilizes mid-phase.

Several students scream.

“I’M SORRY—CLOTHING IS HARD—!” Mirio yelps.

Midoriya doesn’t stop. He pivots and launches a One For All-enhanced kick straight at Mirio’s face—

It passes directly through him.

Midoriya skids to a halt in shock. “It phased—?!”

Before he can react, Tape, Acid, and Navel Laser tear across the battlefield all at once. Every single attack sails harmlessly through Mirio’s intangible form.

Then—

He vanishes.

“Behind you!” someone shouts.

Mirio emerges behind Jirou in an instant, motion fluid and perfect. Before anyone can reach him, Kirishima lunges forward—but Mirio has already shifted again.
Aizawa watches closely now, eyes narrowed.

Nozomi murmurs under her breath, “He’s not teleporting… he’s falling and reemerging through matter…”

Tamaki, still sulking, speaks quietly. “His Quirk isn’t the impressive part. His control is. He devoted everything to honing it.”

In minutes, the battlefield turns into controlled chaos.

Mirio moves like a ghost through solid ground, appearing and disappearing with impossible precision. One by one, students fall:

Denki drops. Mina is tagged. Tokoyami staggers back. Momo, Tsuyu, Sero, Mineta, Yuga—each is disabled with a clean, non-damaging strike.

Within moments, more than half the class is out.

A few remaining students stare in disbelief.

Aizawa speaks evenly, voice cutting through the noise.
“Watch carefully. Mirio Togata is the closest man to becoming the Number One Hero—including pros.”

Shock ripples through what remains of Class 1-A.

Midoriya clenches his fists. There has to be a weakness.

He watches closely—how Mirio emerges, how he attacks, how his body solidifies only for the briefest instant. “He always confirms his hit physically…” Midoriya mutters. “That means there’s a timing gap—!”

Mirio charges again, his body sinking into the concrete as if it were water.

Midoriya spins—

Mirio emerges behind him.

Midoriya kicks instantly, predicting his path—but Mirio phases through it with perfect timing.

Then, with a teasing grin, Mirio flicks his finger toward Midoriya’s eye.

Midoriya flinches, eyes snapping shut.

It’s a feint.

Mirio’s fist slams into his stomach instead.

Midoriya folds with a gasped exhale.

“That trick works on almost everyone,” Mirio says gently. “So I trained to counter the counter.”

Iida rushes in shouting Midoriya’s name— Mirio appears behind him and strikes his core with surgical precision.

One by one, the remaining students fall in rapid succession. In under moments, Class 1-A lies defeated across Gym Gamma. Silence settles over the arena. Mirio straightens, breathing evenly, not even winded.

Aizawa lowers his capture weapon slightly. “Lesson learned.”

Nozomi looks out over the scattered students, her expression thoughtful, not disappointed—motivated. “They’re strong,” she says quietly. “But real hero work demands more than power.”

Mirio smiles, hands on his hips. “Exactly! That’s what Work-Studies are for.”

On the floor, Midoriya stares up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling hard. So this is the level waiting for us in the real world…

Class 1-A lies scattered across the floor of Gym Gamma, bodies aching, breath ragged, uniforms scuffed with dust. The echo of Mirio’s last strike still seems to hang in the air. One by one, they begin to stir—groans, mutters, a few indignant complaints breaking the stunned silence.

Mirio stands at the center of it all, hands on his hips, smiling apologetically. “Uh… was my Quirk too strong?” he asks, tilting his head.

A few irritated voices answer at once.
“Too strong?!”

“We couldn’t even touch you!”

“That wasn’t a fight—that was bullying!”

Mirio laughs sheepishly and scratches the back of his head. “I’ve only got one Quirk—Permeation. The ‘teleporting’ you saw is just one way I use it.”

Aizawa watches from the sidelines, arms folded, eyes sharp and evaluating. Beside him, Nozomi stands with her hands loosely clasped in front of her, galaxy-patterned skin dim in quiet concentration as she listens.

Mirio continues easily, pacing as he talks. “Permeation lets me pass through anything—even the ground. When I fall into it, I can turn my Quirk off at just the right moment. When that happens, I get fired back out instantly.” He snaps his fingers. “That’s the launch. That’s what you think is teleportation.”

Mina’s eyes sparkle with understanding despite her sore ribs. “So it’s like a video game glitch!”

Mirio beams. “Exactly!”

Tsuyu, still lying flat on her back, croaks softly, “Your Quirk is really strong…”

Mirio’s smile softens—but his voice turns serious. “I made it strong.”

Nozomi’s eyes narrow slightly at that. Not hardened—aware.

Mirio slows his steps. “When I activate Permeation, oxygen passes straight through my lungs. I can’t breathe. My retinas don’t catch light—I can’t see. My eardrums don’t vibrate—I can’t hear. I can’t even feel pain.” He taps his chest lightly. “The only sensation I get… is falling.”

The gym falls quiet.

“Using this Quirk at all,” Mirio continues, “requires precise timing and constant prediction. If I mess up, even once—I suffocate, or misjudge my exit point, or get stuck.” His grin returns, but it’s tempered with steel. “Everything you saw just now? That’s experience.”

Aizawa’s voice cuts in calmly. “That experience comes from Hero Work-Studies.”

Mirio nods toward him. “Exactly. I was scouted early. I gave everything to my training. I reshaped my Quirk—not by changing what it is, but by learning how far I could push it.”

Nozomi watches her students differently now. Less like children. More like fledgling stars—fragile, burning, full of dangerous potential.

She sees it in Midoriya’s clenched fists as he processes every word. In Kirishima’s grit as he forces himself to sit up. In Yaoyorozu’s distant, calculating stare.
This is what waits for them out there.

Mirio spreads his arms lightly. “That’s why I fought you. Not to show off. But to show you what real, long-term hero work turns you into.”

Quiet settles over the gym—heavy, but not hopeless.

Class 1-A finally understands.
Hero Work-Studies aren’t practice.
They’re transformation.

And from the corner of her eye, Nozomi sees it ignite in them—small lights flaring brighter, one by one.