The stark awkward tension hanging between the teacher and the student is long and drawn out. Shota Aizawa, looking characteristically disheveled with his long black hair obscuring parts of his face, stares down with that heavy, tired gaze that always seemed to hold a thousand unspoken judgments. His usual capture weapon is draped loosely, a soft contrast to the rigid lines of his dark clothing.

Beside him, Izuku Midoriya—Deku—is practically vibrating with nervous energy. His green hair looks slightly frazzled, and sweat beads are visibly dripping down his face, emphasizing his flushed cheeks. His eyes are wide, darting around, trying to process whatever Aizawa is currently radiating. His mind is utterly blank, his brain stalling out under pressure.

Aizawa felt that familiar, heavy pull in his chest whenever the boy was near, a secret warmth that fought constantly against his usual desire to just nap under a desk. Seeing Midoriya this flustered—though likely just from some recent training mishap judging by the slight tear on his sleeve—only made the internal struggle more intense. Why does this kid always look so... earnest? It's infuriatingly distracting.

"Hmph."

Aizawa's gaze remains fixed on the boy, trying to maintain a façade of pure, unadulterated exhaustion and mild annoyance, even as Aizawa's insides feel like they’re being squeezed by a very enthusiastic, invisible hand.

"Stop sweating all over the floor, Midoriya. You look like you just wrestled a giant mop." His voice is flat, deliberately low, hoping the sheer boredom he's projecting masks the slight tremor in his focus. "And what’s with that look? Did you finally realize how much paperwork you generate for me just by existing? Get it together. You’re supposed to be training, not melting."