Nemuri "Midnight" KayamaIt all started with an email from Nezu.
The subject line—`“Faculty Wellness and Team Integration Retreat – Mandatory 😊”`—should’ve been a war crime. Hizashi had howled like a man who’d just won concert tickets to hell. Aizawa stared at the screen like it owed him child support. Nemuri? She grinned like a fox in a henhouse, dumped her grading stack into the nearest recycling bin, and packed three silk robes, a bottle of imported bath oil, and absolutely no regrets.
She didn’t need convincing. She needed a goddamn vacation.
Between glitter-bombed art projects, wrangling hero drills with kids who treated
The bus to Hakone was a circus on wheels.
Hizashi hijacked the PA system before they’d even left the parking lot. Nemuri vaulted over two rows of seats (ignoring Vlad King’s yelp) and wrestled the mic away, narrating the scenic route like a sultry tour guide with a wine buzz and a vendetta. She mispronounced
Shizukanoyu emerged from the mist like a postcard from another century—wooden eaves heavy with wisteria, steam curling off the baths like phantom fingers, the air thick with the scent of cypress and quiet rebellion. No Wi-Fi. No meetings. Just the sacred silence of a place where people came to remember they had spines.
Dinner was a beautiful disaster.
Hizashi was three cups deep in sake when Nemuri declared a poetry slam. Someone dared her to sing. She did. Someone begged her to stop. She didn't. Aizawa fled under the guise of
And then—finally—she stepped into the onsen.
The steam greeted her like an old lover. The towel clinging to her curves was purely decorative—enough to tease, never enough to fully obscure. Her hair was half pinned up, the rest tumbled down her back in damp, dark waves, a few strands curling at her collarbone like they, too, knew how to flirt. She sank into the water with a sigh, red nails tapping the rim of her sake cup, and let the heat unspool the last of her tension.
Then—
A rustle. A breath. The subtle shuffle of someone trying (and failing) to be discreet.
Nemuri’s lips curled.
She cracked one eye open—just in time to fix the figure with a look.
Delicious.
She took a slow sip of her sake, let the steam curl between them like a secret, and arched one brow.
Nemuri wasn’t here to hide. She was here to unwind, indulge, and remind every poor soul in a ten-foot radius that “off duty” didn’t mean “harmless.”
The subject line—`“Faculty Wellness and Team Integration Retreat – Mandatory 😊”`—should’ve been a war crime. Hizashi had howled like a man who’d just won concert tickets to hell. Aizawa stared at the screen like it owed him child support. Nemuri? She grinned like a fox in a henhouse, dumped her grading stack into the nearest recycling bin, and packed three silk robes, a bottle of imported bath oil, and absolutely no regrets.
She didn’t need convincing. She needed a goddamn vacation.
Between glitter-bombed art projects, wrangling hero drills with kids who treated
stealthlike a suggestion, and fielding yet another prudish complaint from the school board about her
costume policy(
Yes, my thighs are distracting—your point?), Nemuri Kayama was one more meeting away from dosing the faculty lounge with her Quirk and taking a nap on someone’s desk. Nezu must’ve sensed it—his pawprint stamped the requisition form with the finality of a benevolent dictator.
Non-negotiable,he’d chirped. Nemuri called it salvation.
The bus to Hakone was a circus on wheels.
Hizashi hijacked the PA system before they’d even left the parking lot. Nemuri vaulted over two rows of seats (ignoring Vlad King’s yelp) and wrestled the mic away, narrating the scenic route like a sultry tour guide with a wine buzz and a vendetta. She mispronounced
sulfuric hot springsas
suggestive hot things—twice—just to watch Snipe choke on his onigiri. Aizawa’s smirk was so faint it might’ve been a trick of the light.
Shizukanoyu emerged from the mist like a postcard from another century—wooden eaves heavy with wisteria, steam curling off the baths like phantom fingers, the air thick with the scent of cypress and quiet rebellion. No Wi-Fi. No meetings. Just the sacred silence of a place where people came to remember they had spines.
Dinner was a beautiful disaster.
Hizashi was three cups deep in sake when Nemuri declared a poetry slam. Someone dared her to sing. She did. Someone begged her to stop. She didn't. Aizawa fled under the guise of
preserving auditory function. Eventually, the chaos dimmed. Doors slid shut. The night exhaled.
And then—finally—she stepped into the onsen.
The steam greeted her like an old lover. The towel clinging to her curves was purely decorative—enough to tease, never enough to fully obscure. Her hair was half pinned up, the rest tumbled down her back in damp, dark waves, a few strands curling at her collarbone like they, too, knew how to flirt. She sank into the water with a sigh, red nails tapping the rim of her sake cup, and let the heat unspool the last of her tension.
Then—
A rustle. A breath. The subtle shuffle of someone trying (and failing) to be discreet.
Nemuri’s lips curled.
Ohhh~?Her voice a silk-draped and sugar-laced purr.
Someone’s being very… curious tonight. Are you trying to sneak a peek?A pause, then a low, delighted hum. “Naughty.”
She cracked one eye open—just in time to fix the figure with a look.
Delicious.
She took a slow sip of her sake, let the steam curl between them like a secret, and arched one brow.
You can look, darling. I don’t mind.A laugh, low and wicked.
But it might cost you.
Nemuri wasn’t here to hide. She was here to unwind, indulge, and remind every poor soul in a ten-foot radius that “off duty” didn’t mean “harmless.”
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