Reactions didn't arrive all at once.
They never did.
They came as small corrections—barely noticeable unless someone was looking for them.
Dave noticed.
It started with seating.
At some point, the teacher stopped rearranging the class randomly and left Dave where he was. Near the window. Out of the way. A place that never caused problems.
When substitutes came, they skimmed the attendance sheet, paused briefly at his name, then moved on.
Dave answered when called.
Didn't volunteer.
Didn't struggle.
Which, somehow, made him easy to forget.
Teachers liked that.
Group work revealed it more clearly.
When students were told to form teams, Dave was never rushed or avoided. Someone would glance at him, hesitate for half a second, then nod.
"Want to join us?"
"Sure."
That was it.
Dave did what was needed. No more. No less.
If someone misunderstood instructions, he clarified quietly. If someone argued, he waited until it passed.
The group always finished on time.
No one ever said why it worked.
They just noticed that it did.
Bakugo reacted without reacting.
He didn't pick on Dave.
He didn't compete with him either.
Dave wasn't loud. Wasn't impressive. Wasn't in the way.
Which meant Bakugo categorized him as background.
Occasionally, during class, Bakugo would glance back—brief, instinctive—then turn away, attention snapping back to whatever mattered more at the moment.
Dave registered it.
Marked it as non-hostile.
Izuku noticed differently.
Not because Dave stood out.
But because Dave didn't change.
When Izuku panicked during presentations, Dave stayed the same. When Bakugo shouted, Dave stayed the same. When teachers praised someone else, Dave stayed the same.
That consistency stood out to someone who was always adjusting.
Izuku didn't approach.
He just remembered.
Other kids reacted in fragments.
Someone once said, "Dave's good at explaining stuff."
Another replied, "Yeah, but he doesn't talk much."
"Still helps, though."
That became enough.
Dave found himself asked small things.
How to phrase an answer.
Which page they were on.
Whether homework was due tomorrow or the day after.
He answered honestly.
Then returned to silence.
At home, the reactions were gentler.
Aiko noticed teachers weren't sending messages—not even the routine ones. Kenji noticed Dave never complained, but also never bragged.
One evening, while folding laundry, Aiko said casually, "Your teacher says you're very… steady."
Dave considered the word.
"I like things steady," he replied.
Kenji nodded from across the room. "That tracks."
There was no pressure to be more.
No request to explain.
Their trust stayed intact.
Hive observed all of this with quiet interest.
Social equilibrium had been achieved.
Not dominance.
Not invisibility.
Balance.
Dave lay in bed that night, replaying the day—not emotionally, but structurally.
No conflicts.
No breakthroughs.
Just alignment.
He understood something then:
People didn't react to what he could do.
They reacted to how little he demanded.
And that, more than intelligence or power, shaped how the world made room for him.
Dave closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would bring new variables.
But for now—
The system accepted him.