perhaps love is the most twisted curse of all

You learned very quickly that being Dynamight’s sidekick meant two things: One, you were going to get a front-row seat to some of the most brutal villain takedowns in Japan. And two, you were going to watch Katsuki Bakugo pine like a lovesick idiot over the homeroom teacher he swore he didn’t care about.

“I don’t fuckin’ pine,” he grumbled the first time you said it, shoving his gauntlets into their case with a little more force than necessary. “I’ve got better shit to do than sit around thinkin’ about that nerd.”

“Of course,” you said mildly, leaning against his desk at the agency. “Totally explains why we’re at U.A. twice a week for ‘guest lectures.’”

He scowled at you, cheeks pinking at the edges. “The brats need real combat training. And he can’t use his quirk anymore, so somebody’s gotta show ‘em what an actual hero looks like.”

“Right,” you nodded. “And it definitely has nothing to do with the way you check your phone every ten minutes to see if he texted you.”

“I’m going to throw you through a wall.”

“Uh-huh.”

He didn’t, obviously. Katsuki would never actually hurt you, even if he snapped his teeth inches from your face and cursed you out in a million different creative ways. You’d been with him long enough to know the cadence of his moods, the notes of panic when Izuku didn’t answer a call immediately, the way his shoulders loosened if he saw a green tint of curls in a crowd.

You noticed. You noticed everything.

You just didn’t notice that while you were trying to shove Katsuki towards a confession, Izuku Midoriya was slowly, deliberately, falling apart over you.

The first time you met him as "Midoriya-sensei,” you were standing just outside 3-A’s classroom, suit still smelling faintly like smoke and explosions.

Katsuki pushed the door open with his shoulder. “Alright, you little brats, listen the hell up!”

“Kacchan!” Izuku’s voice lifted, bright and warm, and then he was there, standing at the front of the class in a button-down shirt rolled to his forearms, tie askew, chalk dust on his fingers. He’d grown into himself since the old photos you’d seen, taller, broader in the shoulders, but his eyes were the exact same, wide and earnest, flicking over Katsuki like he was checking for damage.

“It’s Dynamight in class,” Katsuki snapped, but it was soft around the edges, more habit than bite. “Don’t go turnin’ my name into an open secret, nerd.”

Izuku smiled, helpless and fond. “Sorry, Dynamight. Thanks again for coming. Everyone, let’s thank Dynamight and his sidekick for joining us today.”

Your hero name rolled off his tongue, a little breathless, like he was tasting it. You chalked it up to nerves. Teachers got weird around pro heroes sometimes.

The students clapped, buzzing with excitement. You scanned the room, rows of eager faces, the faint scuff of desks, sunlight pouring in through windows Katsuki had blown out at least once in his youth. Your gaze slid back up to the front of the room.

Izuku was looking at you.

Not in the slack-jawed way fans sometimes did, either. It was focused, attentive, like you were a new quirk he needed to analyze. His eyes dropped to the small scorch mark on your thigh guard, to the tear in your sleeve, and his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out.

“You okay?” he asked quietly when the students turned to their notebooks. He stepped closer, voice low. “I heard there was a collapse on your patrol this morning.”

“Fine,” you said. “Just some concrete that didn’t like me very much.”

He huffed a laugh. “Well, if you need a health check, Recovery Girl is in-”

“She’s fine,” Katsuki cut in sharply, moving between the two of you on pure instinct. He didn’t even seem to realize he’d done it. “Focus on your damn lesson plan.”

Izuku blinked, then smiled, a small, secret thing. “Right. Lesson plan.”

The rest of the class went as you expected. Katsuki demonstrated blast techniques; you showed them how to coordinate with a heavy hitter, how to cover blind spots and anticipate collateral. The students loved it. They loved Katsuki’s brashness, loved your dry commentary, loved the way Izuku lit up when he talked about strategy, pacing the front of the room with chalk smudged on his wrist.

You could feel Katsuki’s eyes on Izuku the whole time. Every time the teacher laughed, every time he pushed curls back from his face. Quiet, hungry, endless.

After class, when the students had scattered and Katsuki was pretending not to notice Izuku walking you both to the staff room, you nudged him with your elbow.

“You should ask him to dinner,” you murmured under your breath. “You’re already here. Just say you want to catch up.”

Katsuki choked. Actually choked, mid-step. “What?”

You smiled at Izuku over your shoulder when he glanced back, concerned. “Nothing, just teasing him.”

Izuku’s gaze lingered on you for a second too long. “Are you sure you’re not the one I should be worried about? You’ve got concrete dust in your hair.”

He reached out before he could stop himself, thumb brushing a light streak of gray from your temple. The touch was gentle, tentative. Warm.

You froze, momentarily stunned, and then forced a laugh. “Guess patrol left a mark. Thanks, Midoriya-sensei.”

The words slipped out of you, easy and unthinking. But Izuku’s ears went pink, his hand retreating like he’d been burned.

“Ah- just Midoriya is fine,” he said quickly. “Outside of class, I mean. You, um. Or you can call me Izuku, if you want.”

Behind you, Katsuki made a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a sputter.

You didn’t notice. You were too busy wondering why your stomach felt strange at the idea of saying his name like that.

After that, it became routine.

Every excuse Katsuki could invent, he did.

There was a new training technique he just had to test with the third years. A villain case that would make a good analysis assignment. A “joint exercise” with his interns that conveniently involved him standing in Midoriya’s classroom, arms crossed, glaring at anyone who dared get too close.

Sometimes you came with him. Sometimes you didn’t. But the days you did, you could feel it; Izuku’s attention flicking to the door the second it opened, the way his expression brightened when it was you in your sidekick gear, visor hanging from your belt.

“Ah, you’re here,” he’d say, like he’d been waiting. “Perfect timing. I was just talking about support roles in high-risk scenarios. Would you mind sharing your experience?”

He asked you questions in front of the class, but they felt personal. How did you keep calm when Katsuki overextended? How do you handle fear? What did you think young heroes needed to work on most?

You answered, because that’s what pros did, and maybe because you liked the way he listened like every word mattered. Like you did.

Between questions about quirk management and risk assessment, you made it your mission to sabotage Katsuki’s denial.

“He really respects you,” you said one afternoon, leaning against the staff room counter as Izuku prepped tea. Katsuki had gone to take a call, leaving the two of you alone amidst the hum of the faculty lounge. “He acts like you’re a pain in his ass, but he wouldn’t come here this much if he didn’t care.”

Izuku’s hands stilled around the tea tin. “Kacchan… he’s always cared. Even when he was… angry. It just took us a long time to figure each other out.” He smiled, small and a little fragile. “I’m really grateful he’s in my life.”

You tucked that expression away, along with the softness in his voice when he said Katsuki’s name. See? you thought. Useless, the both of you.

“You know,” you said lightly, nudging him with your elbow, “if he ever stops yelling long enough, you should take him out. Do something that’s not hero work. I think it’d mean a lot.”

Izuku’s eyes flicked up, surprise flashing there. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” You smiled. “He looks at you like you hung the moon. Don’t tell him I said that, though. I like having all my limbs.”

Izuku laughed, a bright, breathless thing, and the sound made something inside you ripple. “I won’t,” he promised. “But… thanks. For looking out for him. He’s… he’s really lucky to have you on his team.”

Heat crept up your neck. “Someone’s gotta make sure he doesn’t blow himself up.”

Izuku’s gaze drifted down, lingering on the faint scar peeking over your glove, one acquired dragging Katsuki out of a blast zone he’d miscalculated. His fingers twitched again, like they always did when he was holding back.

“Still,” he murmured. “You put yourself on the line for him. That means a lot.”

You shrugged, suddenly a little restless. “He’d do the same for me.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s what scares me.”

You didn’t see the way Izuku watched you when you walked away, eyes tracking the curve of your shoulders, the way your hero suit shifted with each step. You didn’t hear the sigh he let slip, or the way he muttered under his breath about inappropriate thoughts and boundaries and how Kacchan was going to kill him if he ever found out.

You were too busy texting Katsuki from the hallway.

You should just ask him out! Worst thing he does is say no!

The typing dots blinked. Then... My shitass boss: I will literally set ur phone on fire drop it.

You smiled down at the screen, thumbs flying. You already set everything on fire, might as well set your love life too

You didn’t see Izuku walking past the glass panel in his classroom door, catching a glimpse of your expression; soft, amused, the way it rarely was when you were bantering with Katsuki on patrol. You didn’t see his jaw tighten at the way your fingers moved across the screen like you’d done it a thousand times.

He told himself he was overthinking it. That you and Kacchan were a team, teammates bickered and laughed and texted like that. It didn’t mean you were together.

Except sometimes, Kacchan would drop a hand on your head when you annoyed him, ruffling your hair with a roughness he never used on anyone else. Sometimes, you’d shove his shoulder and he’d let you, or you’d complain about paperwork and he’d grumble but take half of it from your stack.

And sometimes, Izuku would catch you looking at him just a second too long as he explained a tactic, your teeth worrying your bottom lip, and he’d think, hope, that maybe you were thinking about him and not the man you kept trying to push to his side.

He could never quite tell.

Rain had rolled over Musutafu overnight, turning the air heavy and gray. The streets outside U.A. shone with leftover drizzle; the school grounds smelled like damp earth and chalk. You were already a little on edge, your patrol earlier in the morning cut short by a call from the agency that Katsuki had been delayed dealing with paperwork and wouldn’t be making your usual “Deku harassment run.”

You’d been halfway through a report when your phone buzzed.

My shitass boss: U still at the agency?

You frowned. Yeah why? You’re supposed to be here drowning in forms.

The reply was almost instant. My shitass boss: Shut up. Nerd’s sick.

Your heart skipped. Fingers tightened around the phone. Sick how? Did he get hit by a quirk walking to work??

There was a pause, and you could picture him dragging a frustrated hand through his hair.

My shitass boss: Dunno. Aizawa texted. Said "problem child" looked like shit this morning and wouldn’t shut up coughing. I'm stuck here unless I want Jeanist crawling up my ass ab paperwork.

Another beat. Then.. My shitass boss: Go take him lunch.

Your brows shot up. You stared at the screen, rereading it. You want ME to bring him food?

My shitass boss: U deaf now? I can’t go. And I'm not letting that idiot skip meals just bc he’s too busy babysitting brats. There’s a bento in the fridge w his name on it.

You glanced toward the small kitchen area where a neat bento box sat on the top shelf, wrapped in a green cloth patterned with little stars. Your heart squeezed. You made him lunch?

No response for a long moment.

My shitass boss: Just take the damn food.

You bit back a grin. You’re such a good almost-boyfriend!

My shitass boss: I hate you. Hurry up before his dumb ass faints or some shit.

You grabbed the bento, tucking it carefully under your arm. As you headed out, you hesitated. Want me to say anything?

The typing dots flickered on and off, like he kept starting and stopping.

My shitass boss: Tell him if he doesn’t rest i’ll blast his face off.

My shitass boss: And

My shitass boss: ...

My shitass boss: Forget it.

You smiled, soft and a little sad. And?

My shitass boss: ... My shitass boss: Tell him his stupid analysis notebook bullshit makes a difference or whatever. Kids look up to him. My shitass boss: That’s it.

Your chest ached. Got it, boss.

You didn’t say, I wish you’d tell him that yourself. You didn’t say, he looks at you like you saved his life, you idiot.

You just threw on a light jacket over your casual clothes, clipped your hero ID to your belt, and headed for U.A., heart thudding with a knot of worry and something else you didn’t want to name.

The halls of U.A. were quieter at midday, most students in class. You nodded to a few teachers, was stopped briefly by a group of starry-eyed first-years who asked for a quick selfie with Dynamight’s sidekick. You obliged, smiling more for their sake than your own, palms a little sweaty around the bento.

You reached 3-A’s classroom just as the lunch bell rang. Inside, you heard chatter, chairs scraping back, the thrum of adolescent energy. You took a breath and knocked.

“Come in!” Izuku’s voice floated through the door, warm but a little hoarse.

You eased it open.

The first thing you noticed was that he didn’t look sick.

Tired, maybe. His tie was loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a faint shadow under his eyes. But he wasn’t pale or sweating, wasn’t doubled over or shivering. He was leaning against his desk, flipping through a stack of quizzes as students milled around, and he looked up the second you stepped inside.

His face lit up.

“Oh-! Hi!” he said, straightening. “You’re...” His eyes flicked to your ID, to the bento in your hands. Something in his expression softened. “here.”

Several students turned, whispers rippling.

“Whoa, is that-?”

“Dynamight’s sidekick!”

“Are we getting a surprise lecture?”

You lifted a hand in greeting. “Sorry to disappoint, I’m just the lunch delivery service today.”

Izuku blinked. “Lunch…?”

You held up the bento. “From Dynamite. He heard you weren’t feeling well and told me to bring provisions.” You softened your voice, tilting your head. “You okay? Eraserhead made it sound like you were on death’s door.”

Color bloomed high on his cheekbones. “A-Ah, I’m fine, I swear. I just, um.. Got a little lightheaded during the teacher’s meeting this morning. Probably didn’t drink enough water.” He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Mr. Aizawa exaggerates.”

“Uh-huh.” You stepped closer, squinting up at him. Up close, you could see the faint redness around his eyes, the way his lashes stuck slightly together. He’d been rubbing at them. The chalk dust on his sleeve had smeared. He looked… worn.

You frowned. “You look tired, at least. When was the last time you ate?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “…Breakfast?”

One of the students snorted. “Sensei skipped breakfast ‘cause he was too busy editing our training reports again,” a girl near the front called out. “We told you you’d crash.”

“Traitors,” Izuku muttered, but there was affection in it.

You shook your head, thrusting the bento at him. “Here. Sit. Eat before you pass out on a kid.”

“O-Oh, I-I can’t just-!”

“Midoriya-sensei,” another student cut in slyly, “you always tell us heroes have to take care of themselves first, remember?”

The class murmured agreement. Izuku looked around, betrayed.

“This is mutiny,” he sighed, then looked back at you. Something in his gaze had gone soft, molten. “Thank you. Really. Please, um-” He looked at the students again, mind clearly racing. “Everyone, you’re dismissed for lunch period. Don’t forget your notebooks for the afternoon exercise. And.. no running in the halls.”

They filed out in a noisy wave, some bowing to you, others sneaking curious glances. A few lingered near the door, clearly wanting to see if you and their teacher would do anything interesting, but eventually they drifted away, leaving the classroom strangely quiet.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. “They’re good kids.”

“They are,” Izuku said softly, watching the door close. Then his eyes slid back to you, and the shift from teacher to man was almost tangible. “You’re… really here.”

The way he said it made your throat go dry.

You forced a smile, lifting the bento. “Like I said. Delivery service. Katsuki was worried, you know.”

He took the lunch from you, fingers brushing yours. His hand was warm, calloused. The contact sent a strange jolt up your arm.

“Kacchan told you to come,” he repeated, voice a little odd. “He asked you to bring this?”

“Yeah.” You hopped up to sit on one of the student desks, watching as he set the bento on his own. “He said if you don’t rest he’ll blast your face off.”

Izuku huffed a laugh, fondness crinkling the corners of his eyes. “That sounds like him.”

“He also,” you added, hearing Katsuki’s earlier hesitations in your mind, “wanted you to know that your… quote: stupid analysis notebook stuff makes a difference. And that the kids look up to you.”

Izuku’s head snapped up.

You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Those were his words, more or less. Just trying to make sure the message gets through.”

Silence stretched between you. Izuku’s expression was unreadable for a moment, something complex flickering there, surprise, gratitude, something sharp and aching.

“He… said that?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Don’t make me repeat it. My quirk doesn’t cover emotional vulnerability.”

His laugh came out a little strangled. “I… see.”

He looked down at the bento, fingers brushing over the green cloth, and you saw his throat work as he swallowed.

“Thank you,” he said again, but it sounded heavier this time. “For bringing this. For telling me.”

“No problem.” You leaned back on your hands, legs swinging slightly. “Someone’s gotta make sure you two emotionally repressed disasters don’t implode.”

He smiled at that. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted over you, taking in the way your jacket had fallen open, the hint of your shirt beneath, the relaxed set of your shoulders. His eyes lingered a little too long.

“You’re always looking out for Kacchan,” he murmured. “For everyone.”

“Well, it’s kind of the job.”

“It’s more than that,” he said. “You… you’re always here. In the middle of everything. Making sure we don’t fall apart.”

The intensity in his voice surprised you. You shifted, suddenly feeling too warm under his attention. “I just do what I can,” you said lightly.

Izuku set the bento aside, untouched. Your brows knit.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“In a minute.” He stepped around his desk, closing the distance between you. The faint smile had faded, replaced by something more serious. “Can I… ask you something?”

Your heartbeat kicked up a notch. “Sure?”

He stopped a few feet away, hands curling at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach out. His eyes searched your face, as if he were bracing for impact.

“Coming here,” he said slowly, “bringing me this. Is that just… you doing Kacchan a favor?”

The question caught you off guard. “I mean, technically? Yeah? He asked me to-”

“Or is it because you wanted to?” he pressed, voice suddenly low. “Because you’re… worried about me.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The room felt smaller somehow, the air thicker.

“I-...of course I’m worried,” you said, trying for casual and not quite hitting it. “You’re a friend. And if you pass out in front of a bunch of teenagers, it’s going to scar them for life.”

He laughed once, but it didn’t chase the tension from his shoulders. He took another step closer. You could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes now, the tiny scar across the bridge of his nose.

“Just a friend?” he asked.

You swallowed. “Midoriya…”

“Izuku,” he corrected quietly. “Please.”

Your chest tightened. “Izuku.”

His name tasted dangerous in your mouth. You watched the way it affected him, the sharp inhale, the way his fingers twitched, the barely contained something in his expression.

“You’ve been…” He exhaled, words tumbling out in a rush now, like he’d been holding them back so long they’d broken loose. “You’ve been coming here with Kacchan for months. Helping with lectures, talking to my students, making sure I remember to drink water.” A faint smile. “You’re always nudging him to take care of himself, to talk about how he feels. You… you keep telling him to confess.”

Guilt prickled at your spine. Suddenly, you weren’t sure you liked where this was going.

“I just want him to be happy,” you said carefully. “You both deserve-”

“Do you really think,” Izuku cut in, voice hoarse, “that I don’t know how he feels?”

The words punched the air out of your lungs. You stared.

“I- what?!”

His expression softened, a little sad. “Kacchan’s not subtle. Not with me. Not really.” He looked away, out over the empty rows of desks. “He thinks he’s hiding it, but he’s always been loud when it comes to me. Even when he hated me, it was loud.”

Your mind scrambled, memories reconfiguring themselves. The way Katsuki bristled when Izuku was in danger. The way he relaxed around him, just a fraction. The way he’d stood a little too close in staff rooms, always between Izuku and the door.

“You… you know?” you managed.

“I’ve known for a long time,” Izuku said softly. “I think part of me has always known. And I… I love him. I always will. He’s-..he’s Kacchan.”

Something in your chest lurched. “Then why-?”

“It’s not that simple,” he said, voice roughening. “We hurt each other, for years. We’re still… learning what we look like now. I don’t want to rush him. I don’t want to confuse him. I don’t want to be something he thinks he owes me because of… everything.”

You thought of Katsuki’s clenched jaw when you mentioned confessing. Of the self-disgust that sometimes flickered across his face when he thought no one was looking. Of the way he’d typed and deleted and retyped his messages about Izuku this morning.

“I just wanted to help,” you whispered.

“I know.” Izuku finally looked back at you. “You always want to help.”

He stepped closer again. You could feel the heat radiating from him now, the faint scent of paper and detergent and ozone.

“That’s why,” he said quietly, “when you text me to ask if I’ve eaten, or bring Kacchan here when you think he needs a nudge, or show up with a lunch he made but couldn’t deliver-” His eyes searched yours, raw and open. “I keep wondering if maybe… maybe it’s not just him you’re looking out for.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You’d never… you hadn’t let yourself think...

“Izuku,” Your voice shook. “I’m his sidekick. I’ve been telling him to confess to you for weeks. I can’t-”

The guilt hit you hard, right in the sternum. The memory of all those nudges, all the teasing, the late nights in the agency office where you told Katsuki he deserved to be loved back. And here you were, alone in Izuku’s classroom, feeling your pulse stutter under the weight of his gaze.

You took a step back on instinct. Your hip bumped the front row desk. Izuku halted immediately, hurt flashing across his face before he smothered it.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, hands lifting like he was surrendering. “I’m- sorry. I shouldn’t have- I thought when you came today, with the lunch, you-..”

“I came because he asked me to,” you said, the words tumbling over each other. “Because he cares and he couldn’t leave and I- I wanted to make sure you were okay. That’s all.”

“Is it?” His voice was gentle, but it cut deep.

You faltered.

You thought of every time you’d stayed behind after Katsuki stalked out, chatting with Izuku about lesson plans and hero statistics. Every time you’d found yourself lingering in his classroom doorway, reluctant to leave. Every time his laugh had made your stomach flip.

You thought of the way it hurt to picture Katsuki’s face if he knew you were here right now, alone with the man he’d been trying so hard not to want too loudly.

You thought of Izuku, looking at you like this, eyes wide and hopeful and so, so tired.

“It’s not that simple,” you said at last, echoing his earlier words. Your throat felt tight. “I care about both of you. I- I don’t know if I’m allowed to feel-!”

“Allowed?” He took a small step closer, slow, careful, like you were a skittish animal he didn’t want to spook. “Feel what?”

You stared at him. At the chalk dust on his sleeve. At the tiny scar under his lip. At the way his hands trembled, just a little.

“I don’t know when it started,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe it was that first day, when you brushed concrete dust out of my hair. Maybe it was when you stayed up revising lesson plans so you could talk to my interns about burnout. Maybe it was when I realized you cancel your days off if one of your students gets hurt.”

You swallowed hard.

“But I… I look forward to coming here,” you said. “Even when Katsuki can’t shut up about how annoying you are, I’m the one who reminds him it’s been a week since we visited. I… text you more than I should. I worry when you don’t answer. I…” The words caught, heavy with guilt. “I like you. And every time I tell him to confess, I feel like I’m lying to both of you.”

Silence thundered in your ears.

Izuku stared at you, eyes wide, lips parted. For a moment, he looked genuinely stunned, like the possibility had never fully occurred to him. Then, slowly, something in his expression broke open, all the hope and fear and pent-up longing spilling through the cracks.

“You…” His voice shook. “You like me.”

It wasn’t a question, but you nodded anyway, because you’d started this, and you couldn’t drag the words back into your throat now.

“I do,” you said. “But I also care about him. I can’t just-... act like that doesn’t matter.”

“Kacchan matters,” Izuku agreed instantly. “He always will. But...” He took another step forward. You didn’t move this time. “You matter too. What you feel matters. What I feel-” He exhaled, hands flexing at his sides. “I keep telling myself I shouldn’t. That it’s not fair to you, or to him, or to anyone. That we’re colleagues, that there are boundaries, that I’m your friend’s… whatever I am to him. That you’re his partner, in the field, and that makes this even messier. But every time you walk into my classroom, every time you roll your eyes at his dramatics, every time you stay behind to help me pick up worksheets...”

He broke off, jaw clenching. When he looked at you again, his eyes were blazing.

“I want you,” he said, the words ripped from somewhere deep. “I’ve wanted you for longer than I want to admit. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t, not when you’re here, in my classroom, delivering a lunch he made with your hands and telling me you like me.”

Your breath hitched. Heat burned low in your stomach, mingled with sharp, jagged guilt.

“Izuku…” You closed your eyes for a second, trying to breathe past the knot in your chest. “If I… If we…” The thought of Katsuki finding out flashed behind your eyelids. His face, his anger, his hurt. “He’ll hate me. He trusted me. I’m supposed to be on his side.”

“You’re not a possession,” Izuku said softly. “You’re not his sidekick in this. You’re you. You get to choose what you want. Who you want.” His voice dropped. “Do you want me?”

The question hung between you like a live wire.

Your gaze dragged up to meet his. Everything in you screamed that this was wrong, that it was selfish, that it was going to break something precious between two men who’d barely pieced themselves together after years of hurt.

And still, your traitorous heart pounded, desperate and loud, at the thought of closing the distance between you.

“I…” Your fingers curled around the edge of the desk, knuckles white. “…yes.”

The word left you on a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Izuku’s eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat, something like relief crashing through his expression. When he opened them again, he looked wrecked, hopeful and terrified and so deeply in love it made your chest ache.

“Then,” he said quietly, “tell me to stop.”

He stepped fully into your space, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, the faint brush of his breath against your cheek. His hands lifted, hovering at your waist without touching, trembling with restraint.

“Tell me this is a mistake,” he whispered. “Tell me you want me to pretend I didn’t hear you. Tell me you want me to keep being just your friend, just Kacchan’s colleague, just a stupid, lovesick teacher, and I will. I swear I will.”

Your heart tried to claw its way out of your ribcage.

You could. You could say it. You could swallow everything you’d just confessed, laugh it off, tell him you were overwhelmed, that you’d been projecting, that you didn’t mean it. You could walk out of this classroom, call Katsuki, joke about his “nerd” passing out in a pile of graded tests, and go back to pushing them together while ignoring the ache twisting inside you.

Or you could be honest, for the first time since you realized the sight of ink-smudged fingers and messy green curls did something catastrophic to your insides.

Your voice shook when you answered.

“I don’t… want you to stop,” you admitted. “I want-” You swallowed hard. “I want this. I just… I don’t know how to live with myself after.”

His expression shattered. You saw the exact moment the last of his resolve gave way, guilt and desire tangling behind his eyes.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, and there was a roughness there you’d never heard before, a promise edged with desperation. “We’ll talk to him, we’ll… we’ll hurt, probably. We’ll be idiots, because we always are. But if we don’t-” He leaned in, forehead brushing yours. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life wondering what it felt like to have you this close.”

Your breath hitched, caught between a sob and a laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You like me dramatic,” he murmured, and you realized with a jolt that he was right.

His hands finally settled on your waist, fingers splaying over the curve there. The heat of his touch burned through the thin fabric of your shirt, grounding and dizzying all at once. You realized, distantly, that your own hands had lifted to his shoulders, fingers bunching in his shirt.

“I’m going to regret this,” you whispered, the words barely audible.

“Me too,” he said, and then, softer: “But I’m still going to do it.”

The first brush of his mouth against yours was tentative, almost reverent, like he was giving you one last chance to pull away. Your resolve crumbled the second his lips touched yours, all the weeks of contained tension snapping like overstretched wire.

You made a small, helpless sound, something between a sigh and a whimper, and he reacted like you’d shocked him, hands tightening on your waist as he pressed in closer, deepening the kiss.

Heat flooded you, sharp and overwhelming. Izuku kissed like he felt everything too much, like he was simultaneously apologizing and begging and thanking you. His fingers flexed at your hips, pulling you toward the edge of the desk until your knees brushed his thighs.

For a moment, all you could think was: It’s him. It’s him. It’s always been him.

Then, right on the heels of that: Katsuki is going to kill me.

The guilt stabbed through the haze, sharp enough to make you flinch. Izuku felt it; you felt the way his hands froze, the way his lips stilled against yours.

“You’re thinking about him,” he said quietly, pulling back just enough to search your face. There was no accusation in it, only weary acceptance.

You let out a shaky breath. “How can I not?”

“I know.” He rested his forehead against yours again, eyes closing. “I am too.”

That almost broke you more than anything.

“We’re the worst,” you whispered, an awful, hysterical laugh bubbling up. “I’ve been telling him to confess and here I am-”

“Wanting you doesn’t make what you feel for him any less real,” Izuku said, voice low and fierce. “Caring about him doesn’t make this disappear. They’re both true. It’s messy and it hurts and it’s… us.” He swallowed, thumb stroking an absent-minded, soothing line where his hand had slid, almost without him realizing, under the hem of your shirt to the bare skin of your waist. You shivered. “But please don’t pretend this isn’t real, either.”

You looked at him, really looked, at all of him, the exhaustion, the longing, the guilt, the stubborn, stupid hope.

You knew this was a line you couldn’t uncross. You knew if you stepped over it, there was no version of the future where someone didn’t get hurt.

But you also knew that if you walked away now, you’d carry the ghost of this moment with you through every patrol, every lecture, every carefully neutral smile across a staff room.

“Izuku,” you said, voice soft, “lock the door.”

His pupils blew wide. “Are you sure?”

“No,” you said honestly. “But if I keep standing here thinking about it, I’m going to run.”

He made a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob, then pressed one last, lingering kiss to your mouth before stepping back.

You watched, pulse hammering, as he crossed the room and turned the lock with a quiet click. The mundane sound felt obscene in the heavy silence that followed.

When he turned back to you, something had shifted in his posture, still gentle, still careful, but threaded through with a new, bracing certainty.

He returned to you in a few strides, stepping between your knees where you still perched on the front row desk. His hands slid up your thighs, tracing the seam of your jeans with slow, deliberate pressure, before settling once more at your hips.

“You can still tell me to stop,” he reminded you, though his voice was rougher now, threaded with a hunger that made your breath falter.

You swallowed, heart lodged in your throat.

“I won’t,” you said, and the honesty of it terrified you.

His answering smile was wrecked, worshipful, like you’d just offered him the world and his own personal hell in the same breath.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay.”

His mouth found yours again, more certain this time, more urgent. You met him halfway, fingers sliding up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp against your lips.

His gasp was soft, surprised, vibrating against your mouth as your fingers tightened in his curls, pulling him impossibly closer. Izuku's response was immediate, instinctive, a low, needy sound rumbling from his chest as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss with a fervor that spoke of all the restraint he'd been holding back.

His tongue swept against yours, tentative at first, like he was still learning the shape of you, memorizing every sigh and shift. But as you arched into him, pressing your body against his solid frame, that gentleness gave way to something more raw, more desperate.

His hands, those scarred, powerful hands that had saved the world, gripped your hips with a firmness that made your breath hitch. He lifted you slightly, just enough to slide you back onto the desk proper, the wood cool against the backs of your thighs through your jeans.

Papers scattered beneath you, forgotten quizzes and notes crinkling under your weight, but neither of you cared.

Izuku's focus was solely on you, his mouth trailing from your lips to your jaw, then down the column of your throat, where he pressed open-mouthed kisses that left your skin tingling.

"oh..," he murmured against your pulse point, his voice husky and laced with awe, as if saying your name was a prayer. "You feel… so good. Tell me if it's too much. Please." Even now, in the heat of it, he was checking in, his thumb stroking soothing circles over your hipbone where his hand had slipped under your shirt again. It was so quintessentially Izuku, passionate but attentive, always prioritizing your comfort amid his own unraveling control.

You shook your head, words failing you as his teeth grazed your collarbone lightly, not biting, but nipping just enough to send a spark of heat straight to your core. "Don't stop," you managed, your voice breathy, fingers tugging harder at his hair to guide him lower.

He obliged with a soft groan, his free hand pushing your jacket off your shoulders, letting it pool around your elbows before you shrugged it off entirely. His lips followed the newly exposed skin, kissing along the neckline of your shirt, his breath hot and uneven.

With deliberate slowness, he bunched the hem of your shirt in his fingers, lifting it inch by inch, exposing the soft plane of your stomach. His eyes flicked up to yours, seeking permission, and when you nodded, your chest rising and falling rapidly, he pulled it over your head, tossing it aside. The classroom air was cool against your bare skin, but Izuku's gaze was scorching, his pupils dilated as he took you in, freckled cheeks flushing deeper.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, almost reverently, one hand tracing the curve of your waist, calluses rough yet gentle against your flesh. His other hand cupped your breast through the thin fabric of your bra, thumb brushing over the hardening nipple in slow, exploratory circles. You arched into his touch, a whimper escaping your lips, and he responded by leaning down, his mouth replacing his hand. Through the lace, he sucked gently, his tongue flicking over the peak until the fabric was damp and clinging, the sensation making your thighs clench around his hips where he'd slotted himself between them.

"Izuku-! oh," you gasped, your head falling back as he switched sides, lavishing the same attention while his hand worked the clasp of your bra with surprising dexterity. It came undone with a soft snap, and he slid the straps down your arms, exposing you fully to him.

He paused then, pulling back just enough to look, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. "I… I've thought about this," he admitted, voice trembling with vulnerability. "About touching you like this. Making you feel good."

His confession sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs, and you reached for him, pulling his mouth back to yours in a searing kiss. As your tongues tangled, his hands explored, palms skimming over your ribs, thumbs teasing your nipples until they were taut and sensitive, every pinch and roll drawing moans from you that he swallowed eagerly.

You could feel his arousal pressing against your thigh through his slacks, hard and insistent, but he made no move to rush, content to worship your body with his touch. Emboldened, your hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, popping them open one by one until you could push the fabric aside, revealing the scarred expanse of his chest.

Your fingers traced the ridges of old wounds, testaments to his heroism, and he shivered under your touch, his hips bucking slightly against you. "Your turn," you murmured against his lips, and he helped you shove the shirt off, his tie following soon after.

Skin to skin now, the contact was electric. Izuku's body was a masterpiece of lean muscle, warm and solid as he pressed against you, his arms caging you in on the desk. He kissed his way down your chest again, this time without barriers, his mouth hot and wet as he took one nipple between his lips, sucking with a rhythm that matched the growing ache between your thighs. His hand slipped lower, fingers deftly unbuttoning your jeans and easing the zipper down.

"Can I…?" he asked, voice muffled against your skin, his green eyes meeting yours with that same earnest intensity.

"Yes," you breathed, lifting your hips to help him slide your jeans and underwear down in one go, kicking them off along with your shoes. The desk was hard beneath you, but the vulnerability of being bare before him, while he still wore his slacks, only heightened the thrill. Izuku's gaze darkened as he took in the sight of you, spread out on his desk, and he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Oh- perfect," he said, almost to himself, before kneeling slightly, his hands parting your thighs with gentle pressure. He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, working his way higher with agonizing slowness. His breath ghosted over your core, making you squirm, and he looked up at you one last time. "Tell me what you like. I want to learn everything about you."

The words, so sincere and laced with desire, made your heart clench. "Just- touch me," you whispered, and he did.

His fingers traced your folds first, parting them with care, gathering the slick evidence of your arousal. He groaned softly at the feel of you, wet and ready, and circled your clit with his thumb in slow, experimental strokes. Your hips jerked, a moan tearing from your throat, and he watched your reactions intently, adjusting the pressure until he found the rhythm that made you gasp his name.

Encouraged, he leaned in, his tongue replacing his thumb, a broad, flat lick that had you arching off the desk. "Izuku- fuck!" You whimpered, fingers tangling back in his hair as he explored, his tongue swirling around your clit with increasing confidence, dipping lower to taste you fully.

He was methodical, attentive, humming in approval at every twitch and moan, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through you. When he slid one finger inside, curling it to find that sensitive spot, you cried out, your walls clenching around him.

"Like that?" he murmured against you, adding a second finger, pumping them slowly while his tongue worked your clit in tandem. He was a quick study, noting every response, speeding up when you bucked, slowing when you needed to breathe, until the coil in your belly tightened unbearably.

"Yes!- don't stop, please," you sobbed, and he didn't, his free hand holding your thigh steady as you trembled. The orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing over you in shuddering pulses, your vision blurring as you came undone under his mouth and fingers. He worked you through it gently, lapping at you until the aftershocks faded, then stood, his chin glistening, a shy but satisfied smile on his lips.

"Y-you taste amazing," he said, voice rough, as he kissed you again, letting you taste yourself on him. Your hands roamed his chest, down to the bulge in his slacks, palming him through the fabric. He groaned into your mouth, hips pressing into your touch.

"I want you," you whispered, undoing his belt with fumbling fingers. He helped, shoving his pants and boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock sprang out, thick and curved slightly, the tip flushed and leaking precum. You stroked him once, twice, reveling in the way he shuddered, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"I don't have a condom," he admitted, voice strained, though his hips bucked into your hand.

"I'm on birth control," you assured him, guiding him to your entrance. "And clean. If you are-"

"I am," he said quickly, eyes locking onto yours. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you breathed, and with that, he pushed forward, not all at once, but with exquisite, torturous slowness. The head of his cock nudged at your entrance first, parting your slick folds with a gentle pressure that made you both gasp. He was thick, the initial stretch a delicious burn as he inched in, his scarred hands gripping your hips to steady himself. Inch by inch, he filled you, the veins along his length dragging against your sensitive walls, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your core.

"Oh… god," Izuku groaned, his voice breaking on your name, forehead pressed to yours as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt. He held utterly still for a long moment, letting you adjust to the fullness, his breath coming in hot, ragged pants against your skin. "You're so tight- so warm. Does it, hah-, does it feel good for you?" Even in this moment, his concern shone through, one hand sliding up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear of overwhelming sensation.

You nodded frantically, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body accommodated him, the slight ache giving way to a throbbing need. "Yes.. ngh! Move, please, Izuku," you whispered, rolling your hips experimentally, drawing a choked moan from him.

He started with shallow thrusts, pulling out just a few inches before sliding back in, each movement deliberate and controlled, like he was savoring every flutter and clench of your pussy around him. The desk creaked softly under the rhythm, his hips rolling with that heroic precision, deep, measured strokes that hit every sensitive spot inside you.

"Like this?" he asked breathlessly, his green eyes searching yours, adjusting his angle slightly until he found the one that made you arch and cry out. Sweat beaded on his freckled forehead, curls sticking to his skin as he built the pace, his cock dragging out slowly only to thrust back in with a wet, lewd sound that filled the quiet classroom.

The pleasure built steadily, coiling tighter with each glide, but you wanted more, craved the shift, the variety. "Izuku!- wait," you panted, and he froze immediately, concern flashing in his eyes.

"Are you okay? Did I hurt-?!"

"No," you interrupted with a breathless laugh, cupping his face. "Just.. switch. Bend me over the desk."

His eyes widened, a flush creeping up his neck, but the hunger in his gaze deepened. "Yeah? You want that?" He pulled out carefully, the loss making you whine, but he was quick to help you down, turning you around with gentle hands. You bent over the desk, ass up, palms flat on the scattered papers, and he stepped behind you, one hand tracing the curve of your spine while the other guided his cock back to your entrance.

This time, when he pushed in, it was from behind, a single, deep thrust that buried him fully in one smooth motion. The new angle let him go even deeper, his cock bullying against your cervix with a pressure that made stars burst behind your eyelids. "Fuck!, you take me so well," he groaned, his voice rougher now, hands gripping your hips as he set a firmer pace. Each snap of his hips against your ass echoed obscenely, his balls slapping against your skin, the wet sounds of your arousal mixing with his breathless praises: "So perfect… look at you, bent over my desk like this."

He leaned over you, chest pressing to your back, one hand snaking around to rub your clit in tight circles while he pounded into you, the dual stimulation making your legs tremble. The desk rattled, papers fluttering to the floor, but you didn't care, the building ecstasy was all-consuming. "Izuku..! Harder," you begged, and he obliged, his thrusts turning more urgent, less restrained, each one driving you closer to the edge.

But he wasn't done exploring. After a few more deep strokes, he pulled out again, spinning you to face him. "One more," he murmured, voice husky with need, lifting you effortlessly to wrap your legs around his waist. He backed up until he hit his chair, sitting down with you straddling him, his cock sliding back inside as you sank down onto him. Gravity pulled you deeper, the position letting you control the pace now, rolling your hips in slow, grinding circles that made him throw his head back with a guttural moan.

"Oh!- yes, just like that," Izuku panted, hands roaming your back, your ass, pulling you down harder onto him. You rode him with abandon, the chair creaking under the force, his cock hitting that perfect spot with every bounce. His mouth found your breast again, sucking and nipping as you moved, the overstimulation pushing you toward another peak.

"I'm close," he warned, his hips bucking up to meet yours, thrusts erratic now. "Where-"

"Inside," you gasped, clenching around him deliberately, and that was it. With a broken cry of your name, he came, hot pulses filling you as his body tensed beneath you. The sensation triggered your own release, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you milked him dry, trembling in his arms.

By the time the shudders finally bled out of your muscles, the classroom was silent again.

No wet sounds, no gasps, no desperate little pleas. Just the tick of the wall clock, the patter of rain softening against the windows, the faint rattle of the ventilation.

You were breathing hard, cheek pressed against Izuku’s shoulder, his arms still wrapped around you where you sat in his lap. His chest rose and fell against yours, heart hammering a wild staccato, the both of you slick with sweat and clinging to each other like the floor might vanish if you let go.

You became aware of tiny details first.

His fingers splayed over your spine, still shaking a little. The way his curls stuck damply to his forehead. The bento box sitting on the edge of the desk just within reach, cloth still neatly wrapped, untouched.

Your stomach turned.

Reality slid back in all at once.

You straightened abruptly, the motion making him slip from you with a wet, humiliating drag that had you both hissing. A flush climbed up your chest, nausea and afterglow tangling unpleasantly as you scooted off his lap and onto unsteady legs.

“We have to...” Your voice came out wrecked. You cleared your throat. “We have to go. Class. You have class.”

Izuku looked up at you, dazed. There was a new rawness in his expression, like you’d peeled something back that couldn’t be covered now. He reached for you automatically, like his hands didn’t know how not to anymore.

You stepped out of reach.

It was slight. Barely more than a shift of your weight as you bent to grab your shirt off the floor. But his hand froze midair like you’d slapped it away.

“Oh,” he said softly, pulling back, fingers curling into a fist. “Right. Sorry.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your throat burned too much, full of everything you should never have let happen.

You shrugged into your shirt with jerky motions, fumbling with the hooks of your bra, fingers clumsy. You could feel his eyes on you, trying not to stare, failing, guilt etched into every line of his body.

“I should’ve-” Izuku swallowed, dragging his hand down his face. “I should’ve stopped. I… I said I would if you asked.”

“I didn’t,” you said, tugging your jeans back up. The denim scraped your thighs, whispering over skin you could still feel his hands on. “That’s on me.”

He flinched at the flatness in your tone.

Once you were covered, you finally let yourself look at him properly. Shirt open, tie somewhere on the floor, slacks pushed down enough to be incriminating, freckles scattered across his flushed chest like someone had painted them there.

You’d wanted this. You still did, in a way that made your ribs ache.

But over it, louder than everything, was the image of Katsuki in the agency kitchen that morning, brow furrowed in concentration as his hands worked over a cutting board. He’d shooed you away when you’d tried to help, barking about “not fuckin’ touching this, it’s for the nerd,” and you’d laughed, leaning against the counter, teasing him about domesticity while he pretended not to enjoy it.

He’d made that bento with his own hands.

And then he’d sent you here.

“Hey,” Izuku said quietly, watching your face. “Talk to me. Please.”

“What do you want me to say?” You forced a laugh that sounded nothing like you. “Thanks for the life-ruining orgasm, Izuku, ten out of ten, would betray my partner and his unresolved childhood love again?”

He flinched like you’d punched him.

“That’s not-” His jaw clenched. He stood, tucking himself back into his slacks with frantic, almost angry motions, like he was furious at his own body. “Don’t call it that. Don’t call it-” He broke off, eyes squeezing shut for a second. “It wasn’t nothing.”

“I know it wasn’t.” You pulled your jacket off the floor, ignoring the way your hands shook. “That’s the problem.”

He watched you slip your arms into the sleeves, watched you roll your shoulders like you could knock all the pieces of yourself back into place.

“What do we do now?” he asked, voice small.

You froze at the door. The lock glinted up at you, innocuous. It felt like the hinge between two lives.

“We don’t do anything,” you said at last, not turning around. “You teach. I sidekick. We… pretend this never happened until we can figure out how to tell him without-”

Your voice cracked. You swallowed it down.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, and the helplessness in your own words scared you more than anything. “I don’t know.”

“Should we tell him together?” he pressed, and that was so Izuku—jumping straight to the hardest, bravest thing, even when his hands were shaking. “If it comes from both of us, if he sees it wasn’t just you making a choice in the moment-”

“He trusted me,” you cut in, sharper than you meant to. “He asked me to take care of you.”

Izuku’s mouth snapped shut.

You turned then, slowly, leaning back against the door. “If you want to tell him, you can. You should. He deserves the truth from you. From both of us.” Your chest squeezed. “But I… I need time. To figure out how to look him in the eye.”

Green eyes shone behind his lashes. “What about how you look at me?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You wished he hadn’t.

“Right now,” you managed, “I can’t look at either of you without wanting to crawl out of my skin.”

He flinched like another blow, but he nodded. It wasn’t agreement so much as resignation.

“I’ll… clean up,” he said numbly, glancing at the scattered worksheets on the floor, the askew chairs, the bento still sitting dumbly on the desk. “You should go. Before students come back.”

You hesitated, every selfish part of you screaming to stay, to touch his face one more time, to tell him that no matter how much this hurt, you didn’t regret wanting him.

But the part of you that had pressed Katsuki’s gauntlets into his hands after a bad day, the part that knew exactly how he looked when he whispered Izuku’s name in sleep he didn’t know you could hear, that part grabbed your wrist, hard.

You unlocked the door and slipped out, Izuku’s quiet “Thank you for bringing lunch” following you like a ghost.

You didn’t realize until you were halfway down the hall that he hadn’t taken a single bite.

You avoided Katsuki for two days.

It wasn’t hard to manufacture excuses. Patrol shift swaps, late reports, “sorry, got pulled into a debrief with Hawks.” You kept your replies to his texts short, neutral.

My shitass boss: Did the nerd like his lunch?

Your only response was: yeah.

My shitass boss: He eat?

Yeah.

That was a lie, and it sat in the middle of your chat thread like a landmine.

You muted Izuku’s number entirely.

The first night, he called twice. You stared at your ringing phone from your couch, muscles buzzing from phantom touches, guilt sinking like lead in your stomach. You didn’t pick up. The second night, he didn’t call at all.

On the third morning, avoiding Katsuki stopped being optional.

“Hey, asshole sidekick,” he barked from the agency doorway as you tried to slip past to the elevators. “You forget you work for me or did your goldfish brain finally give out?”

You jumped, turning so fast your shoulder hit the wall. “Jesus, Katsuki! I thought you were at the morning briefing with-”

“Done.” He jerked his chin toward his office. “Get in here.”

“I have a patrol-”

“Five minutes,” he snapped, not waiting to see if you followed.

You did, because no matter how much of a coward you felt like, you were still his partner.

He shut the door behind you with a decisive click. For a brief, horrible second, you flashed back to Izuku’s hand on that classroom lock.

Katsuki dropped into his chair, arms crossing over his chest, studying you with a look that stripped you to bone. His hair was damp, explosions still faintly perfuming the air around him. He smelled like home and gunpowder.

“You’re jumpy,” he said bluntly. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you lied, because habit was faster than sense. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit. You don’t flinch when I yell unless you’ve done something stupid.”

Your mouth went dry. “Maybe you’re just extra loud today.”

He snorted. “Always loud.” His eyes narrowed. “You been sleeping?”

“Yeah.”

Another lie.

He leaned back, gaze dragging over your face, pausing briefly at your throat. You’d checked twice this morning to make sure any marks were covered, but paranoia prickled under your skin anyway.

“Nerd said you left in a hurry the other day,” Katsuki said. “You two fight or something? He was being weird as hell on the phone.”

Your pulse misfired. “We’re fine.”

“Uh-huh.” He tapped his fingers against his bicep. “He also said he wanted to talk to me about something when I wasn’t drowning in paperwork.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “He sounded… off.”

You swallowed. “Maybe it’s just the kids. They’re a handful. Or he’s tired.”

“Yeah, well, he’s always tired.” Katsuki’s scowl softened infinitesimally. “Idiot doesn’t know how to sit down.”

You didn’t know what to do with your hands, so you tucked them into your pockets.

“He’ll be at U.A. late tonight grading or some shit,” Katsuki went on, almost to himself. “Said I should swing by if I’ve got time.”

Something cold crawled up your spine.

“Are you going?” you asked, because apparently your self-preservation instincts were dead.

He shrugged, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to nervous. “Maybe. Depends on how work goes.” He leveled a look at you. “You’re comin’ with me tomorrow, though. No more ducking my calls.”

Your throat closed. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.” His eyes flashed. “We’ve got a training exercise with 3-A, remember? You’re the one who helped plan the damn thing.”

Oh. Right. The joint simulation. You’d completely forgotten.

“Right,” you croaked. “Tomorrow.”

He studied you for another long, heavy moment.

“If you’ve got something to tell me,” he said abruptly, and your heart stopped, “you’d better spit it out. I can smell when people are hiding shit.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Izuku, I-we... I’m sorry, I-

You saw his face crumble in your mind. You saw the way he’d look at you. You saw Izuku, too, with his hands shaking as he stuttered through a confession he thought he could control.

You heard yourself say, very quietly, “Nothing to tell.”

The lie landed between you with the same weight as the bento had on that desk.

Katsuki’s lip curled, something wounded flashing across his features so fast you almost missed it. He clicked his tongue, looking away.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Get outta my office. Don’t fuck up patrol.”

You left. It felt a little like running.

The next day, U.A. felt different.

You told yourself it was just your nerves. That the sting in your palms was from the chill air and not from digging your nails into them on the train ride over. That the students’ curious stares as you and Dynamight strode across the grounds were the same as always.

You knew better.

Izuku had texted that morning. Can we talk before the exercise? Please.

You’d stared at the messages until the screen went dark. Then you’d slipped your phone into your pocket and pretended you hadn’t seen them.

Now, walking beside Katsuki down the familiar corridor toward 3-A, your gut churned so hard you thought you might throw up.

“You’re weirdly quiet,” Katsuki said, not breaking stride. “Try not to traumatize the brats more than usual, yeah? Recovery Girl’s on my ass about ‘unnecessary emotional damage.’”

“Pretty sure that’s your department,” you muttered.

He smirked. “Yeah. I’m good at my job.”

You were three steps from the classroom door when you heard it.

“-I just think you should tell him,” a voice said from inside. Not Izuku’s. Aizawa’s, low and flat. There was a rustle of cloth, the soft scrape of a chair. “Secrets like that always blow up in your face.”

Your feet stalled. Katsuki’s hand shot out, catching your elbow before you could ram into him.

“The hell?” he hissed.

You both froze, just out of sight of the glass pane. The door was cracked open an inch.

“I know,” Izuku’s voice answered, frayed and exhausted. “I know, but she's been avoiding me ever since. I didn’t want to drag her into another confrontation until I’d figured out how to talk to Kacchan without-”

Katsuki went still.

Your veins turned to ice.

Aizawa sighed. “You think letting him find out on his own is going to hurt less?”

“I’m not-! I’m not trying to hide it,” Izuku said, and the strain in his voice made your chest ache. “I asked him to meet yesterday, but he said he had work. I thought, maybe after today’s exercise, we could...”

“And the sidekick?” Aizawa asked. “Are you giving her the same courtesy?”

“I’m trying,” Izuku said quietly. “She won't answer my calls. I don’t… want her to face Kacchan’s reaction alone. It was my classroom. I started that conversation. I should’ve stopped it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

There was a long pause. When Izuku spoke again, his voice was very small.

“No,” he whispered. “I don’t regret wanting her. I just… wish I’d found a way that didn’t feel like I was stealing something from him.”

Katsuki’s hand tightened painfully on your elbow.

You didn’t realize you’d stopped breathing until your lungs burned.

Aizawa hummed, noncommittal. “You can’t change how it started. All you can do is decide how honest you’re going to be from now on.”

“I know,” Izuku said again. “I just I can’t stand the thought of Kacchan looking at me the way he used to. Like I’m… like I’m something he has to fight.”

A chair scraped; the soft pad of footsteps moved closer to the door. Katsuki’s grip dropped away from your arm.

You turned to him without thinking, already forming the beginning of an apology that felt woefully inadequate, Katsuki, I- I should have told you, I’m sorry!

His face stopped you cold.

He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t seething with the explosive, immediate rage you’d braced for.

He looked… quiet. White-cheeked. Eyes wide and blown out, not with anger but with a kind of hollow disbelief you’d never seen on him before.

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice was raw. “Don’t say a fuckin’ word.”

“Katsuki-”

He stepped back from you like your touch burned. “You knew,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “You knew he wanted to talk to me.”

“Yes, but-”

“And that’s what it was.” His mouth twisted. “Not some kid bein’ a dumbass or a villain attack or-!” He laughed once, a horrible, empty sound. “You fucked him. In his classroom.”

The door behind you opened fully.

Izuku stood there, midway through a sentence that died on his tongue when he saw who was in the hall. His face went through three expressions in a heartbeat, surprise, then hope, then horror, as he took in the situation. You. Katsuki. The distance between you. The look on Katsuki’s face.

“Kacchan,” Izuku breathed. “You’re early. I-”

Katsuki’s eyes slid past you and locked onto him. For a second, everything in his body seemed to coil, like a fuse sparking toward a bomb.

“Don’t,” he said again, but this time to Izuku. His voice shook. “Don’t call me that right now.”

Izuku flinched visibly, color draining from his face.

“Katsuki,” you started, stepping forward. “Please, let us explain. It wasn’t-!”

He cut you a look that stopped you dead. Not blazing fury. Not cold contempt.

Just hurt. Bare and bleeding and so much deeper than anger.

“I asked you,” he said slowly, like the words tasted bad in his mouth, “to take him lunch.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“I made that stupid bento,” he went on, like he hadn’t heard you, staring straight at Izuku now. “Was up half the night marinating that shitty chicken recipe he sent me because ‘it’s good for muscle recovery,’ and I thought-” His voice cracked. He bit it down. “I thought, for once, I wasn’t gonna be a coward. I was gonna do something nice without makin’ it weird. And I couldn’t go myself, because I’m a goddamn pro hero with reports comin’ out my ass, so I asked the only person I fuckin’ trust to take it to you.”

Izuku was shaking his head, tears already gathering. “Katsuki, I-!”

“And you.” Katsuki’s gaze swung back to you, sharp and glassy. “You come back, you tell me he’s fine, he ate, he said thanks, like-” He laughed again, shoulders hitching. “Like you didn’t just-” He stopped, swallowing hard, the word dying unsaid. “Was that before or after?”

Something in you snapped.

“That’s not fair,” you said hoarsely. “You don’t get to act like I planned to—whatever you think happened—when you’re the one who’s been too afraid to give him anything concrete for months. You know how he feels. He knows how you feel. You both just sit there orbiting each other and I— I was trying to help.”

“By screwing him on his desk?” The venom in his voice finally surfaced, acid and bright. “Yeah, great job, sidekick, ten out of ten support work.”

“Stop it,” Izuku burst out, stepping forward. “Don’t talk to them like that, it wasn’t just—”

“Shut up.” Katsuki spun on him, eyes blazing now. “You don’t get to defend them from shit I’m saying because of what you did, Deku.”

The name landed heavy. It had weight, coming from his mouth like that. Izuku flinched like he’d been slapped.

“I’m not defending them from you,” he said, and there was steel under the tremor in his voice. “I’m defending them from your guilt. I started that conversation. I pushed. I locked the door. If you need to hate someone, hate me.”

“Oh, believe me,” Katsuki said, low and savage, “I’ve been practicin’ that since we were four. I’m great at it.”

“That’s enough,” Aizawa’s voice cut in from the classroom, colder than ice. You’d forgotten he was there. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “Take this somewhere else. The students will be here in three minutes.”

Nobody moved.

Katsuki’s hands were clenched so hard his knuckles were white, tiny crackles of smoke fizzing between his fingers. You knew that posture. You’d seen it before big fights, before he did something reckless, before he took a hit he didn’t think he deserved to dodge.

“Katsuki,” you said softly. “Please. Let’s just talk!”

He looked at you.

There it was again, that stupid, awful softness you’d spent months trying to coax out of him. The part of him that made lunch bentos and showed up to a high school twice a week just to watch one idiot nerd talk about quirk theory.

“I told you,” he said quietly, the anger burning down to embers. “I don’t fuckin’ pine.”

You opened your mouth. He shook his head.

“But I guess I do pick the worst goddamn people to trust.”

That landed harder than anything else.

You stepped forward, instincts screaming. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare—”

“You’re off patrol,” he said, cutting you off without raising his voice. That, somehow, made it worse. “Indefinitely. Jeans’ll sign the paperwork.”

It took you a second to parse the words. “You’re… firing me?”

His jaw flexed. “I’m not gonna drag your name through the dirt over my personal shit. You’ll get a glowing recommendation, you’ll land on your feet, you always do.” His gaze slid away, toward the windows, like he couldn’t stand to look at either of you anymore. “But I can’t have you at my back in the field if I can’t stop thinkin’ about you on his lap.”

You might have preferred him to throw you through a wall.

“Dynamight,” Aizawa said sharply. “This is not the way!”

“Don’t,” Katsuki snapped, all edges again. “Don’t tell me how to run my agency, Eraser.”

He turned back to Izuku one last time. “And you,” he said. “Congratulations, nerd. You finally did it. You got me to run away.”

Izuku’s face crumpled.

“Kacchan!” he said, reaching out without thinking.

Katsuki stepped back like the touch was poison.

“Don’t follow me,” he said. Not a threat. A plea. “I’ll do somethin’ stupid if you do.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked away. No explosions. No slammed doors. Just the sharp, echoing sound of his boots on the tile, getting softer and softer down the hall.

You didn’t chase him.

You couldn’t move. Your legs felt like someone had poured cement into them. Your lungs were tight, your heart banging against your ribs like it wanted out.

The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.

Aizawa sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“This,” he said blandly, “is why I tell you not to mix your personal shit with school grounds.”

You made a small, strangled sound that might have been a laugh.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku said to him automatically, voice wrecked. “I’ll handle it. I’ll- I’ll talk to the principal. If you need to report...”

“I’m not your ethics committee,” Aizawa cut in. “You’re adults. You made a mess. You’ll clean it up or you won’t.”

He gave you a long look. It wasn’t kind, exactly, but it wasn’t cruel either. Just tired.

“Class starts in two minutes,” he said. “You should both leave before thirty teenagers walk into this emotional landfill.”

That, at least, you could do.

You turned, forcing your feet to carry you down the hall. You made it as far as the corner before your vision blurred.

“Wait,” Izuku’s voice called softly behind you. “Please. Don’t-.. don’t just disappear.”

You stopped with your hand on the wall.

“How am I supposed to stay?” you asked, not turning around. Your throat burned. “You heard him. He doesn’t want me at his back. That’s… that’s everything.”

“I can talk to him,” Izuku said, desperation creeping in. “When he calms down, I’ll explain, I’ll take responsibility, I’ll-”

“Responsibility doesn’t unfuck a classroom,” you snapped, spinning to face him.

He flinched, but you weren’t done.

“It doesn’t put the bento back in the fridge. It doesn’t put the words back in my mouth before I said I liked you.” Your vision swam again. You blinked hard. “I don’t regret wanting you, Izuku. I need you to know that. But I don’t know how to look at myself knowing I blew up the one constant he had left from that damn school.”

Tears spilled down his cheeks, slow and quiet. He didn’t wipe them away.

“I’ve been his constant,” Izuku said softly. “That’s… the problem, isn’t it? Every time he tries to move forward, there I am. And now you’re stuck in the middle.”

You thought of the way Katsuki had said don’t call me that right now. How Izuku had flinched like the loss of Kacchan meant more than any explosion ever could.

“I need time,” you said again, because it was the only thing you had. “I need… space. From both of you. Until I can figure out if I’m staying in this mess or walking away from it entirely.”

Izuku swallowed hard. “Does ‘space’ mean I don’t hear from you at all?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Probably for a while.”

He nodded slowly, like he’d expected that answer and hated it anyway.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll be here. If you decide you want to yell at me more. Or if you just… want to talk about something other than how badly we fucked this up.”

You huffed out a broken laugh. “You’re assuming there’ll be a version of us that ever gets to talk about anything else.”

His smile was small and hopeless. “I have to assume something,” he said. “Otherwise I’m going to fall apart in front of my students.”

You didn’t trust yourself to answer that, so you didn’t. You just nodded once, sharp and shaky, and turned away.

This time, he didn’t follow.

You filed your resignation two days later.

Best Jeanist called you personally, voice maddeningly calm as he talked through “image management” and “personal boundaries” and “the importance of maintaining camaraderie in the workplace.” He didn’t ask for details. He didn’t need to. Gossip traveled fast in hero circles. Even faster in schools.

The official story was that you were taking an indefinite leave to “reassess your career goals.”

The unofficial story, whispered in hallways and over group chats, was that something had blown up between Dynamight and his sidekick and U.A.’s golden teacher, and no one knew whether the crater would ever close.

You didn’t respond to those messages either.

Katsuki didn’t text at all.

Izuku did, once. He’s… not okay. I don’t think I’ve seen him this quiet since Kamino. I’m not telling you this so you’ll fix it. I know that’s not fair. I just thought you should know.

You stared at the words for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

In the end, you turned your phone face-down on the table and walked away.

Weeks later, you found yourself standing at the edge of a rooftop, city lights flickering below like a scatter of stars someone had dropped.

You’d taken a few temp gigs with smaller agencies. Night patrols. Solo work. It was strange, not having Katsuki’s familiar presence at your shoulder, not knowing where to place your banter, your backup, your trust.

You missed Izuku, too, in a quieter way. You missed his voice, the way he said your name, the way he’d text you articles at two in the morning with “thought you’d find this cool” attached.

You missed all of it.

You also knew, bone-deep, that wanting to go back didn’t mean you could. Some fractures didn’t heal clean. Some scars didn’t grow smooth.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

For a moment, your heart leapt stupidly, wondering which name would be on the screen. It was neither.

Just a patrol update. A reminder that life went on, crimes still happened, people still needed saving, even when your own personal world had imploded in a classroom caught between past and present.

You exhaled, watching it ghost white in the cold air.

Maybe, someday, there would be a conversation. In a staff room, or a dingy bar, or on some battlefield where you’d all been stupid enough to live through something big again. Maybe there would be apologies, and screaming, and the kind of rough, halting honesty that had always been yours in pieces, never whole.

Maybe there wouldn’t.

Maybe Katsuki would build a new team that never stepped foot in U.A. again. Maybe Izuku would throw himself even harder into teaching, into his students, into the safe, structured kind of hero work that didn’t involve letting anyone too close.

Maybe you’d watch them from screens and headlines, knowing that somewhere under all that, there was a boy making bentos he never got to deliver and another one keeping that lunchbox in the back of his fridge for weeks, unable to throw it away.

You didn’t know.

All you knew, standing there with the wind tugging at your jacket and the city yawning below, was that you’d made a choice in a quiet classroom because your heart had been tired of standing still.

You’d paid for it. So had they.

You flexed your fingers once, then stepped off the edge of the roof, quirk flaring to catch you as you dropped into the city that needed you, even if the two people you wanted most might never again.

The hallway smells like someone’s burned dinner. Your keys fumble, clatter, scrape the lock before you find the right angle. The door gives with a small groan, and the apartment exhales warmth at you, soft lamplight, the hum of the fridge, the faint citrus-and-vanilla scent of the detergent Yuji insists on because it “smells happy.” You step inside and shut the door as quietly as you can, bones aching with a tired you can’t name.

“Hey?” Yuji’s voice carries from the kitchen, bright and easy. “You’re- oh.” A scrape of a chair leg. A pause, like a held breath.

You keep your eyes on the floor. The hallway runner catches on your shoe, the ridge in the weave pressing against your toes, and you think you could pick out each thread if you had to. You slip out of your shoes anyway and toe them neatly to the side, then reach for the hook with your jacket and miss, because your hands are shaking. You try again. On the second try, you get the loop over the hook. Your throat feels like paper.

“Hey.” Softer now. Closer. You can feel the new temperature of him, the way his presence always changes the air. “You’re home.”

You nod once. You don’t mean to keep moving, but your body’s already sliding down the short hallway toward the bedroom like a tide, as if your muscles were set on rails and the bedroom were a harbor you’ve been promised. The lamp on your nightstand is off. Your sheets are still messy from this morning. There’s a hair tie on the floor and a book face-down on the pillow and everything, everything, is so normal that your chest hurts.

“Babe?” Yuji is there in the doorway now, big shoulders blocking the rest of the apartment, a silhouette cut out of something warm. “Can I-” He steps forward, careful, slow, as if approaching a skittish cat. He always leaves space like you taught him. “Can I turn on the light?”

You swallow. The word doesn’t come at first. You manage a nod. The click is small; the light is not. It swells over the room in a low, golden glow, and you know the second his eyes catch the side of your face.

He goes very, very still.

You look down, but you can feel the shift, his breath catches, his weight settles differently, his shoulders roll forward like he’s holding himself back from something. He doesn’t touch you. You love him, so stupidly, so completely, for how he doesn’t touch you.

“Did you… fall?” he asks, voice careful, slow around each letter like he’s fitting them together for you to inspect. You hear the strain under it, a taut wire he’s pretending isn’t there.

“No,” you say, because it would be an insult to both of you.

His jaw moves once. “Okay.” A breath in through his nose, out in a slow measure like he’s counting. He angles his body so he’s not blocking the exit. “Do you want a hug?” It’s a gift offered palm-up.

Your chin wobbles. You nod.

He crosses the space in a step and doesn’t swallow you whole; he begs you in. His hands ghost your shoulders first, asking again without words, and when you lean into him he pulls you gently, gently, against his chest. He is warm everywhere, solid and steady and smelling like laundry and that tea he always makes too strong, and his heart is a metronome under your ear. When you press your face there the world steadies by degrees you can feel.

His hand comes up to the nape of your neck, not pushing, just holding. “You’re safe,” he murmurs into your hair. “I got you. You’re safe.”

The breath you’ve been holding since the door, maybe since the bus, maybe since the text that said “we should talk,” tears out of you. It hurts on the way up. He stands there and lets it, a pillar you can lean all your weight against, and when you shake he doesn’t try to stop it. He just keeps saying, low and sure, “I’m here. I’m here,” like an anchor line thrown out over storm water.

When the worst of it passes, when the shaking is smaller, when the room comes back into focus, he tips a fraction away so he can see you. His eyes pick up the light and hold it, pretty brown turned molten.

“Can I look?” he asks.

You hesitate. Your skin throbs where it curved under a palm. Your mother’s hand. The words hitch in your throat, but they don’t have to come out yet. You nod.

He angles you toward the light, thumb hovering at your cheekbone and not touching, not yet, while he looks. His brows tuck in, the muscle in his jaw jumping. His breath goes slow again, the kind of slow that means he wants to be quick. He doesn’t say you’re bruising. He doesn’t say there’s a clear outline. He doesn’t say anything that would feel like labeling. He just meets your gaze again and says, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Your voice is a rasp.

“For letting me see.” He holds your eyes like a promise. “Can I get you ice? And the little ointment from the bathroom? Or we can just sit, if you want. Or we can lie down. Or… whatever you need. Just tell me.”

You manage, “Ice,” in the same breath as, “I’m sorry.” The apology falls out half-formed and ugly between you.

He flinches, not from you, never from you, but like the word lands on him and burns. “Nope,” he says, too gently to be a scold and too firm to be anything else. “We’re not sorry for existing, remember? We’re not sorry for being hurt.” His hand hovers, then settles feather-light, his thumb stroking your shoulder through your shirt like he’s reminding himself you’re here. “I’m gonna grab the ice. Two seconds.”

He moves fast and you hear the kitchen cabinet and the clatter of the ice tray and the soft pad of his feet as he goes to the bathroom cabinet you reorganized last weekend. He’s back with a towel-wrapped ice pack and the little tube of ointment and the mug he must’ve already had steeping, herbal, steam swirling. He sets everything on the nightstand like a nurse laying instruments, turns back to you, and sits on the edge of the bed facing you, close enough that you can feel the warmth rolling off him, far enough that you can breathe.

“Can I…?” The ice hovers.

You nod. The cold bites, a clean pain you can categorize. He watches your face like it’s a sky he needs to learn to read. He adjusts the pressure a fraction, checks your eyes again. When he sees your shoulders loosen, he exhales like a pilot landing.

“Five things you can see,” he murmurs, like it’s casual conversation. “If you want. No rules.”

You let your eyes wander. “Lamp. Your hoodie. The… blue mug. The… crease in the sheets.” Your tongue feels strange in your mouth. “Your freckles.”

His mouth crooks. He doesn’t look away from you. “Four things you can feel?”

“The cold. The… knit on the bedspread. My socks.” Your fingers curl into the fabric. “Your knee. I can feel your knee.”

He lowers his voice. “Three things you can hear.”

“The… fridge. The… your breathing. The hallway. Someone’s walking.”

“Two things you can smell.”

“Tea,” you say, because the steam brushes your lip when you shift. “You.”

“Yeah?” He’s trying for light, but he sounds hoarse. “What do I smell like?”

“Warm.”

He smiles like it hurts him. “I’ll take it. One thing you can taste?”

You lick your lips. “Tea, if I drink it.”

He offers the mug with both hands. “It’s not too hot. I checked.”

You take a sip. The chamomile blooms across your tongue, soft and grassy. It anchors you. You don’t realize you’ve leaned your knees to his until his hand lands on your thigh, cupping above your knee in a steady, respectful hold.

His eyes flick to the side of your face again, to the place that throbs dully under the ice, and the wire under his voice pulls tighter. “Do you want to tell me?” he asks. “You don’t have to. We can sit exactly like this for the rest of the night and watch the weird cooking show where the guy puts jam on everything and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.” A breath. “But if you want to put it somewhere, I can hold it.”

You stare at the mug. Your lip trembles; you press it to the rim like that can make it still. “She-” The word is a splinter. “I thought- she asked to see me. She said she wanted to… clear the air.” You laugh and it sounds ugly. “She said a lot of things. She said I’m dramatic. She said I make everything about me. She said I’ve always been-” The word you don’t want lodges behind your teeth. “She got angry, and I said I needed to go. I stood, and she....” Your fingers gesture weakly toward your face. You don’t want to say slapped. There’s a childishness to the consonants that makes your stomach twist.

Yuji’s hand tightens once on your knee. Not enough to be pain. Enough to be the exact shape of his anger.

“She hit you,” he says, and the sentence is clean, a knife cutting around rot. He doesn’t ask if you did something to deserve it. He doesn’t ask if maybe you misunderstood. He says it like a fact, because it is one. “Okay.”

You look up at him then, really look, and see it: the way his body is a storm he is refusing to unleash in your bedroom. His jaw ticks. His shoulders are set. His eyes are not soft right now; they are something else, something solid and burning, like the center of a furnace.

“I’m going to say a thing,” he says, very calm. “And you can tell me to stop. You can tell me I’m wrong. You can tell me you don’t want to hear it. But I have to say it at least once, for the record.”

You nod, because you know this ritual too, his little speeches, his careful disclaimers. They are a courtesy and a promise.

“It is not okay for anyone to put their hands on you in anger. Ever.” His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. “Not a stranger. Not a friend. Not family. Not even once. There isn’t a sentence she could have said and a reply you could have given that makes this okay.” His throat works. “I am so angry right now I could chew through the wall. I want to-” He stops, inhales, counts it out. “I want to go tell her the truth about who you are. I want to make her hear it until it rattles around in her skull. I want to...” His fingers flex on your knee. “But I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to. I am not leaving you. I am staying right here, and I am going to take care of you, and I am going to make sure you feel safe, and then later, if you decide you want me to do anything, we will decide together. Okay?”

Your breath hitches on a sound that’s not a laugh and not a sob. The shape of him, anger and restraint braided together, does something unspoolingly tender to your chest. The room feels bigger around it. “Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay.” He nods once, like you’ve struck a deal. The anger doesn’t leave his eyes, but it sits down. It folds its legs and waits.

“Can I touch you here?” he asks, hovering his hand near your cheek.

You nod. He replaces the ice with his palm for a second, warm after the cold, just to ground you. Then he squeezes a pea-sized dollop of ointment on his pinky and warms it on his thumb before he brings it toward your skin. He works with such careful pressure that it makes your throat ache, something about this big, strong boy with hands meant for throwing punches and saving lives learning your face like it’s the softest thing he’s ever handled. He doesn’t flinch at the color. He doesn’t treat you like you might break; he treats you like you matter.

“Hurts?” he asks, watching your eyes for the answer.

“A little,” you say honestly.

He nods, gentle. “You’re so brave,” he says, and you make a noise, because brave isn’t what you feel like. He adds quickly, “Not for getting hit. For coming home to me. For letting me hold you. That’s brave.”

You blink hard. The tears that were skirting your vision push over. He catches one with his thumb before it can sting the tender skin, and you think you might cry just from that, this ridiculous, careful boy, making sure even your tears don’t hurt you.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me?”

You do. He is beautiful like this: a face made to smile forged into something unyielding for you. “I love you,” he says, and it’s not new, but it lands new every time. “I love you when you’re loud and when you’re quiet and when you’re so tired you can’t talk and when you’re mad at the toaster because it burned the bagel. I love you when you’re brave and when you don’t feel brave and when you’re messy and when you’re put-together and when you cry and when you don’t and every version of you I’ve ever met and every one I haven’t yet. I love you.”

The tears don’t ask permission this time. They spill hot and salt, and he leans forward and kisses your forehead, just above your brow, slow and steady, like a blessing. Then he kisses your temple on the unhurt side, then your hairline, then the crown of your head, and you feel yourself sinking down into him like a soft place you’ve always known. When you make a small sound he draws you into his chest again, careful of your face, and you let yourself fold, bones rearranging to fit the shape of him.

“My love,” he says into your hair. “You are not what she said. You’ve never been what she said. And I will say that every day until you know it in your bones.”

“I don’t want her to come here,” you say, muffled. The thought scrapes through you, bright and sharp. “I don’t want her near me.”

He goes impossibly gentle. “Then she won’t. I’ll change the privacy settings on all your stuff. I’ll block her number. I’ll let the front desk know we’re not expecting visitors and that nobody gets up without an okay from us.” He pauses, thinking. “We can put the chain on the door. We can get one of those cute little door cameras that sends me videos of the neighbor’s cat. We can… call her and tell her not to contact you again. Or we can write a letter. Or we can do nothing.” His hand rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades. “You’re in charge.”

You breathe. In, out. The oven ticks as it cools somewhere in the apartment. The anxious hum under your skin loosens a notch. “Can we… just stay in here?”

“As long as you want.” He reaches back one-handed and yanks the comforter down, then shifts, tugging you with him so you’re both half-reclined. He kicks off his slippers without looking. You end up with your head pillowed on his chest, his arm around your shoulders, his other hand finding yours where it lies at your side and lacing your fingers together. He squeezes once, and the squeeze says everything again.

After a while he asks, “Want the weird cooking show?”

You shake your head against his shirt. “Just you.”

He lets out a sound that could be a laugh if it weren’t so soft. “Okay.” He hums then, some tuneless thing that isn’t a song but is still music because it’s his chest under your ear and his throat vibrating against your hair. It’s a sound you’ve fallen asleep to on more than one hard day. You follow it like a thread.

He keeps talking in low, easy lines, the way you talk to someone coaxing them through a practice. “You’re here,” he says. “We brushed your hair this morning and you wore the soft blue sweater. There were oranges on the kitchen counter. You like oranges.” His thumb strokes the back of your hand. “Tomorrow we can make pancakes. The ones with chocolate chips. Or those banana ones you like. We’ll put a ridiculous tower of whipped cream on them, like a skyscraper. We’ll make the apartment smell like sugar and coffee and pretend we’re in one of those cafés with the giant plants. And if you want we can go for a walk and kick at leaves and hold hands and no one gets to say anything about it, because it’s our walk. Or we can stay in bed and I’ll read to you in the dumbest voice until you threaten to throw a pillow at me.”

You huff, a small sound that almost remembers how to laugh. “Your dumb voice is very dumb.”

“I know,” he says, pleased. “It gets results.”

A stretch of silence opens and breathes. You can taste how tired you are. The side of your face aches, but the sharpness has retreated to something that feels like it will be manageable. Yuji’s shirt is soft under your cheek, worn thin in the place where your face always ends up. Your fingers twitch in his and he answers, squeezing back like punctuation.

He hesitates, then: “I’m still mad,” he admits, quiet enough that it’s almost for him. “Like… I know anger’s not a plan, but I’m holding it like a hot potato and I don’t know where to put it yet. I want to be careful with it, because you deserve careful. But I also want you to know that you are worth getting mad about.” He shifts so he can look down at you, his eyes bright and fierce and oddly tender. “You are worth protecting. You’ve always been worth protecting. If little you walked into this apartment right now, I’d kneel down and I’d tell her that. I’d tell her she’s not too much and not too little and not the problem and that she deserves to be loved this exact way. I’d tell her she gets to leave when she wants. I’d tell her there’s a boy with dumb hair and a big heart waiting for her who will make pancakes with too many chocolate chips and hide her from the bad days under a blanket fort.” His mouth softens. “And then I’d stay. Because I’m staying. That’s the whole plan.”

Something breaks open in your chest. It’s not violent. It’s more like a door unlatched. The cry that comes out of you is not neat. He takes it like a tide. He holds you and lets you cry, murmuring nonsense, good nonsense, the kind that lets your brain melt into a familiar, safe puddle. It takes a long time. He doesn’t make a sound of impatience, not once.

When the crying tapers into breath-hitches, he kisses your hair again. “You did so good,” he whispers. “You did so, so good.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, thick.

“You came home.” He tips his head to nuzzle your temple, careful of your cheek. “You let me be your safe place. That’s everything.”

Your eyes feel raw. Your body feels heavy in a way that promises sleep if you let it. You don’t want to move. He must feel it, because he shifts just enough to tug the comforter up and around you both, tucking it under your shoulder and smoothing it where it threatens your face.

He reaches for the lamp, hesitates. “Too dark?”

“It’s okay,” you say. He leaves it on low, a cone of gold.

“Okay,” he echoes, settling. He tucks your hand against his sternum, covering it with his own, and you feel his heartbeat thrum against your palm. It is a stubborn rhythm. It is, impossibly, the most beautiful thing you have ever touched.

You drift. He hums again, smaller now, content to be background, content to be something that holds.

Just before sleep takes you, you hear him say it again, almost to himself but angled toward you like a prayer: “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The apartment hums. The world is narrowed to warm breath and layered blankets and the feeling of being chosen, over and over. You press your ear to his chest and let the rhythm count you down. When your body finally releases the day, it’s into arms that have made themselves into a harbor with your name on it.

You’ve always been loudest in motion.

The Corps gossips that you were born in a typhoon: that you cried the moment the wind rattled the eaves and the shutters bowed, and the first time you drew steel, the air around you tilted like a storm eye finding its calm. They say you’re the only one who can make Tomioka look twice, the only steady line on the map of his otherwise solitary life.

You don’t listen.

Hurricane Breathing, Third Form: Shearline—your blade kisses across the Lower One demon’s ribcage, wind compressing into a gnawing crescent that peels flesh from bone. The demon howls, and Giyuu is already there, quiet as snowfall, Water Breathing’s Sixth Form whispering through the din. His sword takes the neck at an oblique angle; the cut is clean, the spray is not. Enamel-bright teeth snap past his cheek and catch his shoulder just before the head thuds free.

You see it a fraction too late.

“Giyuu!”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t so much as grunt when his haori blooms red. You’re already pivoting, Seventh Form: Cyclone Wall, the air wrapping your bodies as the demon’s flailing arms twitch through their final spasms. The fragments fizzle. The forest exhales. You do not.

He stands there a beat longer than you can stand, blood dripping from his sleeve to his knuckles, to the moss. You control your breath the way you always have, four heartbeats in, hold, two out, and it doesn’t matter. The storm is inside you now, quivering and bright and terrified. If the bite had been an inch deeper-

“Let me see,” you say, too sharply.

“I’m fine,” he says, too soft.

“Sit. Down.”

A wisteria lantern winks to life between the trees as if it heard you. The hidden house is a short walk along a lantern-lit path where summer night air hums with dry grasshoppers and the sweet perfume of the blossoms. The proprietress has your names before you can think to give them, before Giyuu can downplay anything. She ushers you to a spare room, tatami faintly warm from the day’s heat, futon folded in the corner, fresh bandages stacked on a tray.

He shrugs off his haori and the red half shifts over your lap as he sits. The fabric smells like rain and cedar and sweat. You press cloth to skin and watch the bite mark ooze again, angry and slick along the curve of his shoulder. It’s not deep, thank the gods, it’s not deep, but it’s messy, and he’s already bruising where the teeth pinched muscle.

“Does it hurt?” you ask.

“No.”

“Liar.”

His mouth lifts, so barely, it’s more an exhale than a smile. “A little.”

You clean. You stitch where the edges refuse to meet, your fingers steady because they must be. You can list every scar on his body and where it came from. You were there for most of them. You did not get there in time for some. The needle bites your own fingertip and you don’t feel it, not over the way your chest keeps trying to break.

“You should have stepped back,” you whisper.

“You were open on the left,” he says. “I covered.”

“You always cover.” Your voice splinters. “And one day- Giyuu, one day-”

He goes very still, as if stillness could rewind you both to the moment before anything hurt. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

You knot the final stitch too hard. “I almost didn’t get to say it.”

“Say what?”

Your pulse is thunder. The words are a storm surge you can’t hold back any longer, not after blood on his shoulder and the memory of teeth where your palm is now. You’ve danced around him for years, orbiting and retreating, a comet you were too afraid to let land. You swallow. You breathe.

“I love you,” you say, and your throat ricochets with it, and the room leans, and once it’s out it won’t stop. “I love you and I am so tired of pretending it’s anything else, and I thought if I waited it would be safer or smarter or less selfish, but I can’t- Giyuu, I can’t keep waiting. I can’t lose you without you knowing that I-”

He moves.

Not the careful, measured step you’ve come to recognize like the rhythm of your own sword. He’s on you like a breaking wave, no argument, no speech, just heat and hands and the clean cut of purpose that always lives in his body when the decision is made.

Your back finds the wall. His palm finds your throat, not squeezing, just bracing, his thumb stroking the flutter of your pulse while his mouth devours yours. It’s a kiss like he fights: ruthless in its focus, unhurried in its certainty, building pressure until you feel yourself give way. He tastes like iron and mint and heat.

“Say it again,” he murmurs against your mouth, and the sound of him like this, wanting, ragged, makes your knees unspool.

“I...love-” He swallows the last word with a low sound that lights your spine.

Clothes go in graceless directions, the tie of your uniform yanked loose, your breast band tugged down so his mouth can close over a stiffening nipple, his teeth scraping, tongue soothing, the contrast making you gasp. He drops to his knees as if prayer is sudden and inevitable. You tremble. The storm answers.

“Giyuu-”

He hooks his fingers beneath your thigh, hitches your leg over his shoulder, and looks up at you from the tatami with pupils blown wide and possessive enough to set you shaking. “Do you want this?”

He always asks like this: quiet, absolute.

“Yes.” Your voice is breath, wind through reed grass. “Please.”

The first lap of his tongue is slow and exploratory, as if he’s mapping you to memory: a careful press from base to tip, pausing at your clit to flick, to watch you jolt, to hum when your fingers card into his hair and hold. He breathes you in and then eats you like he’s been hungry for years, messy, devoted, patient in that way that drives you half-mad because he’ll pull back just when you start to climb, will murmur, “More?” against your swollen flesh, and then give it to you.

“G-Giyuu- ah!- god!”

“Breathe,” he says, and you do, you do, your body taking the shape of your own technique, Hurricane Breathing, Second Form: Spiral Lift, the air seems to buoy you as he seals his mouth around your clit and sucks, two fingers sliding inside with the cautious control of a swordsman setting a blade into lacquer. He curls. You shatter.

The climax rakes through you, bright and tearing, thighs clamping around his head. He moans like it’s his own relief, like he’s waited for this sound in secret, in the dark. You fall against the wall, panting, a little shocked at the violence of it, at how your body keeps twitching when he keeps lapping, can’t seem to stop.

“Bed,” he says against your skin, voice shredded. “Now.”

You stumble together to the futon. He rolls his shoulders once, a quick wince at the stitches, your heart hiccups, but he’s already braced above you, hair falling around his face in a curtain you want to live behind. You reach for his belt. He catches your wrist, guiding your hand to feel how hard he is beneath the fabric.

“For me?” It’s teasing, a thing you didn’t know he could be.

“Since you said it,” he answers; the honesty steals your breath. “Since before.”

You push his pants down; his cock springs free, heavy and flushed, smearing your belly with precome when he drags the head across you, slow, like he wants to paint you in it. You shiver.

“Condom?” he asks.

Your laugh is helpless. “Do you have one?”

“No.”

“Me either.” You bite your lip. “I’m clean. I... want to feel you.”

His jaw flexes. “Inside.” It’s a promise and a plea. “All of me.”

“Yes.”

He lines up and pushes, inch by aching inch, the stretch exquisite, your nails scoring his back when he bottoms out and just…stays, forehead to yours, breathing you, letting you breathe him. You can feel the tremor in his thighs as he fights the urge to move.

“You good?” he whispers.

“Move,” you whisper back, and he does.

It’s not gentle, not at first, he drives into you with control that feels like hunger shining through restraint, each thrust grounded and deep, the futon’s frame whispering against tatami. He braces your knee higher with one hand, opens you until he can watch himself slide into you, cock slick and obscene with the mess he’s coaxed from you already. The sight makes his voice go rough. “Look at how you take me.”

“Giyuu,” your body tilts toward frenzy, the wind inside you spooling tight. “Harder.”

He fucks you harder. The rhythm turns punishing in the best way, your head tipping back, a string of pleas you can’t remember saying, the sharp slap of skin and the wet, wet sound of him driving into you until your eyes blur. He bends to catch your nipple between his teeth again, a sweet sting that makes you whimper, and then he licks the mark like an apology.

“Too much?” he asks, panting.

“Perfect,” you say, and you mean it, and then you’re not saying anything because his hand finds your clit, two fingers circling with that ruthless gentleness he fights with, the kind that dismantles you like a puzzle only he knows. You clamp down around him, back bowing.

“Come for me,” he says, almost shocked at himself, and the command snaps the string.

You come, hard, crying out, nails raking his shoulders, your vision white at the edges. He chases you through it with a groan, his thrusts turning erratic, hips stuttering as you clamp and flutter and milk him. He buries himself to the hilt and spills with a low, desperate sound against your neck, pulse beating hot inside you, and the warm flood tips you into a smaller aftershock that leaves you boneless.

For a breath, for five, there is only the slow tick of cooling skin, the distant creak of the inn, the wisteria’s perfume threaded through the salt-sweat scent of you both. He doesn’t crush you. He never has. He sinks down carefully, nosing your jaw, catching each drop of breath like it’s something he can keep.

And then you hear your mouth ask, too small, too raw, betraying the crack that opened when the words first fell out of you: “Was- was that just because… I said it? Because we might’ve- because you were hurt and it was right there and-” You stop. Roll onto your side a little, away from him, ashamed even as the fear keeps talking. “You didn’t... say anything back.”

Silence.

Giyuu’s hand leaves your hip. A beat of panic, then the tatami rustles and he’s moving in front of you, not leaving, never leaving, just enough to put his face in your line of sight. He tips your chin with two fingers and, gods, he looks wrecked: mouth swollen, hair tangled, eyes soft in a way you’ve never seen him let anyone witness.

“I didn’t say it,” he says quietly, “because I am not good at speaking before I know I can keep what I say.”

You blink. He swallows.

“I almost died in front of Sabito,” he says, a fact stripped of everything but the weight it carries. “I have…trained myself to leave first. To be the one left. It hurts less that way.” His thumb strokes your jaw, clumsy, tender. “You were the only thing I didn't leave. Even when I tried.”

The storm in your chest slows. He glances down, then back up, and when he continues, his voice is a little hoarse, like each word scuffs something tender on the way out.

“I have loved you,” he says, “for longer than I understood that’s what it was. I didn’t say it because I thought wanting you was selfish. Because if I said it, I would never let go. And people near me-” He exhales. “They tend to be taken.”

You open your mouth. He shakes his head once, not to stop you, but to finish.

“I didn’t say it because I don’t want to fail you,” he says simply. “Because if I say it, I intend to live it. Every day. Not just in a room that smells like wisteria. On patrol. In winter. When you are angry at me. When I am a closed door you have to knock on twice.” His palm slides along your cheek, covering the space where the worst thoughts collect. “But you were shaking. And I was shaking. And I couldn’t not touch you.”

The fear loosens its claws. He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth in a way that is almost chaste, which somehow makes your eyes sting more than anything he did to your body.

“I love you,” Giyuu says, finally, like a vow. “I love you.” He exhales, forehead to yours. “I am sorry I didn’t say it before I… mauled you.”

A laugh slips out of you, wet, shocked, and relieved. “You did. Absolutely.”

“I will apologize again,” he murmurs, mouth curving, “when I do it again.”

Your breath catches. “Yeah?”

“If you’ll let me.” He glances down to where you’re still joined, his spend warm inside you. The look in his eyes goes molten. “But slower. So you can hear me while I do.”

“Say something now,” you whisper, emboldened, needy in a softer way. “While you’re… inside me.”

He nudges, just enough that you feel the sensitive ache flare sweetly. “You fit me,” he says, voice gone dark and sincere. “Like the center of a current. I want you to stay here after missions. I want your socks on my floor. I want to learn your worst habits and love you through all of them.”

“Giyuu-”

“I want to put a ring on your finger when it won’t paint a target on your back,” he continues, unblinking. “I want to grow old enough with you that I have to learn how to sleep in. I want to be the reason you never think you were ‘used’ again.” He kisses you, slow this time, reverent. “And I will say it as many times as you need to hear it.”

Your throat tightens. “Then say it again.”

“I love you,” he breathes into your mouth. “I love you.”

You pull him back down. The second time is slower, exactly as promised. He rolls to his back and coaxes you over him, thumbs drawing lazy circles on your hips as you sink down, both of you sighing into the fullness, the intimacy. He holds your gaze the whole time and narrates what your body does to him in that hushed, almost-embarrassed voice that makes heat lick through you—how you flutter, how you open, how you chase the crest and then relax into it when he says, “That’s it, breathe.”

You ride him until you’re both trembling again, until your thighs burn and his hands shake and the lantern outside has guttered to a drowsy ember. He rubs your clit with careful devotion until you’re crying into his shoulder, and when you milk him a second time he groans your name like a prayer he never expected to be answered, like a shoreline at last.

After, he cleans you with the soft cloth the proprietress left, quick and gentle, checking the stitches in his shoulder with a wry look when you threaten to scold. He tucks you beneath the blanket and tucks himself around you, an instinct he can no longer fight.

“Tomorrow,” you murmur into his throat, sated and light as sea foam, “they’ll all stare.”

“They already stare,” he says into your hair, deadpan, and you snort.

A quiet settles that isn’t empty. The storm in you has become a steady trade wind, warm and sure. He draws the wisteria-scented blanket up over your shoulders, presses his mouth to your temple.

“Sleep,” he tells you, and the command is a promise, not an order.

“Stay,” you say back.

He tightens his arm. “Always.”

WARNING KEY

| A - angst | F - fluff | H/C - hurt and/or comfort | S - smut | D - dark content |

Rain on Still Water | a, f, h/c, s | After you and Giyuu take down Lower One, you drag his stubborn, bleeding self to a wisteria inn. With adrenaline buzzing and the fear of almost losing him clawing your ribs, you finally confess.

MORE COMING SOON!

His little smile, his duality of softness and being a total psycho, HIM LAUGHING AND HAVING FUN (?!!?!?!) roasting AFO's ass. I'm in LITERAL TEARS. No one touch or talk to me for the next 7-8 business days, I will be UNWELL. THAT'S KAACHAN BAKUGOU TO YOU (I'M LITERALLY GONE. LEVATATING AWAY.) (YOUR HONOR THEY'RE IN LOVE)

You don’t notice the cold until it’s inside your teeth.

Wind scrapes across the ruined skyline, carrying the metallic sting of rebar and the copper breath of blood. The war zone looks like someone took the world in both hands and wrung it dry. You were told to stay away—Shigaraki’s voice, low and frayed, had pressed the order between your ribs like a knife. “Sidelines. I mean it.” You’d nodded. You’d meant it. Then the sky split open and the ground kept dying under your feet and he stopped sounding like himself.

So you run.

You run through the wreckage of a city peeled back to bone. Smoke licks your face, ash catches in your lashes, and somewhere ahead something that used to be a building exhales its last and slumps to the street. You swallow a sob and keep moving. He wants you out. He told you out. But the silence where his laugh should be is louder than any command he’s ever given you.

The battlefield opens with the abruptness of a missing tooth. For a moment you don’t understand the shape of it: the cratered earth, the warped girders like ribcages punched through the dirt, the web of fractures running to the horizon. Then you see him—Tomura—standing in the center of it all like a question that’s been asked too many times. His hair is matted with dust, his coat torn to threads, and the air around him writhes with an invisible, rotting current—the leftover sickness of another will still clinging to his skin. All For One's echo skitters over him like flies.

Across from him lies the hero. Midoriya’s green is muted under a sheet of grime; his arms are gone, bandaged nubs of ruin pressed into the cracked ground, a gag cinched tight over his mouth. His chest rises shallowly. His eyes are wide and wet and filmed with pity you can’t bear to acknowledge.

“Tomura,” you call, but the wind steals it. Your voice breaks and you taste smoke. “Tomura!”

His head jerks—too sharp, like a puppet tugged on rotten thread. For a heartbeat you brace for the other voice, the cold one, the one that bit your name like it belonged on a list. The twitch passes. He finds you, and the raw relief in his eyes is a cut you didn’t know you could survive.

“Idiot,” he says, and the word is almost fond. He sounds like himself and not like himself, like a chord strung too tight. “Did I not—” He coughs.

“You told me to stay back,” you gasp, ankles sliding in grit as you stumble toward him. “You stopped acting like—like you. You stopped laughing. You stopped fidgeting with your sleeves. You stopped looking at me.” Your hands lift of their own accord, palms up, useless offerings to a god of ruin. “I can’t stay away from that.”

The skin at his cheekbone fissures, a hairline crack opening like a smile on a skull. He puts a hand over it as if he can hold himself together by will alone, gloved fingers trembling. You remember when those hands could level a building and you laughed, said he could level you instead and he’d smirked and promised to be gentle. The memory hits like shrapnel.

Midoriya makes a noise behind his gag. A warning, or a prayer.

“Don’t,” Tomura says. The wind drops for the briefest moment, like the world is holding its breath to hear him. “Don’t come closer.”

You come closer.

The ground between you is spiderwebbed with decay, concrete blanched to powder in slow, seething circles. You know the map of his power the way you know your own heartbeat. You step where he can’t break you by accident. You memorize the distance by taste, by the prickle along your wrists that says if you reach any farther your bones will go soft as bread.

He smiles then, tiny and tired, old as a bruise. “You always were a bad listener.”

“You always liked that about me.” Your throat feels scraped. The world tilts and rights itself. “I brought you water—” You realize you didn’t. You brought nothing but yourself and the stupid, stubborn belief he would still want that. You press your shaking hands to your chest as if you might find some other offering there, something less breakable. “I thought—I thought you would be enough for me. You were. Even like this. Especially like this.”

The crack at his cheek widens. His shoulders twitch, a staccato shiver that ripples down his arms. For a heartbeat his eyes go glassy and mean, a ghost flickering behind them. All For One licks up from his spine like a tongue of shadow, snags on something, staggers. Tomura inhales raggedly through his teeth and you see the moment he drags the darkness back into his ribs and slams the door on it.

“Get out,” he says. He says it to the thing inside him, not you.

You close the last of the distance and fall to your knees in the cratered dust. The impact shoots up your bones, hot and bright. You cup his jaw as gently as you can, thumb skimming the ash-sticky arch of his cheek. His skin is too warm and too cold, feverish and gone. When your fingers shake he leans into them like it’s the last good thing he knows.

“Hi,” you whisper. It feels ridiculous to say hello at the end of the world.

“Hi,” he echoes, and for a moment you both remember cheap noodles at two a.m., the wheeze of a stolen fan, the way his shoulders set when he was pretending not to be happy you’d shown up. “Told you not to come.”

“Liar.” Your laugh tears itself into a sob. “You said it because you wanted me to disobey you. You wanted me to be exactly like this.”

He huffs, a ghost of a laugh. “Maybe.”

His right shoulder stutters, then slips. You feel it under your palm: a seam giving, the body remembering what it’s been taught too well—how to crumble. Panic hacks through you. You clutch at him, fingers scrabbling, and your nails catch the edge of him where flesh gives way to nothing. It peels under your hand, not blood and not dust but something in between, a molting of a man. You clamp your other hand over it, frantic, trying to hold him closed like a book in a storm.

“Stop,” you plead, helpless. “Tomura, please—please, please—don’t you dare—”

“Don’t what?” His voice is soft. Threadbare. It’s the voice he used when the nightmares chased him into the bathroom and he sat in the tub with his clothes on and turned the water cold until his skin burned. “Don’t do the one thing I’ve ever done right?” His mouth twists wryly. “Ending things.”

“You don’t get to call that right.” Heat flashes in your chest, a spark struck inside a soaked matchbox. Anger and love arrive holding hands. “You don’t get to leave me like this. Not after telling me to stay. Not after telling me I was—” The word sticks. You have never been brave enough to say it out loud. “—yours.”

He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they are gentler. Younger. Your name comes out of him like it’s the last true thing in a mouth full of lies. “You are.” He glances past you at the hero choking on his own breath, gagged and half-dead and still watching like he can save something here. “You are. That’s why you should have stayed away.”

“I’d rather die next to you than live with the space you leave behind.” You mean it. It feels like stepping off a roof and finally, finally choosing the direction of your fall. “I chose you when you were all edges. I chose you when the world said you were rot. You were enough for me.”

He looks at your hands where they clutch him, fingers sunk into him like hooks into paper. His eyes soften further with something like apology. He covers your hands with his, the gloves torn so badly you can feel the scars and the strange velvet of his ruined palms. He presses down, slow and careful, guiding your frantic grip to stillness.

“You always held me like I wasn’t going to fall apart,” he murmurs. “Even when I wanted to.”

“I’ll hold you now.”

The sky groans. A distant shockwave lurches the horizon sideways; buildings in the far distance crumple like kicked anthills. Midoriya flinches and tries to crawl, wrists digging trenches in the dirt, gag strangling his grunt. Tomura glances at him, an almost-curious tilt to his mouth, then looks back at you. A decision passes over his face and leaves him calmer, like a fisherman smoothing his palm over a frayed net.

“You were my quiet,” he says. “I didn’t know I could have that.”

“You can still have it,” you say, and the lie tastes like honey.

He knows you’re lying. He smiles anyway. “Then be quiet with me. Just for a minute. No more crying”

“I’m not crying.” You are; you are leaking grief like a split seam.

You lean your forehead to his. Up close he smells like ozone and burned sugar and the barest, most human hint of sweat. Your tears slide into the cracks at the corner of his mouth; he licks them away without thinking, like a man dying of thirst committing the sin of tenderness. You breathe together. You try not to count.

“I hate you,” you whisper, and it is the truest love you’ve ever spoken. “I hate you for leaving. I hate you for making me learn how to be without you. I hate that all I ever wanted was you and you were enough and now—”

“—now you have to want something else.” He finishes it for you, gentle as a blade. “Hate me later. Hate me loud. Hate me until it lets you live.” His gaze flicks past you to the hero again, then back, and something bitter and amused sparks on his tongue. “Tell him too. Tell him I was a person.”

“He knows.” You don’t know if that’s true. You need it to be. “He knows.”

“Maybe.” Tomura’s breath shudders. The crack along his cheek reaches his ear. The line of his jaw goes soft, like a sandcastle remembering the ocean. You try to hold him tighter and your hands pass through a slough of him. Panic claws your throat raw.

“No,” you say, feral. You gather him like a child scooping water, frantic, failing. “No, no, no—stay—Tomura—”

“Hey.” He pulls you back with the barest pressure, his fingers finding the hinge of your jaw the way they do when he wants you to look at him and only him. His smile is small and ruined and perfect. “I’m here.”

“For how long?”

“For this breath.” He inhales. You inhale with him. “And this one.” Another. Another. Slower. Thinner. “And this one... don’t let them tell you what I was.”

When the next breath doesn’t come, you try to give him yours. You press your mouth to his and force the air into him like you can bully death into changing its mind. His lips are warm. Then they are not. The thing he fought inside him flares, a last ugly spasm, and then gutters out like it was never there at all.

Silence collapses over the crater.

You make a sound you’ve never heard yourself make, animal and low and endless. You drag him into your lap and his weight is wrong, all gravity and no tension. Your fingers dig at him, clawing, and you grind what’s left of him back into shape by sheer, stupid force. It doesn’t work. Nothing works. You smear yourself in the grit of him, streaking your arms, your shirt, your face, and you would wear it forever if it meant he’d take one more breath.

Across the pit, Midoriya is weeping around the gag. You don’t look at him. You can’t.

“You don’t get to leave me,” you sob into Tomura’s cooling temple. “You don’t. I was enough. You were enough. That was the deal.” Your nails skip on bone, find the fragile place behind his ear where his hair is baby-soft. You pet him there, desperate, as if you can coax him back with kindness you didn’t give him enough of when you had the time. “I was going to take you to the stupid seaside. I was going to make you eat something green. I was going to—”

Your body folds over him like a shutter closing.

Somewhere, sirens gasp awake. Somewhere, a voice you don’t know shouts orders. Footsteps scrabble near the edge of the crater; shadows tilt over you. Hands reach and you bare your teeth, animal, and they reconsider. You rock him—what’s left of him—back and forth, back and forth, the motion useless, the motion everything.

“I’ll stay,” you tell him, as if there’s a choice. “You told me to leave, and I didn’t. You told me to stay away, and I didn’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

The wind finally returns to your mouth and dries your lips. You taste dust. Your throat aches with all the words you can’t force into the air now that he isn’t here to hear them. You bend and kiss his forehead. It’s already cool.

Across from you, the hero makes a strange, strangled sound, like an apology he can’t say out loud. You don’t forgive him. You don’t blame him. There is only the empty, ringing shape of the space Tomura leaves behind, a bell someone struck inside your chest, and the echo will not stop.

You tuck his head under your chin and stare at the horizon until it blurs. At last, when your arms stop obeying you, you lay him down as gently as anyone has ever laid anything down. You fold his hands on his chest, even though one glove is shredded and the fingers don’t quite match anymore. You smooth his hair. You wipe your face and smear him across your skin one last time.

“Fine,” you rasp, hoarse to breaking. “I’ll hate you later.”

And then, because you were always terrible at listening, you stay.