m

The apartment greeted you with darkness and silence. There was no TV, no music, no one waiting for you.

You dropped your bag near the door without bothering to put it away properly. Your shoes followed somewhere behind you in the hallway. Your jacket landed on the kitchen counter instead of the hook three feet away.

You couldn’t bring yourself to care. The exhaustion swallowing you whole was almost delirious now.

Your bedroom light flickered on briefly before clothes started hitting the floor one piece at a time in a careless trail toward the bathroom. Normally you’d fold them. Usually you’d at least attempt to maintain some level of organization.

Tonight felt beyond “usual.”

You turned the bathtub faucet as hot as it would go, steam immediately curling upward into the cold air. The sound of rushing water filled the room.

The wine could wait.

The bath couldn’t.

You stepped into the tub before it had even finished filling, sinking down into the heat with a groan that felt pulled from somewhere deep inside your chest. Your muscles screamed in relief. The water climbed slowly around you while your head tipped back against the porcelain edge.

You were finally warm. You closed your eyes for what felt like only a second.

Then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Your entire body jerked violently awake. For one disoriented moment, you had absolutely no idea where you were. Another pounding rattled through your apartment door.

“HEY!”

A man’s voice. It was angry, very angry.

You lurched upright too fast, water sloshing violently over the edge of the tub.

Oh no. Oh no. No you did not. The faucet was still running, the water spilling over the edge.

Horror crashed through your exhausted brain all at once as you scrambled out of the tub, nearly slipping on the soaked tile floor.

The bathroom was a disaster. Water spilled across the floor in shimmering waves while the tub overflowed steadily onto the tiles.

“Shit—shit—”

You twisted the faucet off hastily before grabbing the nearest towel and wrapping it around yourself with trembling hands.

The pounding on the door came again.

“OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”

Your stomach dropped.

Bakugou. Of course it was Bakugou. He lived right below you, the water must have made its way through the floor and into his apartment.

You rushed to the door, feet splashing lightly across the wet hardwood floor. By the time you yanked the door open, your heart was hammering with equal parts panic and exhaustion.

Bakugou looked furious. Actually furious. His ash blond hair messy from sleep, black t-shirt wrinkled, jaw tight enough to crack stone. His eyes burned sharp red beneath the dim hallway lights.

Water dripped steadily from the sleeve of his shirt.

“You flooded my fucking apartment,” he snapped.

“I am so sorry—”

“There was water dripping on my face!”

“I hear you- I just fell asleep!”

“You fell asleep?!” The words exploded out of him immediately, rough with frustration and interrupted sleep.

Then he stopped. His expression shifted. He still looked pissed. But something in his face changed the longer he looked at you standing there wrapped in a towel, hair damp, eyes unfocused with exhaustion.

You must have looked terrible, absolutely hideous.

“You look like hell,” he muttered.

“Right.”

“You drunk?”

“No. I’m tired. I just got home from work.”

His gaze lingered on your face for another second too long. Then past you, towards the water still creeping slowly out of the bathroom doorway.

Bakugou exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’ll clean everything,” you said quickly. “I’ll pay for damages or whatever happened, I swear, I just please don’t be mad.”

Your words tangled together halfway through the sentence. You were so tired. Embarrassment crawled hot beneath your skin.

Bakugou rubbed one hand down his face, visibly trying to decide whether he wanted to yell more or go back to bed.

Eventually he sighed, “Get dressed first before your dumbass catches a cold.”

You blinked at him. You almost forgot you were standing in just a towel. You nodded quickly and disappeared back into the apartment.

—

Ten minutes later, you followed Bakugou downstairs carrying towels, cleaning supplies, and enough shame to sustain you for the rest of your life.

Bakugou unlocked his apartment door with sharp, clipped movements, visibly still irritated despite the exhaustion weighing down his posture. The hallway light spilled briefly across the side of his face, catching against the hard line of his jaw before he pushed the door open and stepped aside for you to enter first.

The apartment was quiet. It wasn’t the comfortable kind of quiet either. It was the sort built from long absences.

You noticed immediately how clean everything was. Not a single dish in the sink. No clutter on the counters. Shoes lined neatly near the entrance. The air smelled faintly like smoke residue and detergent.

Sparse. That was the first word your exhausted brain latched onto. Sparse, but lived in just enough to prove someone occupied it regularly.

A dark couch sat against one wall facing a large television. A few framed hero awards hung beside the kitchen entryway, their polished surfaces reflecting the dim apartment lights. There were weights stacked neatly in one corner. A folded hoodie thrown over the armrest.

The apartment looked exactly like Bakugou did—sharp, practical, efficient. You barely had time to absorb any of it before Bakugou stalked past you toward the hallway.

“It’s worse back here,” he muttered.

The bed was ruined.

“Oh,” you breathed.

Water had soaked completely through the mattress, dark patches spreading across nearly the entire thing. The blankets were drenched. One pillow dripped steadily onto the hardwood floor below.

You physically recoiled.

“Oh my god. It’s so bad.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue sharply from beside you, “Yeah. No shit.”

“I am so, so sorry.”

You moved automatically, exhaustion momentarily overridden by guilt as you hurried toward the bed. Your hands pressed uselessly against the soaked comforter before immediately pulling back.

The mattress squelched faintly beneath the pressure. This was mortifying, actually mortifying.

“I’ll replace it,” you said immediately. “I swear to god, I’ll buy you a new mattress tomorrow.”

Bakugou leaned against the doorframe with crossed arms, red eyes heavy with interrupted sleep.

“You don’t gotta panic.”

“I flooded your bedroom.”

“Accidents happen.”

“You literally got rained on indoors.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a smile but it was close enough to startle you anyway. For the next several minutes, the two of you worked in relative silence.

You stripped soaked sheets from the mattress while Bakugou grabbed extra towels from somewhere deeper in the apartment. The entire room smelled damp now, humid air sticking unpleasantly to your skin.

Saving the mattress was hopeless.

You both knew it. Still, you tried. Maybe because standing there squeezing water from his blankets into the bathtub felt easier than confronting how badly you’d messed up.

Your body ached with exhaustion the entire time. Every movement felt sluggish, delayed by fatigue and embarrassment.

“You’re gonna pass out standing up,” he said eventually.

“I’m fine.”

“You almost drowned your downstairs neighbor because you fell asleep in the tub. How does that even happen?”

You winced. “Okay. Fair. I got in the tub and I closed my eyes for what I thought was a moment then I woke up an hour later.”

Bakugou sighed through his nose before glancing at the couch in his living room. Even from the bedroom doorway, you could see how short the couch actually was. Bakugou was broad-shouldered and tall enough that his feet would probably hang over the edge.

“Okay, hear me out. Stay in my apartment for tonight. You can take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch. This is my fault and I don’t want you out on the streets exhausted because your upstairs neighbor flooded your bed.” You ramble, the words slipping out before you could reconsider.

Bakugou hesitates before speaking, “The hell I am.”

“You don’t fit on the couch.”

“And you do?”

“My couch is bigger. I can survive one night.”

“No.”

The answer came instantly. Firm. Reflexive.

You stared at him tiredly.

“Bakugou.”

“I’m not kicking you outta your own bed.”

“You’re not kicking me out. I’m offering.”

“You worked some nightmare shift and can barely keep your eyes open.”

“And I flooded your apartment.”

Silence. Bakugou looked irritated by the logic.

You pressed the advantage, “C’mon it would be cruel to leave a pro hero without a bed after ruining his mattress,” you said. “People would write articles about me.”

“Hah.”

“You can stay until the replacement comes.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Please. I need to make this up to you. You are welcome to never talk to me once your new mattress arrives.”

The exhaustion in your voice must have done something because Bakugou finally stopped arguing.

“…Fine,” he muttered at last. “One night.”

Relief flooded through you, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, dumbass. You’re the one giving up your bed.”

You ignored that. Mostly because your brain was beginning to shut down again in real time. Together, you carried what remained salvageable upstairs.

The hallway felt quieter now. It was late. The building itself had settled into deep nighttime silence while both of you dragged exhaustion behind you like heavy chains.

Inside your apartment, the earlier chaos still lingered faintly. The smell of lavender soap hanging in the air.

Bakugou stood awkwardly near the entrance while you gathered fresh blankets from your bedroom.

“Seriously,” you said while shoving clean sheets into his arms, “I’ll buy a new mattress tomorrow. I mean it.”

“I heard you the first five times.” He grumbles.

“You can stay here until it comes.”

Bakugou looked like he wanted to argue again. Then he took you in for the first time since coming upstairs. You were no longer wracked with adrenaline.

Your hair was damp, your posture was sluggish, you even blinking slowly like staying conscious was physically difficult. His expression tightened slightly.

“…You always work yourself half to death?”

You laughed weakly. “Unfortunately.”

The apartment fell quiet afterward.

You suddenly became hyperaware of everything. Bakugou was standing in your apartment holding your spare blanket. The fact that one of Japan’s top heroes was about to sleep in your bed because you accidentally flooded his apartment.

None of this felt real.

“I’m gonna clean up first,” you muttered eventually. “Bathroom’s yours after.”

Bakugou grunted something that sounded vaguely agreeable.

By the time you stepped into the bathroom, your body felt almost disconnected from your brain. You washed quickly. The warm water helped slightly, though exhaustion still sat impossibly heavy beneath your skin. You scrubbed your face, changed into soft sleep clothes, and brushed your teeth mechanically.

Through the thin apartment walls, you could hear faint movement outside. Cabinet doors were opening. Was he rooting through your stuff? Whatever. You couldn't bring yourself to care.

You emerged from the bathroom nearly twenty minutes later to find most of the lights dimmed. Bakugou stood near your bedroom doorway, one large hand rubbing tiredly at the back of his neck. Your bed looked strange with someone else sitting on the edge of it.

Stranger still when that someone was Katsuki Bakugou.

He glanced up immediately when you entered the hallway.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. His voice sounded rougher now. Less sharp around the edges.

You nodded. “I’ll survive the couch.”

You pointed vaguely toward the bathroom. “Feel free to get cleaned up.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes but obeyed without argument. You stared blankly at the couch in your living room. It suddenly looked much more uncomfortable than usual.

Fantastic.

You grabbed one of the spare blankets and collapsed onto it anyway, too exhausted to care about comfort anymore. Your body sank heavily into the cushions.

The apartment lights were low enough now that everything blurred soft around the edges. Somewhere down the hallway, water still ran steadily through the bathroom pipes.

Then silence. There were a few quiet footsteps. There was something oddly careful about the way he walked. Deliberate. Quiet despite his size.

The bathroom light clicked off. You kept your eyes closed as Bakugou moved through the apartment. You felt the pause when he reached the living room.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You hummed weakly without opening your eyes. “Do you need another blanket?”

“No,” he murmured.

“…Thanks for letting me stay.”

You almost thought you imagined it. By the time you forced your eyes open slightly, Bakugou had already disappeared into your bedroom. The door remained cracked open.

After some quiet shuffling of sheets, your apartment returned to silence. For the second time tonight, sleep hit you instantly.

Note: This fic is currently in progress! I am up to part seven as of 5/23. All parts are linked on my masterlist or you can click on the link to the next part at the bottom of each post <3

If you'd like to be added to the tag list, comment below!

Part Two <3

Shouto had never been Momo’s.

Shouto had never been anyone else’s. Not in the permanent sense.

Shouto had chased after you. Shouto had been spending all his time with you. Shouto had bought you an entire animal rescue, and was even now sponsoring its refurbishment with miles and miles of security apparatus.

Todoroki Shouto had always, always been yours. And the reaction of his skin to your touch proved it, more definitively than anything.

And you had been so fucking stupid this whole time.

“Are you alright, love?” Shouto asked in his low, soft tone, and you blinked up at him, realizing you’d paused over your next sip.

His face was so stupidly perfect up close, his lashes so long and pretty, his mouth so soft and full. In the dim light, the edges of his scar were softened, a dusky pink against the rest of his skin. You’d always wondered if that part of him would react to your touch too. Before you even realized what you were doing, you reached up and gently pressed your thumb just under his eye.

Color bloomed under the pad of your finger, and Shouto blinked curiously, his fingers coming up to take your hand. Color blossomed under his touch too, staining your skin like watercolor.

You could have leaned in and kissed him right then, but something held you in place.

When you chose him, for the first time, you wanted it to be just between you two. Just for a few moments. Because the entire world would find out as soon as the Todoroki Agency made its statement, only a few days from now.

But you wanted this one thing to be just yours at first–the way Shouto was. No one else’s but yours.

You shot Shouto a grin and finished the beer he’d given you, telling him it tasted better for the cool factor his trick had put into it. You stifled a laugh as he tried not to look smug, and wondered how you could have ever, even for a minute, doubted Shouto’s feelings for you.

The rest of the evening was a blur, a haze of rowdy chatter and a rapidly escalating competition of drinking tricks. Pro heroes could apparently put away a ton of alcohol, and couldn’t resist showboating as they did so. You felt yourself grinning ear to ear, and then found those ears flushing with heat when Shouto’s hand found your hip as he watched his classmates get sillier alongside you.

Fetching your final drink of the evening–just regular soda water, considering you wanted to be clear headed enough to talk to Shouto when you got home–you ran into Momo at the bar.

She leaned in immediately, pulling you into a hug that felt like cashmere and smelled like some light, expensive perfume.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you ever since Shouto first showed up at our agency looking for you,” she said, a little bit of a flush on her cheeks. “I know we haven’t met formally but I feel like I know so much about you already.”

You smiled up at her. “Same to you. Shouto’s told me a lot.” Then you paused, curious about what she’d just meant. “Wait, he showed up at your agency looking for me?”

Momo blinked, then looked embarrassed. “Oh! Yes. Um, I hope you don’t mind. Jirou and I run our own agency and her quirk has to do with sound, you know.”

You nodded, curious where this was going. “Well, she’s excellent at long-range intel gathering and we’ve shaped the agency largely around that. We have a lot of heroes with quirks useful for that kind of thing, and civilian employees who specialize in data-gathering techniques as well,” Momo said. She sounded a little proud. “Um, so when Shouto needed to find you…well…”

A smile crept across your mouth. You remembered all those months ago when Shouto had neatly dodged the question of how he’d found you. “A friend ran video footage,” he’d said evasively.

So Momo had been a friend–the friend–all along.

He must have gone straight to her after the rescue, considering he’d shown up in your animal shelter the very next day. And that itself was a dead giveaway.

God, how could you have ever believed he didn’t want you?

“I will never be able to convey how grateful I am that you helped him find me,” you told Momo sincerely. “But, um, I’d love to buy you a drink as a symbol of my thanks.”

She flushed prettily again, but accepted, and you managed to obtain her drink of choice–an unexpectedly no-frills whiskey on the rocks. You would have to remember that for future nights out. There would never be any amount of drinks that could truly give back to her what she’d helped give you, but you could at least try.

After a little more idle chatter, Jirou came looking for Momo, and you thought you understood things even more clearly when you saw Jirou’s tiny, fine-boned hand slide possessively around Momo’s waist. And then you felt a much larger hand touch yours, and you turned to find Shouto lingering over you, watching you carefully.

And you knew, right then, that you couldn’t wait to tell him any longer.

“Hey,” you said in greeting, feeling pleased and bold and shivery with nerves all at once. “Wanna get out of here? I have something I wanna tell you when we get back.”

Shouto blinked, clearly mystified, but murmured his assent. You collected your coats and bade goodbye to everyone and then started the trek back to Shouto’s place, the night air cool on your skin.

“I like your friends,” you told him as you walked. “They’re good people.”

Shouto’s smile was small and pleased and toe-curlingly charming. “I have no doubt they liked you as well.”

“They just like that I made an idiot of myself on national television,” you said. “They like that I gave you a hard time.”

Shouto politely did not mention how prolonged that hard time had been, given that you’d actually been misunderstanding him for months. He told you instead about all the times Class A had made idiots of themselves on national television too, murmuring stories about their first sports festival in his hypnotically low voice as if to calm and reassure you.

You liked him so much.

When you finally made it through Shouto’s door, and Shouto had replenished Princess’s food and water, you knew it was time to tell him for real.

You drew in a nervous breath, then stepped close to him. “I think…I have decided what I want the Todoroki Agency statement to be,” you said.

Shouto’s mismatched eyes went wide, and you watched as he schooled his features into that classically blank expression, as if he did not want to influence you.

He was so, so, so unbearably good.

You had planned to say more but all of it was lost in that moment as you watched him wait for you, watched him try not to push you. It was what he’d been doing this entire time, you realized. Making his intentions clear, giving you everything he possibly could of himself, but never, ever pushing you into something you did not think you were ready for. Like he’d waited for you that day outside your apartment, holding still, letting you make the final move.

You were finally feeling bold enough to do it.

You leaned up, and, heart in your throat, you pressed your mouth to his.

And it was like the entire world snapped into alignment.

You didn’t know how else to describe it. As soon as your mouth met his, it felt like everything was finally right, a wave of something like relief washing over you. Shouto shuddered like he felt it too, and then his hand came up to catch your chin, cradling your cheek.

He kissed you back fervently–scorching one moment and tender the next. He tasted like the sweet fruit and soft tang of his drinks, sugary and delicious. An electric warmth lit you up inside, roiling in your stomach, every single one of your nerves buzzing.

His other arm came around you, gathering you against him, pressing you tightly to him. You clung to him, desperate.

It was a long time before he let you go, and you clutched the collar of his jacket, feeling a little weak-kneed.

“I hope–” Shouto started, sounding a little dazed. He blinked down at you, then tried again. “I hope that was not a farewell…”

You shook your head, gripping his coat even tighter. “No. No–Shouto, I am in love with you. I’m sorry it took so long for me to get my head out of my butt. I have had the most insane crush on you since the second I met you, and I’ve only fallen deeper the more I’ve gotten to know you. I could never, ever give you up for anything—not my privacy–nothing. I choose you.”

The most stunningly gorgeous smile you had ever seen broke out across Shouto’s mouth, luminous in its delight. “You choose me,” he echoed quietly, as if to himself.

Your heart did a weird flip in your chest at how utterly and insensibly handsome he was in his happiness.

You smiled back, feeling giddy. “Yeah. You’re my soulmate.”

Shouto’s fingers tightened on your chin, and then he was tilting your face back up to his and slotting his mouth against yours once more. It quieted every single word in your head, all the months of self-doubt, the stupid shit people had been saying about you online, the worry about what people would say in the future. All you knew, all you could think of, all you could feel was Shouto’s body pressed against yours, Shouto’s mouth over yours, Shouto’s breath filling your lungs–Shouto, Shouto, Shouto.

His thumb traced over your cheek, and Shouto pulled back, watching the motion of the pad across your skin, doubtlessly tracking the streak of color left behind. “Mine,” he said, more than a little smugly.

It startled a laugh out of you, the childish straightforwardness of it. You supposed he was allowed now, considering he’d behaved so carefully, so gentlemanly all throughout the previous months.

“All yours,” you promised.

Shouto seemed to like the sound of that very much. You heard your jacket being unzipped and suddenly it was being tugged off of you.

Shouto’s mouth found its way to your throat, and his fingers crept up under the hem of your shirt, sliding over the bare skin of your waist. “Y/N,” he breathed. “I almost thought I might never have this. I want to see you, all of you…” All of what’s mine, went unsaid.

You nodded, dizzy with the feeling of his mouth in the hollow of your neck. “Yes–I–me too—want to see you…”

You barely managed to scrape together enough brain cells to successfully pull your shirt off, and Shouto let out a low, appreciative groan, guiding you back to the wall with his hands. You watched as he stared at you, dragging his hands over you. Shivers wracked you at the sight of his dilated pupils following the streaks of color left by his fingers, like he could barely control himself over the thought that you were his.

He really, really wanted you.

Shouto’s mouth back on yours distracted you from thinking much more. Your fingers tangled in his hair as he pressed himself against you, shuddering when you felt his hardness press against your stomach.

His hands came under your thighs, boosting you up against him, and then that hardness was slotting right between your thighs, exactly where you wanted him. Your head made a dull thud against the wall as you threw it back, Shouto’s hips hitching to grind himself harder against you. His breath came harsh in your mouth, and you realized you were no better, letting out little puffs of air, squirming against him.

“Shouto,” you managed between kissed, “Shouto, I want—I want—”

“Yes, love,” Shouto said, even as his hand pressed down against your hip, grinding you harder into him. He let out a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering closed.

“I want you, please—” You gasped, accidentally digging your nails into the meat of his shoulder as another cant of his hips pressed him firmly but indirectly to your clit through the fabric of your pants. “Shouto, Shouto, please—more—”

“Anything you want, love,” he said. “I will give you everything.” And then suddenly he was stepping back, and you mourned the loss of heat against you, frowning.

Before you could get a word in, however, he was dropping to his knees, in front of you, tugging down your pants. Your hands seized his shoulders as he took one of your calves in hand, gently helping you step out of them, pulling your leg over one broad shoulder. He pressed a fluttering kiss to your stomach, and then your hip, and then lower, and lower, and lower, until his fingers were pulling aside your panties, and his mouth pressed directly to you.

Your head made another dull thunk against the wall as you threw it back. This is not what you had meant—!

“Fuck–oh my god—Sho–!”

Shouto groaned deeply, then licked over you more firmly. “Yes, pet?” he murmured, before doing it again.

You produced an embarrassing little squealing noise in place of words. You could feel his mouth shift into a smile against you, which was so weirdly hot, and then he went back to work on you, murmuring his appreciation.

His grip on you was firm, holding you in place as you shook with each delicate suck, each curl and swipe of his tongue. When you finally managed to look down at him, those heterochromatic eyes were staring back, drinking you in carefully, sliding over every spot his fingerprints had left his mark on you. The sight of him so wrapped up in you pushed you right over the edge, and he licked you right through your first orgasm, looking so utterly wrecked himself.

You didn’t have a single second to recover before Shouto was surging up, covering your mouth with his again. He caught you by the waist, and herded you urgently towards the couch, his mouth never leaving yours for a second.

You spilled over the side of it, Shouto’s heavy weight bearing you down to the cushions. You practically tore your panties off and fumbled with his belt, desperate to get Shouto inside you. He seemed to know instinctively what you wanted, slotting himself between your thighs.

His cock was predictably just as gorgeous as the rest of him, long and full, and he slid inside you with a low groan, fisting the cushion beside your head.

“Fuck, love,” he uttered, those long, pretty eyelashes fluttering. The sight of him so instantly undone–the furrow of his brow, and the almost-pained twist to his mouth–almost sent you right over the edge again.

He bucked his hips again, burying himself deeper inside you, and launched into an almost desperate pace, like he couldn’t bear to slow down now that he had you. You didn’t know what it was–if it was the fact that he was your soulmate, or if it was just the fact that he was Shouto–but he fit so right within you that you thought you might be driven insane with the feeling.

He held himself up over you with one hand, and the other dragged over every part of you, cupping your face, thumb sliding across your mouth, then slipping down to circle a nipple. You could see the fingerprints left all across your skin, and Shouto’s eyes seemed torn between your face and those bold streaks of color.

Shouto’s mouth only added to things–he was keeping up a stream of praise in that low tone, rough with feeling. “Fuck, love—that’s it. So good, you’re so perfect. Made for me, like we were made for each other. Mine, you’re mine.”

You could only pant out his name in return, writhing underneath him with every expert twist of his hips. “Yes, Shouto, please–!”

“Wanted you–from the very first minute I saw you—” he groaned. “Want you forever—”

The praise, coupled with the slap of his hips against you, the slide of him inside you immediately became too much.

Something inside you seized up, and you were thrown straight back over the edge, biting off a shout into the muscle of Shouto’s shoulder. The clenching of you around him made him groan, and he picked up, his thrusts became faster and looser, like he was losing control. He reached up, pressing his hand high on your chest, leaving a full set of fingerprints on you like a brand over your heart.

And then he was cumming too, flooding your insides, his hips jerking against yours uncontrollably.

You clung to him, sweaty and flushed and so unbearably full of love for him. He smiled down at you, that charming, half-moon grin, looking so incredibly smug and deeply pleased all at once.

“Did you really want me from the first minute you saw me?” you asked curiously, unable to help yourself now that everything was finally, finally on the table.

Shouto nodded, his hair falling into his eyes as he adjusted himself over you, leaning back on his haunches, pulling himself out of you. “Even before you left your fingerprints on me,” he said. “When I saw you–even though you were less injured than the others, it was like all I could focus on was getting you out of there. I had to force myself to prioritize the way I was trained.”

You blinked, feeling strangely flustered. “Really?”

His smile went charmingly crooked. “Like that, do you, love?”

You could practically feel your face fill with heat thermometer-style, like a cartoon character. “I just–to think we could have had this sooner, if I hadn’t been so stupid.”

“Yes,” Shouto agreed, and you tried not to pout.

“In fairness, you never made any moves on me!” you said.

Shouto’s eyes flickered over you assessingly, and he smoothed back some of your hair away from your face. “I was waiting for you to choose me,” he said calmly. “I know what it is to be the family of a pro hero–what it is to not have a choice about being publicly known.”

You warmed at the mention of family. “I’d pick you whatever the circumstances, Shouto,” you said, giddy with the boldness of actually voicing it out loud.

He leaned back in and took your mouth again, a kiss which grew rapidly more interested as Shouto laid himself out over you once more, his fingers sliding into your hair.

Except, as he did, there was a slight rush of air over you, and a light patter along the top of the couch.

You peeked an eye open to see Princess looming over the two of you, looking extremely put out with the goings on in her domain. You sputtered out a laugh as Shouto looked up too, his expression embarrassed and fond at all once.

“We’ve disturbed her majesty,” you said.

Shouto huffed out a small laugh, then gathered you up his arms. You suppressed a squeal, watching as Princess suddenly grew much farther away.

“We will have to take this elsewhere,” Shouto said, carrying you into his bedroom and shouldering the door closed. “As I’m not finished with you yet, love. We have many months to make up for, as you’ve said.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that left you as he deposited you onto his sheets, climbing over you once again, looking so handsome and mischievous and perfectly yours.

“I’m going to leave my fingerprints all over you,” you promised, leaning up and kissing him again.

“I have wanted nothing more,” Shouto said, smiling into your mouth.

And then you did—you marked him so thoroughly as your soulmate, the way you should have done from that very first day.

"you don't think they'll reject the treaty and kill us all, do you?" denki mumurs nervously as he presses in behind you.

"no, i don't think so," izuku's gentle voice drifts back to you. he's a three-star ethnologist, studying for a command ethnology post. subsequently he's the most informed of any of the cadets that have been sent along with the treatise party. you and denki are just mechanics, sent along in case anything goes wrong.

"the alliance would be too much trouble for the yuuei," izuku explains. "they have good relations with the surrounding galaxies and tight control over a lot of resources. but the alliance is really large now, compared to the last time they approached the yuuei. they'll likely want to accept at least a loose federation with the allies."

up on the platform at the front of the hall, prince shouto blinks long and slow, like an earth cat. you realize with a start it's the first time you've seen him blink at all, and the subtle reminder that he is not just an extraordinarily handsome human man but the prince of an alien species makes your skin prickle.

"don't you think it's weird they are all this pretty?" denki asks. "it's weird, right?"

"definitely weird," you laugh, your eyes trailing over prince shouto's blade-straight nose, his pert, perfect mouth. "possibly illegal under intergalatic law."

prince shouto stills all of a sudden, and there is the tiniest tilt of his head. two heterochromatic eyes flick over your way, and you are completely embarrassed by the way your stomach swoops in response. you just manage not to grab onto tenya's uniform to steady yourself.

one of the prince's eyebrow arches almost imperceptibly, and you wonder if he's heard you from this distance—but no, that would be insane.

denki picks up his commentary, emboldened by your playing along. you think the prince's eyes linger just a little too long on the gap between izuku and tenya's shoulders, but then you're distracted by the reception beginning.

the alliance treaty officer strides forward, flanked by a few of the other officials your crew had ferried here. she performs an elaborate bow, as do the other officials. from izuku's muttering you gather it's some sort of ritualistic greeting, and empress rei at least looks pleased with it, waving a gentle hand to gesture the party forward.

there is some shuffling as various aides set up a table and a series of holo-tablets, along with various inks, a leathery roll of endeavorian traditional parchment, and—

"is that a knife?" you ask, peering at the long obsidian blade placed on the table in front of the officials.

izuku's fluffy head of green curls inclines. "treaties are sealed twice. once in the alliance fashion and then again in the local custom, to make it binding per both systems. blood pacts have been used in yuuei for millennia."

the brush of something over your face has your gaze turning back to the prince—to find him staring straight at you, those unblinking eyes boring into you.

"izuku, weird question. can the yuuei hear across rooms?" you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

a green eye peers back at you. "only in the event of their pair bonds—the yuuei are documented hearing their matepair across approximately ten earth-kilometers. i think we're safe over here though. why?"

matepair. the world settles strangely under your skin, as the prince's eyes brush across it.

"uh, matepair?" you echo.

tenya gives both you and izuku a quelling look, but it's not enough to deter izuku from ducking down to explain in slightly quieter tones. "the yuuei look human but they pair differently. they form a parapsychic bond with only a single partner, which they maintain and uphold for life. it's not just cultural—it's like a physical compulsion. they cannot take another pair, and they cannot be separated for long periods or they grow sick."

prince shouto is still staring straight at you, and it's not quite comforting enough to know that he cannot possibly hear you.

it's only his role in the ceremony that seems to eventually break the prince's weird focus in your direction. he steps forward to perform his duty as empress rei's chosen heir. you almost flinch as the knife draws across the pale skin of his palm, and he adds several drips of silvery blood to the parchment, symbolizing yuuei's intent to uphold the treaty across future monarchs.

the flesh of his palm knits itself back together in seconds, and another little shiver goes up your spine. those mismatched eyes flash back your way as he steps back, and the various aides and officials once again converge on the documents.

there is a brief flurry of activity, various bows and oaths, some stilted endeavorian verse. the chief treaty officer looks relieved when it's all over, and the royal family steps down from the dais to greet the rest of the visiting party, as is the customary honor granted to allies to the yuuei. tenya ushers you into the queue near the back with denki, a symbol of your lower status as mechanics.

you don't mind, as the thought of reaching prince shouto has your stomach doing what feel like backflips in your gut. the longer the delay the better.

izuku had walked everyone through the appropriate greetings on the podship, a few murmured words and a hand touch at chest-level—extremely hard to mess up, even for you. but nevertheless your pulse kicks up the closer you draw to the royal family.

there's a long line of them you greet first. offshoot branch members, then general todoroki enji, whose enormous palm burns hot against yours and who looks he'd rather take your party's hands off than touch them. then rei's unchosen heirs—the princess fuyumi, prince natsuo—and a gap where prince touya would have stood, were he not offworld.

and then you're standing in front of prince shouto, your pulse pounding in your ears. he's extremely tall up close, clearing six feet easily, broad across the shoulders and handsome in a way that almost makes your teeth ache. the yuuei look deceptively human, but this near you can see the tiny details that separate them from you—the slight double-point to their ears, the silvery undertone to their skin, the prolonged space between their breaths and their blinks.

and of course their inhuman beauty. they don't quite look like regular people, and it sparks a tiny note of wariness in the primeval part of your human hindbrain.

prince shouto's mismatched eyes pin you, silver and blue, as a sudden, silvery flush creeps across his face. you hold your hand out in greeting, trying not to wonder if you've somehow managed to offend him already—but instead of pressing his palm against yours, his long fingers suddenly grasp yours, clasping tightly.

beyond him, empress rei freezes too. all at once you can feel every single himuran noble turn to look at you, hundreds of eyes pinning on you.

reflexively, words tumble out of you. "shit did i—what did i do? were you supposed to get a different hand thingy?"

you can hear the treaty officer's horrified inhale at the terms shit and hand thingy, deployed in crass galactic standard in front of a literal prince. you immediately wish you could take them back, but from the look on the prince's face, he's already heard them.

something at the corner of his mouth twitches, like he's trying not to smile.

"y/n," he says, in a deep tone. it's crisply accented and just as beautiful as the rest of him.

it takes you a second to realize prince shouto has used your name, which he could not possibly know considering the uniform you'd been issued for the yuuei visit has no unique identifiers on it. you glance down at yourself, then back up at him, befuddled.

"how did you—? where did you—?" you garble out. "did denki put you up to this? how do you know me?"

prince shouto's fingers smooth over yours, delightfully warm, calloused and sure. "i would know you in any universe," he says, voice soft. behind you, you hear princess fuyumi make a tiny sound of delight.

you blink. "universe? what—uh, what universe? how would you—?"

but shouto leans in, tugging you closer with those deceptively strong fingers. he's so very warm up close, and so beautiful it makes your brain short circuit, especially as he lowers his face to yours. a shiver rolls down your spine as his other hand takes you gently by the chin.

and then he murmurs a single word before pressing his mouth to yours—

"matepair."

Your eyes fell back to your blankets, and you immediately grabbed two fistfuls, yanking as hard as you could until you felt the fabric give, the rip and tear echoing in the small space of your sleeping chamber. You kept ripping until a strip came free, a little smaller than what you usually had to work with.

But you were not about to complain, not at a time like this.

You flung the strip down to scrabble with the tie of your underrobe, unknotting it with fumbling fingers. You were just about to fling it off of you when there was a careful knock against the screen of your door.

You didn’t manage to stifle your reflexive scream, stumbling through a half-executed turn towards the door. The screen was suddenly thrown back with alarming force, Prince Shouto’s figure filling the doorway.

You yanked your shirt closed again, panicking, as you caught sight of the concern on his handsome face. You barely registered the other details, mind tripping over excuses, unable to appreciate the way his shoulders looked all the broader in his sokutai the way you normally did.

“Are you well?” Shouto demanded, his normally soft tone a little ragged. You watched his mismatched eyes dart quickly around your chambers, as if seeking a threat, only to drop back to you when there was none.

“Your Highness,” you said, lost for anything else.

“I heard—there was a scream,” he said, his eyebrows scrunching the tiniest bit.

He always looked his most beautiful when he was confused, you thought, focusing hard on a particular problem. Not that a common woman had any business thinking anything about the crown prince, never mind a woman masquerading as a man. But it was hard to ignore a face that beautiful, the way his gaze sharpened with focus, full mouth pursing as he thought through a problem.

He looked like that now as his gaze darted over you. And then suddenly his eyes dipped to your collarbone, and his features went perfectly, horribly still.

An elegant hand reached back, and he immediately drew the screen closed behind him, eyes never leaving you as he took another step into the room.

You stumbled back, almost tripping over your bedding. You did not dare to turn towards him or away, scuttling sideways instead like a nervous crab.

“Your Highness,” you began again, heart shooting into your mouth when Shouto’s long fingers tangled in your undershirt.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his tone softening. You gripped your shirt closed as hard as you could against the tug of his fingers. “Did something happen?”

“N-nothing,” you stammered, not liking the way it made him clearly more suspicious. “I was just changing.”

But Shouto’s beautiful, cursed eyes dipped to your bedding, where the torn strip lay across your blankets in plain sight. You could almost see the calculation as his eyes widened the tiniest fraction, and his grip tightened on your robes. Of course he’d seen it, and of course it looked like a wound dressing you’d just been about to apply.

He took another step closer, too close, until you could feel the heat of him through your sleeve, smell the sweet blend of dried herbs the servants kept his clothing stored with.

You tried to twist out of Shouto’s grip without rucking up your shirt, but his hold was too strong.

“Let me see,” he ordered in his soft, low tone. Your heartbeat kicked up higher, hammering in your chest so hard it could have broken a rib.

It was a death sentence to ignore an order from a member of the imperial family. It was also a death sentence to reveal what you’d been these many years. You hoped Prince Shouto, something of a friend to you, would let you off lightly for ignoring him.

“Please, Your Highness,” you said, clinging even harder to the closure of your shirt. “I will be ready in just a moment, I am simply running late. I beg your forgiveness.”

But if there was one thing about the crown prince, it was that he was stubborn, bullheaded when it came to the ideas and goals he took seriously. And he had always made it clear he took your friendship seriously.

That perfect mouth shifted into a frown. “I order you to let me see,” he said, his tone still soft but firm. “You will let me.”

You froze under his hands, muscles locking up in panic. Shouto was still between you and the door, and your chambers were not wide enough for you to slip around him without him being able to easily catch you. He was also, unfortunately, extremely quick with sharp reflexes honed by years of swordsmanship. There would be no escaping this situation.

Fuck. Fuck, you were out of ideas.

“Hold still,” Shouto commanded gently, long fingers prying your stiff ones away from the shirt ties. You watched his face in mute panic, not wanting to see the flash of betrayal and disgust, but unable to look away as he prised your robes aside. Shame heated your cheeks.

Shouto’s long eyelashes dipped, before his gaze froze on your chest. For a second, he went as stiff as you. Then he was yanking your robes closed again, a watercolor of pink washing across the bridge of his nose and those high cheekbones.

His eyes darted back to yours, his expression perfectly still though his face was flushed. “You never told me,” he said accusingly.

The right thing to do in this situation was to go to your knees in a kowtow and beg for his mercy, but Shouto still had a grip on your robes and did not look like he meant to let go. You ducked your head in as much of a bow as you could manage, your face warm. “Your Highness, I have no excuse. I have betrayed you.”

When you had concocted this scheme, you had wanted to put yourself beyond the reach of a local official back in your home village. His advances were becoming increasingly aggressive, and as a common woman, you had no recourse. You could only escape into a place where his rule was circumvented by a superior one, where no man would think to have an interest in you.

You had not intended to become Prince Shouto’s tutor, had not anticipated the true risk of your gambit until it was already too late. But you would still rather die than be returned into the hands of your village’s preceptor.

If this is how it ended…

“I have compromised you,” Shouto’s voice startled you out of your memories.

You glanced up at him, befuddled.

Shouto’s fingers twisted in your robes. “Just now, and—all the many times we have been alone until now. I did not know.”

Honor and compromise were the least of your concerns right now, and would matter even less in the event of your death. You did not know where the prince meant to go with this.

“Your Highness, you were not expected to know,” you said, shame coiling in your belly. You would make the same choices you had made over again, if given the chance, but you had never meant to betray Shouto. You had genuinely liked him, and you would regret losing the chance to be by his side in the years to come.

Shouto’s eyes flicked over you in some kind of assessment. He lifted one hand from your shirt, gasping your scholar’s cap and tugging it free from your hair. You felt his fingers tangle so very gently in the strands of your hair, seeking out the ties and pins.

Your own eyes traced over him as he did, drinking in the firm planes of his chest in his sokutai, the dark blue a beautiful contrast with his pale skin. You heard pins dropping to the ground beside you, as Shouto rubbed a strand of your hair between his fingers. He seemed to be evaluating you in a new light, relearning your appearance though a clearer lens.

Disgust and betrayal were not evident in how delicately he was handling you. You did not know what this meant.

“They will put you to death if they know,” Shouto said, eyes slowly moving from the hair between his fingers to your face again. “You cannot hide like this forever.”

You did not know what other choice was to be had. If Shouto did not plan to put you to death himself, then what other choice did you have than to go on pretending?

Shouto’s gaze dropped to your mouth and you realized you’d spoken the thought aloud.

“There is one other way to put you beyond the reach of the court,” he said slowly.

You felt your eyebrows raise in question. “I cannot think of it, Your Highness.”

Shouto absently curled the strand of your hair about his fingers, the little crease between his perfect eyebrows appearing again. He looked the way he did when he played games with his strategy tutor, or when he was thinking hard on a new sword form.

“The ministers wish for me to take a wife,” Shouto said softly. “My household is mine to manage alone.”

Outside the laws of the court, he meant. A strange flutter went through you, heat spotting your cheeks again. Shouto’s presence before you was suddenly magnified a hundred fold, and you became singularly aware of the breadth and height of him, the heat of him almost against you.

“You do not want a wife,” you said, well aware of the many years he’d spent bullheadedly resisting the idea.

“I do not want any the ministers have selected for me,” Shouto corrected.

Your whole body felt flushed again. He meant he was amenable to you.

You had never let yourself think it but he was more than amenable to you as well.

“I would keep you safe,” he promised.

You almost slumped to the floor in relief, only Shouto’s grip on you keeping you upright. You would not die. You would not be returned to your village. You would, through all of this, it seemed, keep Shouto’s friendship.

“I know you would,” you said.

Shouto understood your acceptance. Slowly his fingers untwined themselves from your hair, and he drew your robes more firmly around you. Your body burned hot, still, stomach fluttering under his renewed brand of regard.

“I will arrange it quickly,” Shouto said. “You must stay here. I will send someone for you.”

You nodded.

Shouto looked regretful as he stepped back from you. “We will do it properly, later,” he said. “I will pay my respects to your family.”

You waved a hand frantically, shocked by the idea of the future emperor making his bows in your family’s rundown hut. It was not as though you would be his first-ranked wife or empress! He did not need to pay any respects to the family of a concubine out of a common family!

“There is no need,” you insisted, but Shouto was already turning towards the door. You could see by the set of his shoulders this was another thing he meant to be stubborn about.

“I will honor my first and only wife,” he said, turning to pin you with that heterochromatic gaze.

Your mouth dropped open in shock, but you had no time to reply before he was sliding the door closed behind him again, leaving you alone with the sudden weight of the statement. It had all happened so quickly, you had never expected that Shouto meant what he did.

You wondered what it meant that Shouto had made such a promise so readily, when he had known the truth about you for only minutes.

“Sensei!” another student called out, pulling him back to the present. “Did you see that move? I think it might actually work in combat! Or support, if I feel like it.”

Midoriya blinked, shaking off the haze of memories. “Y-Yeah, it looked great!” he replied, mustering enthusiasm. “Your timing’s improving a lot—keep it up!”

He tried to push the thought aside, focusing on the here and now, but it was no use. The resemblance was too striking, and his heart felt heavy with the weight of unspoken grief. You were gone, after all. Gone too soon.

As the students broke into laughter again, something about the carefree sound and the dynamic of his students triggered a reflex. Without thinking, he spoke, his voice soft yet audible enough to be heard.

“[First Name], I—”

Your name left his lips before he realized it, and the world seemed to freeze. The students fell silent, their laughter replaced by curious stares. Ayane tilted her head; confusion could be seen in her face.

Midoriya’s heart sank as he realized his mistake. He quickly forced a smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I mean Takashiro,” he corrected, craning a hand to the back of his neck.

“Sorry about that. Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

The students exchanged glances, a few offering polite chuckles before moving on. The moment passed, yet for Midoriya, the weight of it lingered. He stayed behind as the students began their walk back to the main building, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Everything came flooding in his mind. Like a relentless tide that swept him away. Your jokes, your laugh, and the countless little moments that had defined your friendship.

He hadn’t spoken your name aloud in years, not since your passing. Now, saying it felt like reopening an old wound, one he had carefully avoided for so long. But he could only do so much avoidance ‘til he has to come to terms with it.

“Sensei?”

The gentle voice startled him, and he looked up to see Ayane standing a few steps away. Her expression was concerned; her head tilted slightly as she studied him.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly. “You seemed... distracted earlier.”

Midoriya hesitated. The words caught in his throat as he wrestled with how to respond. How could he explain to his student that she reminded him of his dead friend?

What kind of teacher would he be if he were to say that? The awful, grieving kind, he bets.

“I’m fine, Takashiro,” he said finally, forcing a smile. “Just a little tired, that’s all. You know how these long training sessions can be.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced but nodded anyway. “If you ever need to talk, Sensei... we’re here for you too. Fighting!”

“Midoriya, grow a spine! Fighting!”

Her words hit too close to home.

“Thank you,” he could only murmur.

Ayane lingered for a moment before turning to join her classmates. He remained there, rooted to the spot as the sun began to dip lower in the sky. The golden light bathed the empty training grounds, and the silence felt heavier than usual.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ve tried to move on, but I see you everywhere. In everything. In everyone.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, a mix of regret and longing washing over him. “You were right about so many things,” he continued, his voice barely audible. “I just wish you were here to see it—to see how far we’ve all come.”

But you weren’t here anymore, and that’s the problem.

Bakugou Katsuki — Mourns you longer than he’d known you.

Cemeteries never brought discomfort to Bakugou. Not until you died, that is.

The place stretches out in solemn silence; the faint rustle of leaves in the hedges are the only sounds he heard as he trudged along the familiar gravel path. His boots made dull, deliberate crunches against the fallen leaves, the heaviness of his steps matching the weight in his chest.

In his hands, he carried the usual offerings: a bouquet of red spider lilies tied neatly with a ribbon, a box of your favorite sweet treats—melon pan today—and the incense sticks he always lit with care. It had been years since your passing, but for Bakugou, the loss felt as raw as if it had been yesterday.

He approached your gravestone, its surface polished and pristine, just as he always left it. Your name was etched into the stone with delicate precision, the sight of it both grounding and crushing. As if to remind him that you weren’t coming back because you’re just here, waiting for someone to visit you.

Bakugou knelt, his movements stiff and reluctant, as though even now he couldn’t fully accept your absence. Why can’t he accept it?

“Yo, dummy,” he muttered under his breath, pulling the lilies from their wrapping and placing them carefully at the vase near the gravestone. He adjusted them twice, three times, until they looked just right. His eyes lingered on the name etched into the cold stone, a bitterness creeping into his tone.

“Brought your damn flowers again. Hope you appreciate it.”

The sarcasm in his words was thinly veiled; beneath it lay the unmistakable ache of someone who had loved and lost far too deeply.

He pulled out the incense sticks next, lighting them with a practiced flick beneath his palm. You would’ve loved to see him do it in person; maybe light up a candle or two when the power goes out during your high school dorm days. The smell of sandalwood quickly mingled with the damp earth, and Bakugou leaned back on his heels, staring at the curling smoke.

“Another week down,” he began, his voice quieter now. “Another round of saving people, making headlines, being the ‘Great Dynamight.’ ” He spat the title out like it was poison.

“It’s what you always said I’d do, isn’t it? Go big; make my mark. But, damn it, [Last Name], none of it means anything without you here to see it.”

He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as the familiar wave of guilt and frustration washed over him. His head dipped as he let out a long, ragged breath.

“I thought time was supposed to make this easier,” Bakugou admitted, his voice rough. “It’s been... what? Seven years now? And every damn day, it still feels like you’re just gonna show up out of nowhere, like you’re gonna annoy the hell outta me with one of your stupid jokes.”

The thought made his lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile, though it was laced with sadness. He could almost hear your voice—that gentle yet persistent tone you’d use whenever you tried to drag him along to something.

“C’mon, Bakugou, I’ll need someone to bail me out of jail! You’ll regret it if you don’t come along.”

And you were right. He regretted it now. Every single refusal, every grumbled excuse, every moment he could’ve spent with you and didn’t.

“You were annoying as hell,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But you were... you were good. Too good.” His fists loosened, his hands falling limply to his sides.

“And you didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to go like that.” Bakugou remembers the time he almost stained his conduct by almost killing the villain that got to you.

It’s unfair, isn’t it? The villain got to live behind bars, while you lost yours.

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves in the trees above. Bakugou tilted his head back, glaring up at the overcast sky as though it were to blame for everything.

“They don’t tell you how much it fucking hurts,” he said bitterly. “To lose someone like you. They don’t tell you that the longer it’s been, the harder it gets, ‘cause every year just reminds me of how much more I’ve missed. How much quicker I could’ve been.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, weathered notebook. It was yours, something your family had found amongst your belongings after you passed. They wanted him to have it since his name was always frequently mentioned. The edges were frayed, the pages creased from countless readings, but it was his most treasured possession.

Bakugou would rather die than even let a single drop of water meet one of its pages.

Flipping it open, he scanned your handwriting, some neat and some looking as though you couldn’t be bothered with basic penmanship. He stopped on a page that always gutted him.

Life’s short. Spend it with the people who matter. Don’t let moments slip away! :P

His thumb brushed over the words, his jaw tightening.

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed. “You don’t have to keep reminding me, you know. I get it. Too late, but I get it.”

He placed the notebook on the gravestone, letting it rest there for a moment before tucking it back into his pocket. His hand lingered on the cold stone, his fingers tracing the engraved letters of your name.

“You were supposed to stick around,” he said softly. “Supposed to keep bugging me, keep dragging me out of my own damn head. Now I’m stuck here, talking to a rock, and it’s not the same. It’ll never be the same.”

The clouds began to part, a faint beam of sunlight breaking through and casting a soft glow over the gravestone. Bakugou stared at it, his eyes unreadable. He’s thinking.

“I’ll keep coming back,” he finally said, his voice steadier now.

“Every week, every month, every damn year. You’re not gonna be forgotten. Not by me.”

He stood slowly, his body heavy with exhaustion and grief. Adjusting the incense sticks and flowers one last time, he stepped back, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“See you next time, dummy,” he murmured, his voice low. “Don’t forget about me or whatever, wherever you are.”

As Bakugou walked away, the wind carried the faint scent of incense and the quiet promise of a man who would mourn you longer than he’d ever known you.

TODOROKI SHOUTO — Learns things that reminded him of you.

Todoroki knows that he’s been busy. It’s in the way the white camellias he brought you months ago are now wilted, showing their dried-up state. His fingers brush against the wilted petals, lingering as if to apologize for not visiting sooner.

“I still remember the last thing you said to me,” he murmured, his voice soft yet filled with an ache he couldn’t quite put into words. “It wasn’t even anything serious—just you scolding me for not eating enough during lunch. You were always so good at taking care of me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

He glanced down, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint, bittersweet smile. The image of you—scolding, your hands on your hips as you tried to hide your worry—was etched so vividly into his memory that he could almost hear your voice.

Todoroki’s gaze traveled to the offerings he had brought with him: a fresh bouquet of camellia, a neatly folded scarf he had knitted in one of his new hobbies that he took up classes for, and a small pack of your favorite matcha-flavored sweets. “I know you’d laugh at me for picking up knitting,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But... it’s calming. I think you’d appreciate that. You always said I needed to find something that made me happy outside of being a hero.”

The scarf was simple, a pale green color that reminded him of the shade you loved wearing. He had spent hours perfecting it, thinking of how you might have joked about him for being so precise yet ultimately praised his effort.

“I hope you’d like it,” he whispered, setting it down carefully beside the gravestone. “I thought about giving it to someone else, but it felt wrong. It’s yours.”

Todoroki draws in a breath, closing his eyes, letting the stillness of the place envelop him. Yet in the quiet, his mind raced with so many thoughts all at once.

“I also learned how to cook,” he tells you—he tells your grave. “It’s not as good as yours, but Bakugou’s been helping.”

He thought of your childhood, how you had been his only light during the dark days of his father’s strict training. How you had been this bubbly girl that the teacher often praised, how you had stood by him when he was still new to making friends at the nursery, offering him a hand when he thought he didn’t deserve one.

“You were the best person I knew. And I pushed you away. You didn’t deserve that, [Last Name]. You were my friend when I didn’t know how to be one back.”

The pain of those words hung heavy in the air, and Todoroki’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had spent years replaying your interactions, wishing he had done things differently. If he had done things differently, you would’ve been here, probably teasing him for taking up chopstick-making classes.

“I was so angry back then,” he confessed, his gaze fixed on the gravestone. “At my father, at myself, at the world. And I took it out on you, the one person who never stopped trying to help me. I told myself I didn’t need anyone, but... I needed you.”

Another tear slipped down his cheek, and he hastily wiped it away, frustrated by the way his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. He was the Number Two Hero now, a symbol of strength and perseverance. Yet here, in front of you, he felt like the lost, broken little boy that longed for his first friend.

“I need you now, please.”

The sound of a bird chirping nearby pulled him from his thoughts, and he glanced up at the sky. The sun was setting, casting a hue that reminded him of your warmth.

You did like sunsets, didn’t you?

“You’d probably scold me for crying,” he said with a faint chuckle, though his voice still wavered. “You always hated seeing me upset. But I think it’s okay this time. You’re worth crying over.”

He knelt down again, his fingers brushing over the engraved letters of your name.

“Shoucchan! You can’t cry! We can be partners—the best partners!”

Yes, partners. The best partners for as long as you’ll have him.

“I’m trying to live the way you wanted me to,” he continued. “To find happiness outside of being a hero. To be someone you’d be proud of. But it’s hard, [Last Name]. It’s hard without you.”

He stayed there for what felt like hours, speaking to you as though you were sitting beside him, as though your gentle presence could somehow reach across the veil of death. He told you about his hero work, about the classes he was taking, about the little moments of joy he tried to find in a life that often felt too heavy.

Finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon, he rose to his feet. His knees ached from kneeling for so long, but he barely noticed.

“I’ll come back,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the tears that still shimmered in his eyes. “And I won’t let you wait so long again. Next time, I’ll bring something better than just a flower. Maybe one of those awful paintings you always said I should make.”

As he turned to leave, he hesitated, glancing back at the gravestone one last time. As if you’d be there with open arms, waiting for him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, the words carrying a weight that only you could understand.

He walked away slowly, the sound of his footsteps fading into the stillness. The cemetery grew quiet once more, the only reminder of his visit the small offerings left behind—silent testaments to a bond that even death could not sever.

SHINSOU HITOSHI — Avoidance by all means necessary, until he finally caves in.

If you were to ask Shinsou what his prized possession was, he’ll tell you that it’s a shoe box. A shoe box that seemed to hold the world—your world, with remnants of a friendship that had lasted his entire life—a lifetime with you.

Shinsou sat on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands hovering over the box as though touching it might shatter him. He had been avoiding this moment for weeks. The funeral had been a blur, the condolences—a cacophony of words that didn’t mean anything because he knew that they couldn’t possibly understand how it feels. Everyone seemed to know the right things to say, except him.

All he had wanted was for you to be there, to laugh at how awkward he was with the whole ordeal.

Now, it was just silence.

With a deep breath, he finally reached into the box, pulling out the first item: a knitted scarf, a rich shade of violet. It was slightly uneven, the handiwork amateur at best, but it was one of the first gifts you’d ever made for him. He could still remember your smile when you handed it over during your middle school years.

“I thought it’d look good on you,” you had said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Don’t laugh! It’s my first try. Nuh uh, I’m taking this back—Hitoshi!”

He hadn’t laughed. Ok, maybe just a quiet chuckle, but he had worn it every winter since.

He leaned forward again, staring into the box. Inside were the tokens of a life intertwined with his—handmade crafts, small souvenirs, and letters tied with ribbons in colors you knew he liked. Each item was a story, a piece of you you had given him, never expecting you would be taken away so soon.

He gently picked up a small ceramic cat figurine, its paint slightly chipped. It was from one of your family trips abroad.

“I saw this and thought of you!”

Younger Shinsou blinked, confused.

“Me?”

You nodded. “You’re like this cat. All serious, but secretly soft and comforting.”

Shinsou chuckled softly at the memory, though the sound was tinged with sadness. He had teased you for it back then, calling it tacky, but it had ended up on his desk at home. Now, it felt like a sacred relic.

Setting the figurine down, he reached for another item. Shinsou pulled out a small, framed photo of the two of you at a summer festival. He was scowling at the camera while you grinned beside him, holding up two sticks of cotton candy. It was one of the rare times you had dragged him out, insisting he needed to “experience life beyond his walls” when he just wanted to sleep in.

He’d go to every summer festival in the country—even if it meant losing sleep—as long as he gets to do it with you.

The frame trembled slightly in his grip as he swallowed the lump in his throat.

He pulls out a well-worn journal. It was yours. He hesitated, knowing that opening it would feel both comforting and unbearably painful. After a moment, he gave in, flipping through the pages.

Inside were your thoughts—notes about school, sketches of the two of them, and half-finished poems you had written during quiet afternoons.

The prince has been so stressed lately.

I wish I could take it all away.

He deserves the world, but he won’t let himself believe it.

Maybe one day he’ll see himself the way I do.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. You had always been like that—putting everyone else first, even when you had your own struggles. He closed the journal and held it to his chest, his breath shaky.

“I should’ve told you,” he whispered. “I should’ve told you how much you meant to me.”

The tears that had been threatening to fall finally spilled over, sliding down his cheeks as he sat there in the coming twilight. He thought back to the nights they had spent stargazing, sharing their dreams and fears. You had been his constant, his answer, his light, even when he didn’t know he needed one.

His phone buzzed again, a reminder that the world kept moving even when his had stopped. He glanced at the screen—it was a message from his secretary.

Meeting tomorrow at 9, Sir. You told me to remind you.

Shinsou scoffed bitterly, tossing the phone aside. Work didn’t matter right now. Nothing did.

He looked back into the box and pulled out a small, intricately folded paper crane. He had almost forgotten about it. It was from your high school years, during a particularly tough exam season.

“This is for luck,” you had said, carefully handing it to him with an awed expression. “And if it doesn’t work, at least it’s cute, right?”

He remembered stuffing it into his pocket, too embarrassed to admit how much it meant to him at the time. Now, it felt like a lifeline.

As he unfolded the crane carefully, a note inside revealed itself. The ink was slightly faded, but your handwriting was unmistakable.

You’re going to be amazing. Always.

A choked sob escaped him, and he clenched the note tightly in his fist. You had believed in him, even when he hadn’t believed in himself. He wished he could’ve seen this sooner.

When it got dark, Shinsou didn’t bother turning on the lights. The silence felt appropriate—a space for his grief to exist without judgment.

“I miss you,” he confessed, his voice trembling. “I don’t even know how to keep going without you.”

He glanced at the small collection of gifts and letters spread out on the table. Each one was a reminder of the life you two had shared—a life you had enriched with your thoughtfulness and love.

Though the pain was overwhelming, Shinsou knew he couldn’t let your memory fade. You had given him so much, and the least he could do was honor you by living the way you would have wanted—fully and without regret.

“I’ll keep going,” he said softly, almost as if speaking to you. “You’d probably get mad if I slept in.”

The room remained quiet, save for the faint sound of the wind outside. But for Shinsou, it felt as though you were still there, your presence lingering in every corner of his heart.

It’s peaceful, unlike many aspects of his life. A private treasure that he never thought to show anybody else, something to keep for his own.

Time slowed here, his thoughts put on pause. No aftereffects of narrowly dodging a villain attack, no other presences that could interrupt the silence. Just him and the myriad of plants and flowers before him.

He closes his eyes as the breeze passes through his hair—washing over his dirt-covered clothes and the saplings in his hand waiting to be one with the earth. He’s gotten faster at planting and pruning them over the months, but he never finds himself rushing, always wanting to prolong his time here.

And so his afternoon continues with slow movements unlike a hero should normally have. Rather, it almost takes an effort to pace himself and the beaming sun doesn’t help. But as always, the delicate buds under the guidance of his fingers serve as a reminder to proceed carefully—deliberately.

Shouto finishes planting the designated plot for the day, trudging up the hill with hardly aching limbs and a lightened heart. He enters the little shack at the top, peeling his garden gloves off and putting away the tools in their rightful spots.

I wonder when they’ll bloom, he thinks to himself, stepping outside and overlooking his work from afar.

He squints his eyes at the setting sun. Its evening rays light the field in warm orange hues and cast shadows in the shapes of flowers and long grass.

As if his mind was read, an elderly voice spoke from behind, “You did good, boy. They’ll take a couple of years but it’ll be a beautiful sight to see.”

Shouto turns his head to look at the old woman who owns the garden, Moriko. She comes up next to him, gray haired and a fond smile on her face as she too, overlooks the field.

“Years?” he repeats.

Moriko chuckles and looks up at him, eyes wrinkling in the corners, “Yes, years... Camellias are slow growing and the buds probably won’t open until next year. Takes time, those little ones.”

Shouto hums lowly and gazes out over the hill again.

Moments pass before he notes, “That’s quite a long time.”

“Nurture and care,” Moriko nods, “That’s all we can really do when we wait for something special to grow.”

He supposes that’s true.

Only the breeze and the rustle of leaves resounds in the space around him. His cheeks sting from being in the sun all day and his throat is severely parched; but he can’t find it in himself to move away.

Shouto clenches his fist. He doesn’t want to leave. Not yet.

“But they’ll bloom,” Moriko says. “Eventually. Would make a beautiful bouquet. You can make one for your lover when the time comes.” There’s a teasing tone in the elderly woman’s voice.

He doesn’t react to her words, only stating simply, “I don’t have a lover.”

“Oh? Not a soulmate?” she inquiries unhesitatingly, not at all worried if she crossed an unknown boundary. He guesses that intrusiveness comes with old age.

“I haven’t met them.”

“Well, soulmate or not, you should gift one if or when the time comes. You’ll get points for planting them yourself,” she chuckles playfully.

Shouto is silent as the thought passes through his mind.

His soulmate. 

He can’t quite picture it—who they’d be, what role they’d play in his life. 

Would they be a hero too? Or a civilian? Are they in Japan? Or are they half way across the world?

It’s cumbersome: these thoughts. He already has a multitude of things to worry about and finding his soulmate is, unintentionally, at the bottom of the list. He had deemed it something to not obsess over, especially not at this critical time of opening his agency.

And he knows it’s unconventional, to be okay with not finding his fated one. It didn’t matter to him—doesn’t change how indifferent he is to it all. Maybe one day if he has more time…

Shouto sighs.

Time. What an interesting concept. It truly waits for no one but how humorous is it that there’s a place where its sole purpose is to pass—to wait patiently for flowers to bloom.

Wake up. Head to the agency. Fill out paperwork. Patrol. Fill out more paperwork. Go home. Sleep.

Visit his parents. Get dragged around by Fuyumi. Answer phone calls and texts from friends. 

Overnight missions. Traveling around the country. Attend press conferences and hero events. 

Board meetings. City-wide agency meetings. Hero Association meetings. More never-ending meetings.

Life—time never stops. He doesn’t remember the last time he visited the botanical garden. Nor when he was able to sit down and simply breathe. 

Enjoying the little things in life seem almost trivial in his line of work—a far away fantasy.

Is it worth it?

Yes, he thinks. But alas, there isn’t even enough time to mull over that question when he hears the familiar crackle in his earpiece. 

One of Shouto’s sidekicks’ voice cuts into his thoughts, curt and informative, “Three suspicious figures spotted near the entrance of the bank. One matches the composite sketch we drew last month. Seems they’re scoping the area out. Civilians have yet to be evacuated.”

He immediately starts running towards the bank, pressing the button on his earpiece. “Prioritize the civilians. Guide them away from the bank without creating panic. I’m on my way.”

“Copy.”

A bank? That’s new, Shouto thinks, narrowing his eyes.

Explosions echo down the street and he braces himself. On autopilot, he immediately materializes ice under his footsteps, feeling the wind rifle through his hair as he glides across the asphalt. 

He almost misses the way his soulmate mark starts thumping. But again, there’s no time.

The smell of smoke infiltrates his nose as he turns the corner, eyes widening at the sudden sight of another hero colliding straight into a woman and they both hit a wall. 

To his left, a man resembling the composite sketch leaps through the air, holding a pack lit with sparks, and aims it directly at the duo. 

The hero on the ground hastily jumps away, leaving the woman behind. Shouto doesn’t waste a second to think about how absurd of a hero they are before he sails through the air, scooping the woman up and using his fire to blast upwards.

An explosion erupts underneath his feet and he grits his teeth as the villain laughs manically behind, following and throwing bomb after bomb. 

At top speed, he glides through buildings, leaving paths of ice behind, narrowly missing each explosion as he feels shards of his own quirk pelt his back. His earpiece rings with multiple voices yelling.

“Cover Shouto! He has a civilian!"

“The other two got away—! Move in on the bomb villain!”

“There’s medics at that end of the street ready for you, Sir.”

Shouto hears the explosions trail farther behind him, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Seeing a medic truck parked at the end of the street, he pivots his foot to create a wide circle of ice when he lands, stopping his momentum.

Gently, he kneels down, bracing the woman against one knee. Her eyes are blown wide, body rigid as she fists the front of his suit and huddles closer to his chest. There’s blood everywhere—her head, her hands, the left side of her body.

She’s scared, his mind hastily put together. But he can hardly hear his thoughts over the pounding of his heart. Can hardly hear his own voice asking if she’s okay, if she’s hurt.

And it’s strange. Usually the adrenaline would leave his body after getting to safety; evading attacks is not an unusual circumstance. But there’s a warmth thrumming through his body and suddenly it doesn’t feel like adrenaline anymore—it feels heavy, heavy and different.

The woman starts trembling and he narrows his gaze on her face turning blue. Grabbing her wrist, he tugs her fist to open up her chest, “You need to breathe.”

Shock freezes her body and he tugs her wrist more to get her attention. She’ll lose consciousness at this point.

Shouto feels his heart drop when she suddenly looks up and their eyes meet. His brow twitches at her gaze and he almost reels back instinctually when she leans forward in her confused daze.

It’s odd.

He calms her down and she finally heaves a breath.

And still, his heart is running wild in his chest.

He examines for injuries and assesses her ability to verbalize her pain.

But his mind is inadvertently racing and he winces when searing hot fire shoots straight to his soulmate mark. He watches in confusion as the woman in his arms grips her midrift, whimpering as if she too felt the sensation.

He barely realizes that his hand is lifting up her shirt until she knocks away his touch with a weak hand.

It’s a blur. She passes out. Medics come over. They lift her out of his arms and he has to fight the unwarranted urge to pull her back. 

And he doesn’t understand—doesn’t understand this strange feeling coursing through his veins. Doesn’t understand why his head is swimming as he clutches his chest.

But maybe his body knew. Maybe that’s why he gravitates towards the medic truck, almost knowingly, ignoring other heroes trying to get a status report. Maybe in the back of his mind, he knew with what little time he has in the world, fate has brought him here—lingering near the woman he just saved. 

“How’s her head? Will she be okay?” he barely gets out. 

The medic frowns and starts peeling the bloodied parts of your clothes off, “Her head took a pretty bad hit and her ribs seem to be fractured. But nothing fatal.”

An unknowing tension releases from his body and he finds his eyes glued to the medic’s ministrations. 

That’s when he sees it, underneath all the grime and blood being wiped off. It makes his breath catch in his throat.

Trying to stay calm, he asks in a low voice, “Did you find an ID?”

The medic notions her head to her lap, replying distractedly, “I found her wallet in her pocket.”

Shouto swipes the wallet, rifling through bills and credit cards until he finally finds your ID, eyes zeroing in on your name. 

He feels his heart drop—again. A flood of thoughts racks his brain as he clutches the card in his hand. The card with a name that he’s known his whole life—a name he traced with his fingers when he remembers he has a mark himself.

Would they be a hero too? Or a civilian? Are they in Japan? Or are they half way across the world?

His eyes shake, reading the first name, then darts to the mark on your rib cage, the two characters etched there. 

It’s as if the world is silent for one second. One long, second where he stares at you, wounded and unconscious, on the back of a medic truck.

He was never particularly interested in the fact that he had a soulmate, never dwelled on why he was part of the 75% of the world who had a mark.

There were superstitions on why a person had a soulmate. 

A rather popular belief is that your soulmate would be the one to teach you an important lesson. That their impact will be like no other, a ripple in your life that only they themselves can create. 

And he had deemed unimportant, a ripple in his life that can wait, amidst everything else that didn’t.

But as he stared at his name etched onto this stranger, there was no explanation as to why he felt a surge of wonderment despite his preconvictions—a swirl of anticipation and fascination.

How odd.

I wonder if she’s okay.

The thought chases Shouto all the way to Kumamoto, where he was requested for his help the day after the attempted bank robbery. 

It was rather disappointing: the timing couldn’t have been worse. More than a week has passed since the incident and he was itching to go back to Musutafu—itching to meet a certain stranger again.

His assistant has been giving him updates on your condition but it’s not enough. What with this new discovery he’s made, he wanted to check in on you himself. Moreover, he’s curious if you knew—if you knew the “Shouto” on your body was the pro-hero Shouto. 

No, that would be ridiculous. His soulmate mark has never been publicly shown before, always covered by a nude adhesive patch or clothing.

You were so close, closer than he ever expected. Is it possible you two crossed paths before?

Suddenly, his eyes widen at a memory resurfacing. A memory of thinking his soulmate flared when his agency was surveying the new patrol route. But there were too many people then, too many voices around that drew his attention from finding a faceless person in the crowd. 

He thought he had imagined it. But were you there?

A sigh escapes his lips.

“Todoroki-kun, is something wrong?”

He turns to look at Midoriya, the boy having a concerned expression on his face, “You seemed deep in thought ever since the relief mission started. Did something happen?”

Shouto furrows his eyebrows. Midoriya did always have a keen eye, and if there’s anyone he can talk to about this, it would be him. But something stopped Shouto from speaking of you. It felt too early, and he really didn’t have much to go off of besides the fact that he saved you from danger.

As a normal hero would.

He’s silent for a bit, mulling over what to say under Midoriya’s worried eyes. Around them, heroes hustle around the relief camp of another building wreckage, with sounds of radio transmissions and status reports filling the air. 

“…It’s nothing. We’ve been stationed here for longer than I anticipated.”

Midoriya nods, “Multiple building collapses, the power stations no less. That’s why they specifically requested you too, right? To help with the heat wave.”

Shouto steps aside as a nurse runs by holding a first aid kit. “Yes, I was planning on coming anyway. My team’s been following these attacks and we still haven’t found the group organizing them. This is the sixth spot they’ve hit. If our MO is correct, they would be long gone by now.”

“Yeah, it’d be good to check in at the train stations again,” Midoriya mutters, eyebrows downturned in concentration. “In any case, we should be wrapping up here soon. Most of the victims have been found—”

“Dad!”

Both heroes turn at the shriek of a little girl running up to a victim they pulled from the wreckage. The victim, a hero himself, was there at the time fighting the villain who crumbled the building, and was ultimately caught in the rubble for a week. 

It was a miracle he survived. And Shouto watches with softened eyes as the hero’s daughter and wife tightly embrace the man covered in dust and blood. 

A police officer walks up to him and Midoriya, gazing at the family with a sympathetic smile. “They were a wreck for the past week. It’s a relief we were able to pull him out in time, he’s all they have.”

Shouto’s eyes don’t stray from them, and it's Midoriya who ends up speaking, “I’m glad. It must’ve been scary for them since his agency were the first responders.” 

The officer nods, “Yeah. Unfortunately, first responders don’t always get these types of happy reunions. He’ll probably take a break for the time-being but he always comes back to the frontlines, he’s one of the best in this city afterall.”

He always comes back to the frontlines.

Shouto of all people should understand why, he’d be a hypocrite if he were to criticize the choice to. But still, he can’t stop the pit forming in his stomach as he watches the daughter and mother cling onto the hero.

They cling as if he’ll crumble away at a moment’s notice, just like the building that almost killed him.

“He’s dedicated,” is all Shouto says.

“He’s dedicated but not reckless,” the officer chuckles bittersweetly. “Always preaches that it's a hero’s duty to also come back alive, otherwise it wouldn’t be a successful mission.”

Shouto slightly frowns. 

I don’t think any hero goes into battle wishing to die, and it wouldn’t make their sacrifice any less if they did, he thinks.

But he supposes it can be a comforting motto: save, win, and live to tell the tale. 

A grounding principle to embody—a reassurance to a hero’s loved ones that they won’t see themselves as a mere expendable weapon. 

It’s a refreshing take.  

Yes.

It’s refreshing, Shouto decides, nodding to no one in particular. 

All three of their attentions focused on the tearful reunion before their eyes. It’s quiet—as if a whisper from this far away could interrupt the tender moment.

The chatter of patrons reverberates from behind as Shouto rubs the side of his neck, massaging the tension lingering there. 

Maybe he should’ve got takeout, or ordered delivery at home. This was hardly peaceful in any way, especially after coming off a flight. But he found himself here because Bakugou, of all people, had aggressively claimed that this spot should put all other soba shops to shame.

He tugs the hoodie farther down his head, mind focusing on what he knows would put him at ease after a grueling mission.

The first bite of fresh cold soba.

The first bite of fresh cold soba. 

He registers a figure settling beside him at the bar, eyes darting to them then looking straight again.

The first bite of fresh cold—

Shouto doubletakes, slowly turning his head to the side and examining the stranger seated next to him, looking over the menu. His eyes widen.

It’s you.

You—his soulmate. At a soba shop. Sitting quietly beside him. 

His breath catches in his throat. Really? Of all places to see you? Here? Right now?

The faintest feeling of excitement creeps in his bones. And it really is odd, he rarely feels this way—rarely thinks that fate or time would ever take his interests into consideration and put the one person he’s been thinking about for the past two weeks, right next to him.

He grasps at the opportunity with clammy hands, because how could he not? 

Shouto looks over and watches you read the menu, watches you furrow your eyebrows in confusion at seeing what little is written on it. You haven’t noticed his gaze yet.

With a prayer to the universe, he speaks.

There’s a couple of things he notices at first.

One: you’re startled, and a bit nervous.

There’s tension on your face. While it makes him confused at what could be the cause of it, it also makes him wonder how to ease it. So he tries joking around with you and he thinks he does it clumsily because it’s unfamiliar—he never does that with anyone.

It lingers at the back of his mind and he wants to mention it—wants to see if you know anything about the connection between you and him. But it feels too forced. And something in his gut told him that now was not the right time.

So he doesn’t bring it up.

Two: you’re apprehensive.

You reel back when your fingers almost graze his and he would be lying if he said his heart didn’t kick up a notch at the idea of it happening. Still, he doesn’t say anything because again, it feels too forced.

It also feels a little odd: your severe reaction when you almost made contact.

Third: you’re enjoying your meal.

He’s long since finished his and it completely went over his head that he didn’t savor his first bite of fresh cold soba, too attuned with watching you eat—too fascinated by the way your eyes glitter. He wonders what’s got you so enthralled.

Nevertheless, he’s glad. It looks like you’ve deactivated your flight or fight mode and he wants to keep it that way.

Fourth: he can’t stop looking at you.

He finally gets a good look at your face with the absence of sweat and blood. And every time his eyes move away, they somehow find their way back to you.

You’re beautiful.

And happy… it seems, with the way you look like you just won the lottery after finishing off your meal.

It spikes his curiosity. He wants to know more, so he asks.

Your mask slips a little when out comes a tangent about soba and he has to push down this silly giddiness he feels at finding someone who knows—someone able to voice his exact thoughts on what he looks for in his favorite dish.

“Sorry… I get a little passionate about these things. I usually eat out at a place on Fridays. What uh… what did you think?”

Shouto finds himself smiling, noting that this is the first time during dinner where you've initiated conversation.

It’s trivial—a simple exchange discussing noodles but for some reason, he feels content and warm inside. 

Because while he’s constantly thinking and discussing all things hero or about his family, there’s somewhere out there—here, where the most important thing is if a restaurant makes the cut on a foodie’s list.

And you do it with a particular glint in your eye.

It feels refreshing—relieving.

And he wants to know more—wants to hear you talk more about noodles and perhaps other things you feel passionate about, wants to add his own opinion or two to see what you'll say. 

Wants to see your mask slip a little bit more.

It almost happens. He fixates on the way you type in your number until you suddenly stop, and he’s about to ask if something’s wrong until a call from Midoriya comes in.

He grabs the phone and the soft but deliberate tone of a certain green-haired hero’s voice filters in, “Todoroki-kun? Are you in a place where you can talk?”

“Not really. It’s… Can you make it quick?” he says quietly—hurriedly.

“Okay… are you sure? Should I call back another time?”

He softly sighs, then deciding in a split second, “…Yeah. Can I call you back—”

Fifth: you’re leaving.

Shouto’s eyes widen when he sees you already stood up and mutter something about it being late. He motions for you to wait because he’ll call Midoriya back later. So if you can just stay for one more second…

But you’re already walking away and he can see you hail a taxi from underneath the noren before he gets the chance to move.

“—kun? Todoroki-kun? Is everything okay?” his friend’s incessant voice calls out.

Shouto blinks. He can’t quite comprehend what just happened, you disappeared in a blink of an eye…

“…I think I got stood up,” he states to himself.

There’s a pause on Midoriya’s end. “W-What?”

Shouto sighs, looking at your empty seat as if they hold any answers to his questions. From the corner of his eye, he sees a small rounded figurine from where your purse sat.

He stops Midoriya’s blubbering, “Why did you call?”

His hand reaches for the figurine.

Is it yours?

“W-What did you mean you got stood—?”

“Midoriya,” Shouto pointedly says, his thumb running over what seems to be a clay piece of a bowl of ramen, glossed and hooked onto a loop of thread.

A keychain. No doubt belonging to the noodle connoisseur who just sat there. You must’ve dropped it without noticing.

“Okay… um,” Midoriya clears his throat over the phone, tone turning serious. “They found traces of the villain tied to the building collapses in Osaka. They have reason to think their team is on the move.”

This catches his attention, his fingers pause, “On the move? They’re not requesting us to go to Osaka?”

“Agencies in between us and Osaka are trying to intercept them but there’s not enough intel. Though, they’re rather certain about one thing…” 

There’s another pause and Shouto starts feeling antsy, his hand unknowingly clenching onto the keychain before he notices and releases his hold.

“The Association thinks they’re coming here. To Musutafu.”

Perhaps it’s the unfinished phone number sitting in his phone. Perhaps it’s the way he’s been calling random numbers fruitlessly, hoping to land a combination that would lead him to hearing your voice on the other end.

Perhaps it was the stranger telling him his whole life story for the past three hours before he finally got distracted and hung up on Shouto’s tired ears that prompted him to do this. 

Shouto looks up your name on the internet.

Frankly, he wasn’t prepared. He didn’t know what to expect when he typed your name in the search engine but it wasn’t this.

Floods of articles overtake his screen. 

Daybreak. The #14 hero at the time of the war. Died in a trap set by villains. 

Confusion wracks his brain, Shouto vaguely remembers him. Instead of working with the teams fighting the Paraliberal Liberation Front, Daybreak was one of the heroes designated to stop the villains from the prison-break. 

He reads article after article until finally, one about Daybreak’s family pops up. He clicks the link apprehensively.

Wife of Daybreak commits suicide, leaving their only daughter left…

Shouto feels his throat tighten. 

Because it’s your name mentioned in the article—it’s you, you’re the daughter that was left.

He breathes in and exhales slowly, not knowing what to do with this information.

Of all people, he knows what it’s like to have their family matters picked apart by the public. It’s unfair of him to continue reading. It’s unfair of him to pry into your life based on a measly article.

Before he has time to fully think about what this means, Shouto closes his laptop, regretting that he ever opened it in the first place.

Shouto stops trying phone number combinations.

But somehow, he still finds himself carrying the clay-ramen keychain with him everywhere.

A mixture of guilt and hopelessness stews inside him. He didn’t want to find out about your personal life this way. Damn it all, you two barely knew each other. How can he justify knowing such sensitive information? 

Even then, he still can’t help wanting to see you. If only to give back something that rightfully belongs to you, your keychain.

So he did what he normally wouldn't do—something so uncharacteristicly unlike him: he left it up to fate. Another chance opportunity. 

It may be useless. It probably is. When he met you at the soba shop, it most likely was the strike of the oddest of luck.

But fate has an interesting way of playing with people’s lives. It proved him wrong once, so maybe it can prove him wrong again.

Thus, he waits, with the least amount of expectation as possible.

For any sign from the universe.

Who knew that sign would come in the form of Natsuo nagging him for the fourth time to find a newly released manga he hardly knows anything about. But he can’t thank more for it when he sees you past the glass window of a quaint little bookstore. 

With a heart full of hope, and another prayer to the universe, he stumbles into your life again—grasping this chance opportunity with clammy hands, again. Only this time, there’s a clay-made ramen keychain held in them. 

There’s a couple of things he notes.

One: you don’t want to touch him.

For your sake, and also the pleading look you give him, he takes your excuse as it is. Yes, you’re a germaphobe and he’ll believe it wholeheartedly like you want him to. He’s already dug into your life unwarranted, he doesn’t deserve to pry more. 

Two: he likes to…tease you.

Never in his life would he think he’d tease someone. He doesn’t even know if he’s doing it correctly or not. But, he finds it…fun.. Or maybe because it’s with you. He wonders how you’re able to bring it out of him—what more you can bring out of him.

Three: he wants to thank the universe, his mother, his friends—even Bakugou, that his guilt rendered him unable to save your contact name under your real name, opting for “Noodle Connoisseur" instead.

It led to hearing you laugh. And god, it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, an undeserved reward.

Four: he wants to witness it again.

So he finds himself racing back to the quaint little bookstore after work on Friday evening, hoping you’ll stick to your routine of eating out on Friday nights like you said so.

And you do. You tell him so after almost decking him in the face. He almost laughs, astonished at your bold, albeit reckless, reaction to fear.

When you motion for him to tag along, he experiences this foreign feeling of his stomach churning—in a good way.

What do they call it…?

…Butterflies. His stomach erupts with butterflies. 

Even more so when he learns more about you and the story of the bookstore—of Book Nook.

Even more so when you look at him, when you really look at him when he talks about his new revelation in his hero work. And he thanks the stars that he chooses to be vulnerable with you, because he can feel the atmosphere shift in that moment. 

A moment where his fruit starts to bear. 

He gets that feeling again—content and warm inside.

You’re refreshing—relieving, and you’re not even trying to be. He sees your mask slowly come off, at a snail’s pace, and he revels in thinking that maybe you too, are choosing to be vulnerable with him.

The things you feel passionate about, how you add to his own opinion, the way you get embarrassed—every bit of it leaves him wanting more, leaves him wondering what more he can bring out of you.

Yes, in the most unexpected of times, his fruit did start to bear. 

He only realizes later that it’s bittersweet.

For at the end of the night, he decides to test how far fate can truly take him.

In hindsight, he should’ve been crushed at the way you close off at his advances—at the way you speak about your family. 

But he doesn’t think you notice how you look at him so despairingly. As if you know what you’re saying but… you’re looking at him the same way you did when you told him you were a germaphobe.

As if you want to say: Please take it, because it’s all I can give you right now.

And his heart cracks the tiniest bit. 

It clicks in his head when you finally end with: “Being a little removed from the hero world helps, it keeps my life peaceful, just the way I like it.”

…

Peace?

He can understand that. If it’s peace you desire, he can try. 

He doesn’t have much of it. Hell, he can count on one hand the number of moments when his mind is at ease. But he can dig through the seams. If anything, to hear that beautiful laugh escape your lips again and not the heartbroken tone seeping through it right now.

Yes. He can do that.

Some part of him thinks that you know but is refusing to acknowledge that the both of you are soulmates. 

But that’s okay, he can do that too, because you’re still trying—trying to keep this undeniable connection that flows between you two. To him, that’s enough.

Being friends is more than enough.

He can go at your pace.

Until you decide that you’d like to remove him too.

Until you look him in the eye and say: Yes, it hurts to be with you.

Shouto laughs internally because he can barely recognize himself right now. What happened to being okay with not finding his fated one?

But the truth of the matter is: he’s found you now, gotten to talk to you, and something keeps pulling him back—telling him to grasp at the threads.

He wonders if you'll forgive him for being so selfish.

“Should I buy this…?” he hears you ask yourself.

Shouto looks over your shoulder at the pop up shop on the street, holding your bag of newly bought potatoes in one hand and a bag of takeout in the other.

You set a handmade bookmark back on the stand, walking a few steps away then coming back to pick it up again.

He doesn’t move from his spot.

Bringing the bookmark closer to your face, you inspect the threaded florals entwined in it while he inspects you. 

Then titling your head, “Should I…? But I already have so many,” you talk to yourself. “Nope. No. I can’t.” Setting it down, you walk away again, muttering to yourself as a small smile creeps onto his lips.

If I’m correct…

Shouto settles both bags in one hand and pulls out his wallet with the other, swiftly taking out a couple of bills. He looks over to you and at the sight of your back, he turns to the young shop owner behind the table. 

“I’d like to buy a bookmark, the one with the flowers.”

He glances at you again to make sure you’re still turned, then says in a low voice, “If she comes back to buy it, can you tell her it’s a gift on the house?”

The shop owner, a woman, grins and nods enthusiastically, eyes darting between the two of you as she grabs the bills from his palm with both hands. He quickly readjusts the takeout bag back to his free palm.

Any second now…

Shouto turns his head to bite back a smile when he hears your footsteps coming up next to him. 

“On second thought—”

Actually, it’s the third thought.

“—I’d like to buy this bookmark, your craftsmanship is absolutely beautiful. How much is it?” you sweetly ask.

The woman gives you a wide smile, “Take it. Don’t worry about it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you frown. 

“Oh, I can’t! Please—how much is it?”

The owner picks up the bookmark and hands it to you to take, “I insist. I appreciate the kind words and for you taking a look in the first place.”

“But—” you protest. He knew you would.

“You can pay me back by being a loving owner to it. I just know it’s dying to snake its way into a good book.”

He gives props to his accomplice for seeing this through. 

Hesitantly, you take the bookmark and Shouto’s knees almost give out at the way you look at him for reassurance.

Him. For reassurance.

He gives you an encouraging nod and a smile breaks across your lips as you thank the shop owner fervently.

And one of his knees actually buckles when the both of you walk away from the table, your smile now aimed at him. 

Akin to a ray of sunshine beaming on a cloudy day.

Butterflies erupt in his stomach for the millionth time.

“Todoroki, did you see that? It’s my lucky day! Wow, isn’t it just beautiful? I’ve never seen anything like it! It must’ve taken ages to make with how intricate it is. Just look at…”

His heart warms at your excited babbling. 

Cute, he thinks, but it’s not about the bookmark. Though, he nods along each time you bring it up to his face—at a respectable distance—to point out a specific detail.

The shop owner watches you two walk away, cooing at being able to witness such an adorable interaction. 

What a beautiful couple, she thinks, smiling at the next customer.

“Todoroki-kun, they found signs of their quirk on the outskirts of town. An abandoned warehouse was crumbled.”

Shouto sucks in a breath through gritted teeth, feeling the cold night air sift through his clothes. 

“They’re prepared to make their move,” he states, clenching the phone in his hand.

“It seems so,” Midoriya agrees across the line, voice tense.

Shouto looks behind his shoulder and sees your head peek out from under the shop’s noren, worried eyes following his every step.

“The Association wants you and Kaa-chan on call for when they strike. They’ll most likely tell you tomorrow morning but I wanted to give you a heads up since I know you’ve been spending a lot of time with her these days,” his friend says.

His eyes turn to the ground, “Yeah. I wanted to stick close ever since we got the notice that they’ll be coming here.”

Midoriya sighs, “I know.”

Shouto feels a headache pulsate in his temple. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, “I appreciate you telling me, Midoriya.”

A brooding silence settles between the two, elongating across the city and through the devices in their hands. 

He doesn’t want to say it—doesn’t want to manifest it. But…

“...If anything happens, can you reassure her? I don’t want her in the dark, it’ll only make her worry.”

To be honest, he’s not really sure if he’s getting ahead of himself. He knows you would worry—you’re too kind not to, he just doesn’t know how much it would affect you.

But still, it aches his heart at the mere thought of you stressing yourself over the unknown, over whether a hero lived or died for a noble cause.

He doesn’t want you to suffer through that.

“Yeah, I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” he says with gratitude, ending the call then pocketing his phone.

Shouto hears you before he sees you, bracing himself when he turns around to you hesitantly walking towards him.

Your voice rings out in the quiet of the night, “...Is everything okay?”

He tries to smile, and curses inwardly when it comes out tense, it doesn’t escape your notice. “Everything’s okay. Just… work.”

“Work?” you softly repeat, eyebrows downturned.

The ache is already settling in. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he tries to reassure you, tries to deter from talking about hero work.

You’re quiet, eyes roaming across his face, searching his expression.

Shouto can practically see your thoughts running a mile a minute, and he notices your fist clenched tightly against your side.

It makes him clench his own, fighting the urge to grab your hand and soothe the embedded marks he knows are painfully taking shape by the second.

Instead, he chases the thoughts of the villains out of his head. Exhaling slowly, he musters up a smile—a smile he hopes looks convincing.

“Come on, our pho is getting cold,” he motions for you to turn, not walking yet until you move.

You nod slowly, returning a strained smile before pivoting.

Shouto gazes at your back during the short walk back to the shop, biting the inside of his cheek.

Nothing will happen to you—or him, he’ll make sure of it.

The call comes in the next day after Shouto drops you off at home.

Standard protocol ensues. 

Evacuation is underway when he arrives on-site, with Bakugou already inside the building. It’s a news station, one of the tallest skyscrapers in the city.

No doubt a devastating loss if it crumbles.

Shouto goes in, quirks ablaze.

The familiar sound of rapid explosions lead him straight to Bakugou and Shouto’s eyes immediately dart around—evaluating.

Four villains. The third story. Cubicles and tables wrecked everywhere. Bakugou’s voice yelling mid-fight, “Keep the middle one off the ground!”

Shouto hones his attention on the figure in the center, a man. Ice shoots across the floor underneath his feet, bringing the man in all black to its peak, hands pointed to the ceiling. Bakugou’s at the far end of the room, fending off the other villains. Explosions ring in the smoke-filled air.

Shouto’s eyes barely catch a sparked package soaring through the space, aiming at the base of his ice. It explodes the foundation into shards as the man in black breaks himself free of his enclosure, smirking.

Looking directly at Shouto.

The smirk widens, “So nice of you to join us! Let’s have a chat.”

Wasting no second, Shouto runs towards the villain, fire flaring out of his left palm. But it lacks firepower, if he isn’t careful, he could take down the building with his quirks alone.

Clearly, the villain knows this and takes advantage of the limited area, easily dodging flame after flame. He leaps closer and closer to Shouto until he’s only a few feet away.

Shouto reels back but the villain is faster, grasping both the hero’s wrists and gripping tight—tight enough to crush bones. Fire and ice hastily emerges from his body, causing the man to lurch off of him.

Shout grits his teeth, immediately assuming a combative stance as he encases the entire floor with ice, rooting the man to his spot.

What should he be wary of? Can the villain crumble ice? 

It doesn’t seem so. 

Another sparked package flies towards the villain’s feet and explodes. In the split second that the eruption impairs Shouto’s vision, the man knocks him down on the ground, limbs digging into his, grinning manically. 

Shouto pushes against the man’s hold, tries to knock him off balance, tries to summon his quirk, but nothing happens.

Shouto tries his quirk again.

Nothing.

His head instinctually darts from side to side—looking, searching—until his eyes land on a woman holding a palm towards him. 

That’s when he notices the small space around him is hazy, fluctuating in little waves. 

Damn it all. What is that? A nullification quirk?

Shouto thrashes, glaring at the man on top of him. The latter’s teeth glint in the light. 

“What are your motives? Why are you doing this?” Shouto grits out.

The villain sneers, his voice a deep rumble, “Oh? Now you want to talk? I wanted to chat, but on second thought—”

Shouto loosens a leg, kneeing the villain in the side, making him grunt at the impact. Shouto knees him again, successfully shoving him off and clambers on top. It’s a mess of limbs—thrashing, fighting. 

An explosion erupts at their side and Shouto’s hold shakes. The man uses the distraction and overpowers him, pinning Shouto down again with a nasty snarl on his face. 

“On second thought, I don’t think my wife had time to chat when your brother killed her,” the villain grits out lowly.

Shouto’s eye twitches as he bites out, “What the hell are you talking about?”

The villain’s hold locks tighter and Shouto hisses at one of his wrists cracking under the pressure.

“Did you have fun? Scurrying all over the country?” the man darkly laughs. “It serves you right, running around like a damn dog, just like he did me. That bastard, Dabi.”

Dabi? What does he mean–

Shouto clenches his teeth as his other wrist snaps, his hand spazzes from the fracture.

“And after all I did for him. After everything I devoted to him…” the villain growls.

Shouto still doesn’t understand. The man seemed to be in a trance, his gaze having a faraway look in them.

“That son of a bitch still killed her… She was my soulmate.” The villain leans in close, until all Shouto can see is the emptiness in his pitch black eyes. “Someone has to pay the price.”

Frustration and anger surges in Shouto. “What’s your end goal?” he growls back. 

“Since he fought dirty, then I’ll have to do the same. I’m just going to the source of it, his family made him that way afterall,” the man says nonchalantly, making Shouto’s eye twitch again.

It dawns on him.

A resentful vendetta.

“Your business is with me,” Shouto spits out, eyes shaking. He can’t stop the repulsive tone in his voice, “You’ve killed and hurt hundreds of people, they have to pay the price as well?”

The man pauses, cocking his head to the side.

Then he smiles. It sends a haunting chill down Shouto’s spine, regardless of it being pressed to the ground.

“Yes, they do. And they should know…”

The villain looks at Shouto in the eye, whispering coldly,

“That it’s all you and the failure of your family’s fault.” 

Shouto’s heart drops to his stomach.

And he knows he should move, he knows he should push back, to try to wrench free.

But he’s paralyzed and he can vaguely feel signs of the floor starting to crumble underneath his back.

In a flash, Bakugou launches from the side, knocking the villain off of him. Instinct kicks in and Shouto rolls just as the floor gives away, crumbling and leaving a gaping hole revealing a story down. He coughs at the dust kicking in the air.

The villain furiously yells and scrambles to his feet, drawing a blade from a sheath strapped to his calf. He dives towards Bakugou and Shouto can hear the ash blonde’s quirk popping.

But he watches as the woman from before appears behind Bakugou, latching onto his back and the sparks immediately fizzle out. Another villain tackles the duo, knocking and holding them to the ground.

“Stop getting in my fucking way!” the villain roars, running and pointing the knife at Bakugou.

Bakugou yells out but it's muffled, “Try it, you motherfucker! I’ll fucking blast you to bits!”

But there are no sparks. No crackles. Nothing in Shouto’s vision besides the villain sailing forward with a blade aiming straight at his friend on the ground.

Shouto doesn’t think when he moves his body, broken wrists dangling.

Doesn’t think to use his quirks as he stands on two wobbly feet.

Doesn’t register that he runs. 

Doesn’t realize his mistake when he tackles.

And he misses Bakugou throwing the woman off with crackling palms raised.

The explosion blasts directly into Shouto’s right side as the blade slices into his body. He didn’t know what hurt more: the deep gash in his hip, the blistering and torn skin on his right side, or the sharp pain from his wrists that fails miserably at producing his quirks.

Sheer agony makes him twist mid-air as the force of it all blows both him and the villain straight into a wall.

The last thing he hears is a resounding crack on the side of his head.

Shouto blinks, groggily.

There’s voices, voices he doesn’t recognize. He tries to raise his head but it’s heavy as a brick, and a throb starts pulsing on the right side.

Blinding white light shines into his eyes. He squints but finds his eyelids not following; instead, they’re pried open by another’s touch. Blurry faces and a beam of light alternate in his vision.

Oh. Is it a doctor? Why?

The light begins to hurt, further worsening the throb now painfully pounding above his ear. 

He tries to turn his head away but fails, powerless, until the hold on his eyelids finally release. It makes him inwardly sigh, relieved at the darkness. He slips back into a daze, the heaviness in his body lulling him to sleep.

He dreams of windchimes—tinkling, harmoniously resonant.

And while it rings, a voice blends with it, creating a symphony.

Shouto blinks, groggily—again.

There’s voices, voices he recognizes. 

It’s mildly grating and he wants to go back to sleep, back to his dreams of symphonies.

But his body moves and he groans at the immediate soreness aching every inch of it.

He hears vaguely, “Oh! He’s awake! Wait… I’ll let Deku-kun know…”

Shouto slowly rises, feeling a hand help him up. His eyes scan his surroundings.

A hospital room and a crowd surrounding him—his friends.

“Why are you all here?” he asks with a scratchy throat. Still disoriented, he brings a hand up to his head, eyes instinctively closing at the dull throb.

“You just woke up and the first thing you ask is why we’re all here? That’s cold!” 

Oh. Kaminari’s here too?

There’s movement and chuckling but Shouto hardly pays attention to any of it as he huffs a breath out through his migraine, “What happened?”

“Todoroki-kun, do you remember anything?” Looking up, he sees Uraraka, gazing worriedly at him with round brown eyes.

Shouto furrows his brows, trying to sort through the bits and pieces of his memory.

He remembers the news station. The villain. And the villain mentioning his brother…? Then an explosion before he blacked out.

Right. He was caught in a blast—Bakguou’s blast.

Shouto clears his throat; water sounds heavenly right about now. “What happened to the villain? Did we detain him?”

Everyone’s silent as a somber mood engulfs the room. It makes him purse his lips, the pause explaining more than enough.

Asui speaks first, “How’s your head? The doctors had trouble healing it at first, said it was a severe hit.”

Was it? It does hurt substantially. Regardless, Shouto nods and ends up wincing at the motion, “I’ll be fine.”

It’s quiet again as he grapples with his surroundings. Then suddenly, a thought hits him and his eyes widen.

“What day is it?” he asks abruptly, lowly. 

Uraraka looks at him in both concern and confusion, “You were out for a few days, today’s Sunday. Why—?”

Shouto feels a pit form in his stomach and he throws the blanket off of him, forcing his aching limbs to move, heart racing. Because if it's Sunday, that means Friday has already passed. And Friday was the day you and him were supposed to—

“I need to go,” he rushes, mistakenly planting his right foot down first and grimacing at the pain shooting up his entire side.

His other foot barely meets the floor when a rough palm pushes against him and he stumbles back on the bed, hissing at the impact. A voice, aggressive as usual, yells at him, “Quit it, you idiot!”

He snaps his head up, ignoring the sharp pain that comes with it, to see Bakugou glaring at him. “If you’re worried about the girl, she’s fine and Izuku’s probably with her right now. So sit your ass down and just rest!”

A beat passes and his eyes remain on Bakugou’s crimson ones, both refusing to look away. If he wasn’t right in the head, he would almost take it as a challenge. And physically speaking, he wasn’t right in the head, so—

All of a sudden, Midoriya appears in between the two and pushes Bakugou’s leering figure away from the bed. 

When did he get here? 

“What are you guys doing? We’re in hospital, you know,” his freckled friend says in a hushed voice.

Immediately, Shouto grabs his arm, “Midoriya, is she—”

“Don’t worry,” Midoriya interrupts him, gingerly taking Shouto’s bandaged hand off of him, ”She’s been at the hospital ever since the incident, waiting for you to wake up.”

Shouto looks down at the bed and bites the inside of his lip. You’ve been waiting? Are you okay? If you’re here, then that means—

“She should be coming in soon,” Midoriya says, gently pushing the bed-ridden hero back and fixing the tossed-aside blanket over him. “So just stay here and rest, okay?”

Shouto doesn’t say anything—debating, and he almost gets out of the bed again until Kaminari comes up to rub his uninjured shoulder, trying to calm him down.

“Come on, Todoroki. If anything, just get a load of this, Bakugou’s worried about you since he’s the one that nearly blew you to bits—ow!”

Bakugou shoves Kaminari’s head aside. “Worried?! Who’s worried?” he gruffs out exasperatedly, then turns to Shouto with a deep frown. “Oi, you half-n-half bastard. I told you I had it, why’d you have to fucking shove your way through?!”

“Bakugou. You really should be thanking him instead,” Asui mumbles.

No. Shouto really did get in the way. But he doesn’t correct her.

“Like hell I should! I had it!” Bakugou yells, ignoring Midoriya shushing him, “Now the fucking loser is out on the run.”

Uraraka turns to the angry man, “It can’t be helped, he annihilated the building before we could capture him. It’s a miracle that we were able to get everyone out.”

Bakugou turns his nose up into the air, “Tch. It’s not a fucking miracle.”

Asui pipes up again, “We’ve seen worse before. If anything, this was one of the better outcomes.”

This, Shouto agrees with. At least the evacuation was a success.

“Yeah! It feels like nothing, right Todoroki?” Kaminari jokes, causing a few chuckles to break out in the group. The electric man grins wider at Shouto’s blank look. He’s been through worse but nothing is certainly an understatement. 

Midoriya smiles sheepishly, “Guys… Calm down. Todoroki-kun needs to rest.”

But Kaminari can sense the tense mood lift just the slightest and tries to take it home, cackling, “He’s rested plenty the past few days. Must’ve felt like a vacation, huh?”

The laughter that follows makes Shouto sigh. Leave it to Kaminari to joke about landing in a hospital. But it makes his shoulders lose their tension and he looks up at his friends, ultimately appreciative that they’re here, albeit causing a ruckus. 

His heterochromatic eyes roam across them, taking in their lightened expressions until it lands onto one more person near the door and his breath hitches.

He can recognize that figure anywhere.

It’s you.

Faintly, he feels a tingle on the part of his skin with etched characters and before he knows it, he calls out your name, forgetting his surroundings.

When your eyes meet one another, his soulmate mark flares—burning hot. And he should be used to feeling heat on that side of his body but no, this burns differently—it always does. 

His mood flips completely—mesmerized by the sudden sight of his dream manifesting before him.

It’s only when you walk forward, pulled by Midoriya, when he’s brought back down to earth.

Because there’s a couple of things he realizes.

One: you’re scared.

It takes him a second to notice, too enthralled with the fact that you’re here. But then he sees how on edge you look under the curious eyes of his friends, how deep your eye bags sink, how you gnaw at your lip when you scan his injuries. And his heart aches at the clearly exhausted state you’re in. 

So he ushers his friends out, and tries to lighten the mood—awkwardly, tries to reassure you, tries to figure out why you stare at him as if he’s a ghost. 

None of it works. 

And worse, tears start running down your face and his heart falls to the ground at the terrified look you adorn. He barely catches the shift in your expression when he comprehends it. That—

Two: you’re upset.

He’s never heard your voice so frenzied before.

“You almost died! You were so bloody and the doctors… They wouldn't tell me anything– I couldn’t– I couldn’t do anything. Why are you asking if I’m okay?”

Shouto’s speechless, throat dry and not because it’s parched.

Then it hits him: you’re worried for him.

And the tears keep falling. An urge to wipe them away surges through him and he doesn’t notice his hand reaching for you until you lean away. He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to plummet even more but it does. 

“It’s not as bad as you think…” he finds himself saying halfheartedly.

Unknowingly, he pulls a trigger; it causes him to revise #2. 

Two: you’re unequivocally upset.

“You say it’s not that bad. Your friends say it was like nothing. But– I just don’t understand. How? If this is nothing, then what’s something?”

He wants to curse Kaminari for his untimely jokes.

But there’s no point in doing that because now you’re frantic, panicking—dragging your hands so roughly to wipe your tear-stricken cheeks that he can see the blood rising in its tracks. He can’t stop himself from reaching out for you again because it must be painful, it must hurt, and he never wants you to suffer from either.

His body truly stops listening to him because once he finally gets a hold on you, he refuses to let go.

He fears that if he does, you’ll pull away for good.

Guilt starts flooding him and he’s sorry for joking around, sorry for upsetting you, sorry for making you worry.

Then you mention it—almost mention it. In such a soft and meek voice:

“How can I not worry? When we’re–”

Soulmates.

A word he avoided like the plague.

He bites his tongue.

And he senses you pull away—again, in a chilling demeanor he’s never seen you wear before. It haunts him and his heart manages to break through the ground and bury itself six feet under at your next words.

“I– I don’t think I can do this. It’s… it’s too much. I don’t think I can handle it. Not again.”

The air punches out of his lungs and he tries to say something—anything, but nothing comes out.

It’s all happening too fast.

Is this as far as he goes?

Is this the part where you look him in the eye and say: Yes, it hurts to be with you.

Except that wasn’t what you said, right? No. Earlier, you said something different. You said you’re worried about him because he’s your…

…But does that matter? You can be hurt and worry about him at the same time.

Maybe it’s the desperation talking.

He’s at a loss.

Shouto’s never felt this before, never felt such utter helplessness and anguish, never knew how selfish it can make him. 

He feels disgusted with himself that he lets his frustration show, that he has to ask—to make sure.

“Is this really what you want?”

You shake your head, looking down.

And that’s all it takes for measly hope to dig its way into his heart, rooting itself in a place it has no right to be in.

He doesn’t think you know this: that you’re honest, even in times you might not want to be. Honest in the way you look at him, honest in the way you carry yourself, honest in the way you plead his name out so heart wrenchingly sorrowful.

It tears him to pieces.

He sees it with clear eyes, the distance that threatens to stretch farther between you two.

This time, there’s no body betrayal when he tugs you to him—a desperate attempt to bridge the gap.

Three: you’re even more beautiful up close.

It should be shameful, the way he’s drawn to your lips, even in such a heightened moment. So he kisses your hair, hoping it can deter him from his urges, thinking all the while.

Your insistence at keeping a distance. Your unwillingness to say your first name. The villain attack. Your reaction. Your panic. The way you drew back again.

He remembers those words you said that bittersweet night:

“He died sacrificing his life and the last thing he said to me was that it was a hero’s honor to fight till the bitter end.”

“Being a little removed from the hero world helps, it keeps my life peaceful, just the way I like it.”

The signs were there. The traces of trauma were there. The honesty was there. And with it, there was your reluctance to stick close but the effort to push yourself. The tidbits of vulnerability you’ve shown him. 

Vulnerability—he’s always struggled with it growing up, clumsy in giving it back. It strikes him down, leaving him defenseless, but he doesn’t mind the plunge if it has a chance of easing your mind. 

Shouto whispers, as if any louder will scare you off, “…I can't promise that I won’t ever get hurt. I don’t want to lie and have you believe that you won’t ever see me like this again.”

It’s true. He’s a hero—it’s inevitable. And he shouldn't make a promise he can’t keep. 

However, there’s something else he can promise. 

“I meant what I said back then.” Is his voice shaking? He doesn’t know.

“What I can promise is that if I get hurt, I’ll do everything in my power to make it back. To choose between sacrificing and fighting, I will always give it my all to fight. To fight and live.” 

Save, win, and live to tell the tale.

A grounding principle to embody—a reassurance to a hero’s loved ones that they won’t see themselves as a mere expendable weapon. 

Will it reassure you?

He hopes it does.

And he finds himself saying, “We can be friends. Acquaintances. I can be a simple customer. All I ask is for you to not push me away. Please, can you give me the chance to fight? To fight to live? For you?”

He really hopes you do.

With all that’s said and done, you look rather confused at his persistence.

And he knows it’s only been a short while since you two met. He reiterates this fact because he can see it in your face that he knows he’s coming on strong. It’s understandable that you question his motives.

But he also knows that time never stops for anyone, especially not him. Not when his toddler body was forced to push beyond what it was emotionally and physically capable of, not when the war devastated the world and his family’s past came to light, and not when he was there to pick up the last of Japan’s pieces.

And definitely not now.

There’s only one striking difference between then and now.

Now, he feels as if he can finally breathe. Suddenly, the trivial things in life don’t feel so far away and trivial anymore. Because how is it that every moment that passes helplessly through time feels infinitely slower with you? 

As if time truly does stop for a moment and he can’t focus on anything else.

He’s always felt that his mind was burning on old and tired oil, that he was running out of time—that he had no time. 

Now he questions himself. Is that really true? Yes, he was frustrated but didn’t he grudgingly allow it to move him along? Didn’t he just ultimately accept how powerless he felt?

When did he truly put an effort into stopping time—into finding solace in his life? All those moments—all four of them—that put him to ease, they were all brought to him, not the other way around.

He never sought it out.

Until you came, giving him a taste of what it means to truly breathe with no reservations.

You—with your odd noodle obsession, with your surprisingly fearless but kind attitude, with your love of books and all things kind and soft.

It all came so suddenly: these thoughts of time, longing, peace. He trembles at the idea of it disappearing just as fast.

His mind races, his mouth runs faster.

It spills out on its own: the last two weeks. How he spent it memorizing anything that has to do with you. It comes so naturally to him: observing you, learning you, adoring you.

It’s unusual. He never striked himself as someone overly sentimental, or one to voice it aloud. Never found himself speaking so much—unable to stop.

But you managed to bring out parts of himself that he never knew, it surprises and scares him at the same time.

He pours his heart out, hoping to reach you; because not only does he have the urge to be vulnerable, but he also thinks that you deserve to know. To know that someone notices these things and that you simply living makes them want to live for you.

Shouto scans your face, watching how you gaze at him inquisitively, curiously, and dare he say it—fascinatingly. It sends electricity reverberating through his injured body. 

You ruminate over his words, contemplative and a bit conflicted. He then realizes how exhausted you must be from the past few days. Midoriya did say you’ve been waiting the whole time. And he knows how unforgiving those hospital chairs are.

“Don’t pressure yourself to answer now. I’ll wait, as long as you need.” 

Yes. He can.

He can wait for however long you need.

Because if there’s one thing he’s truly learned over the past thirty days is that he’s a selfish man.

A selfish man that doesn’t want it to end before it even starts.

i love writing his pov, i hope i did him justice. next one will be from him as well :) two more chapters to go! let me know what you thought of this chapter!

But you’re already here. And people are giving you weird looks from just standing there, blocking the foot traffic to the front entrance.

You take a hesitant step and the smell of fried food drifts under your nose.

Gods. Anyone within five feet can take a whiff. Was your choice of lunch too bold? 

Your feet shuffle back and forth, debating on running to the sandwich shop down the street. It’s close by, and lunch rush technically ended so it’ll be quick. But how do you explain having a meal for four instead of two?

People around you stare at the little dance you got going on and you abruptly stop, cheeks heating as embarrassment floods you.  

Oh hell! Let’s just go in.

You force your feet to move, narrowly dodging the throngs of people coming out the building. Passing through the huge glass double doors, the interior makes you do a complete 360, mouth dropping slightly open in awe.

White stone with a glossy finish cover every inch of the floor and light wood panels run vertically on each wall. Not one overhead light is seen on the high ceilings, only perimeter lighting illuminates the room. You vaguely make out a Japanese zen garden in the back, past the wide glass windows that overlook the agency courtyard. 

Wooden chairs that match the wall are placed in what you assume is a waiting area, with several people sitting in them. Various plants are also spread around the room, adding a pop of color but still maintaining its modern design. 

Still eyeing the huge, and probably very expensive, bonsai tree near the entrance, you walk up to the light gray stone reception desk that sits in the middle of the lobby. Behind it, a young woman looks up and gives you a stiff smile. 

“Welcome to Shouto Agency. How can we help you today?”

You give the receptionist a courteous smile, “Ah. I’m here to see Shouto.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

An appointment? 

No, in fact you do not.

Flustered, you respond, “No… I don’t.”

Her smile drops from her face, “I’m afraid Shouto is busy at the moment. Please fill out a request form and we’ll try our best to get back to you as soon as possible.”

You kick yourself for your stupidity. What were you thinking! Obviously you would need an appointment! As if anyone can just saunter in here and meet the #2 hero himself so easily. He’s the goddamn owner of this building!

Is this a sign?

No. You can’t back out now. It’s fine, Goya’s watching the store for the day and you've made it this far already. 

Who knows when you’ll get the courage to see him again if not for your impulsive decisiveness last night.

Your fingers reach for the paper she hands you. 

With feet turning to the waiting area, you take a few steps towards it when a chime from the elevators makes you turn your head. Its white stone exterior blends in with the neutral aesthetic and you watch it open on cue.

A figure stumbles out of it before the doors are fully open. Immediately, your breath hitches, eyes falling on the one person you wanted to see the most.

Todoroki Shouto. 

Your soulmate mark starts pulsating, aching.

It’s only been two weeks since you’ve last seen him but why does it feel longer than that? 

Todoroki darts his head around looking left and right, his red and white hair swaying with his frantic motions. His eyes land on you and before you could make a sound, he’s walking—no, pacing towards you. 

Employees around the hero try to greet him as he passes but he bee-lines to you. 

“Sir—” the receptionist starts.

“Why are you here? Is something wrong? No—are you hurt?”

His onslaught of questions reaches you before his feet do. Your stomach warms at the sound of his voice before you can even register what he’s saying. 

It’s when he stops his long strides in front of you, closer than normal and with expectant eyes. You blank under his intense gaze, brows furrowing in confusion at his odd panicked state. Hurt? Why would you be hurt?

You have to tilt your head back to look up at him and your eyes catch his hands reaching out. 

They freeze before he drops one to his side, the other hand coming up to sweep through his hair once. 

Why does he look frustrated?

“Why are you here?” he repeats. “Did someone tell you to come?”

Your stomach sinks. He’s being weirdly insistent on questioning your appearance.

With a meek voice, you respond. “…No. I came because I wanted to see you…” You bite your tongue from how childish it sounds. 

Oh, what were you thinking?

Todoroki’s eyes widen for a split second at your words before he turns his head to the side, sighing. It sends a small pang to your heart.

Was this too sudden?

Self-doubt festers in you and your free hand involuntarily waves wildly. “I’m sorry… Is this a bad time? I didn’t meant to—”

“No. Let’s…let’s leave the building first,” he says in a quiet voice and hovers his palm near your arm. He shifts his body and brings his other arm up to gesture towards the elevator, motioning you to walk.

He doesn’t want you here, your mind helplessly thinks. 

With heavy steps, you walk in the direction he motions to, body caving in on itself unknowingly. 

Todoroki leads you, head subtly darting around again. He presses the elevator buttons in an unusually impatient manner and no sooner did you find yourselves at the ground floor, standing in front of a car separated from the others. 

It’s a white tinted car, sleek and pristine. Without a word, he opens the passenger door and you don’t fail to notice the red interior. 

Confused, you raise your head to look at him. “Are we going somewhere?”

Todoroki runs another hand frustratedly through his hair and it falls messily to the side. The action makes your shoulders deflate. 

Even in his somewhat distressed state, he replies in a calm tone, “Yes, we should leave the vicinity. I can take you to the bookstore if you’d like?”

You bite your tongue, dejection settling deep in your bones. 

But you had just left the bookstore.

“Oh…okay.”

You nimbly slide into the passenger seat, placing the takeout bag in your lap. Todoroki closes the door right after and jogs over to the driver’s side. With quick motions, he starts the car and pulls out of the garage. It’s silent even when you get on the freeway, buildings whizzing by.

Why did he want you out of his building so fast? Did you make him wait too long?

Dread pools in your gut, making you clench the takeout bag.

Is he disappointed?

The rustle of plastic finally breaks the silence and Todoroki quickly looks over at the noise.

“What’s that?” his voice rings softly in the enclosed space, tone calming down slightly from before. 

Oh yeah. Lunch. Takeout that you bought for the two of you. 

“Oh…” your voice comes out scratchy and you clear it before continuing, “It’s just lunch. I thought we could eat together.”

Your voice trails off and you duck your head in mild embarrassment. The smell of oil and meat fills the car as if screaming its existence pridefully upon notice. 

He doesn’t say anything.

It makes your skin prickle, “But it’s okay if you’re busy. I came without telling you afterall. If it’s more convenient, you can drop me off at the train station.”

“No,” he says without looking at you. You eye his side profile closely, seeing a small smile start creeping up on his face.

“Let's have lunch together.”

At the change in expression, your anxiety starts chipping away, heart feeling a little lighter. It almost makes you forget about the tense atmosphere just a moment ago.

Unbelievable, you think to yourself. At what point did he start affecting you so much? 

“Is everything okay?” you ask, hesitant.

Without taking his eyes off the road, he replies. “It’s work-related, no need to worry about it. I apologize for my sudden behavior.”

You nod your head slowly, still confused. You don’t miss the slight edge in his tone in his explanation. But he doesn’t follow up with anything more and you get the feeling that you shouldn't push.

He’s a hero. It’s probably confidential information, you try to reassure yourself. 

His voice brings you out of your thoughts, “What did you bring?”

Right. Lunch.

You turn to him, mustering up a small smile, “It’s Friday so… I thought yakisoba would be nice. How does that sound?”

Todoroki then glances at you. It’s brief but it gives you that small bit of reassurance. Especially when he utters his next words.

“That sounds perfect.”

It’s strange how significant a presence can affect someone. Even if you’re not talking about anything important, even if there are moments of silence that makes you wonder where the conversation is going next—their mere presence can be so jarringly powerful.

Maybe it has always been this way. From the moment you met him, there was always something—something in the air that at first felt suffocating. But now? It was like inhaling the freshest breath on top of the highest mountain. 

Or perhaps it has something to do with where Todoroki brought you.

No. He didn’t bring you to the highest mountain, or any mountain at all. After driving for twenty minutes, you’re now both sitting in a small botanical garden hiding away in a local forest. It’s perched on the edge of a hill, overlooking Musutafu.

Despite it being in the middle of autumn, the sun peaks through the clouds. You welcome the warmth it brings along with the cool breeze. 

Red and white camellias surround you both—the two colors seem to be all you notice today. Seated on a small area of grass designated for the rare visitor to lounge, the two of you finish off the last of your lunch, not another person in sight.

You watch as the red-white boy himself brings another bite of yakisoba to his mouth, giving a subtle nod as he chews.

Most of his injuries seem to have healed from the incident, bandages no longer adorning his head and body. You wouldn’t have guessed he was in a hospital bed just two weeks ago. He’s also dressed in casual clothing, probably having changed out of his hero suit before you saw him. 

“Truly. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. This is delicious,” he mumbles after a bite. He brings the container up to his eye level, carefully examining the ingredients. 

You gaze at him, cocking your head to the side and chuckling at his studying. “Right?”

He hums and continues eating, happily unaware of just how adorable he looks sitting in a field of camellias, eating noodles.

A quiet but comforting silence envelopes you both. Only the sound of plastic along with the wind resonates in the space as you both pack away the now empty takeout boxes.

You look out at the field full of flowers and plants. Most of them you can’t recognize, but it's a beautiful sight anyways. You never knew there was a place like this so close to the city—didn’t think that it would be Todoroki to bring you here. 

It matches him. Not just the colors but the still beauty of it all, picturesque.

“I found this garden a couple of years ago during one of my scouts,” Todoroki softly starts, making you turn towards him. His gaze remains on the view in front and the loose strands of his hair sways with the wind.

He continues, “It was destroyed after the war but the elderly couple who looked after it was adamant on restarting it. It’s been years but they’re still not satisfied with the results, it seems.”

You hum questioningly. “How come? The garden looks amazing.”

Todoroki nods, once and curt. “I agree. It’s far from done in their eyes, as the previous garden was three times bigger. They’re quite stubborn so I try to help out, though my gardening knowledge is not extensive.”

The image of Todoroki smeared in dirt, clumsily pruning flowers, flashes in your mind. It’s a contrasting vision to Pro-hero Shouto who blasts scorching fire from the tips of his fingers.

Then you imagine an elderly couple instructing him, teaching—maybe even yelling at him about the delicacy required to work with plants. Perhaps they were standing or sitting nearby while Todoroki kneels in the soil.

The story reminds you of Okamoto, the tenacity of rebuilding something dear to their hearts. Through all the turmoil this country has gone through, there seems to be a recurring theme in the healing afterwards.

Second chances aren’t given, they're created.

You sit with that thought for a second. 

Then ask him, “Do you come here often?”

His face doesn’t falter when he replies, “No. Not as much as I’d like to.” The breeze picks up, making his hair ruffle gently. 

You watch him in a trance. He’s quiet for a moment, thinking. You always find yourself waiting in earnest when you see that contemplative look on his face.

Although usually impassive, he’s surprised you more than enough times with how honest and introspective he is. Even if blunt or awkward.

With an even voice, he utters, “My profession isn’t a calm one, and my family life is far from normal. I come here when I need a small breather, it helps most of the time.”

Instantly, you imagine Todoroki, sitting here, looking out at the skyline like this—alone. Sitting here with the weight and burden of being a child soldier who was forced to grow up too quickly—who never had the chance to be just a kid.

You imagine him coming here to find comfort. And on one of those days where it didn't help, he’d leave feeling more dejected, perhaps even inconsolable. 

It sends a deep pang to your heart. Even more so when hearing how his word choice almost downgrades what he’s been through. 

“It’s fascinating,” he simply says.

What is?

You echo your thoughts out loud, eyes never leaving his face.

“After all that’s happened, there’s still a place like this. A small garden hidden away, blooming quietly. You’d miss it in a hurry. But once you do find it, it’s as if the rest of the world can’t compare.”

His bi-colored eyes glitter as he looks out across the field and into the vast sky. You follow his gaze and suddenly, it's like seeing it with a new light. 

With a life like his: always on the move, always fighting, always being expected of something. When does he get the chance to slow down and simply… live? You had a choice, but he didn’t. How often did he find something like this? Somewhere he can just simply breathe. 

The sentimentality of his words strike you, sinking your heart in such a different way than dread does. It falls, just to rise up again, new and powerful. Hopeful. 

And how you wish he felt the same. That this little place only provides solace and not just longing. He of all people deserves it the most. 

Todoroki turns to you then with soft eyes. “Do you like it? This place,” he asks quietly, as if sharing a secret for only your ears to hear. 

You can’t help the smile forming on your face—at his strength, at his perseverance. “I love it,” you quietly say, matching his tone. 

“Thank you for taking me here. It’s…” You trail off, trying to find the words to describe this small little haven he’s vulnerably shown you.

Beautiful? Breathtaking? 

“Peaceful?” he asks.

You stop short, smile slowly slipping off your face. You search his eyes and find nothing but genuinity in them.

Peaceful. 

You repeat the word in your mind. The longer you think about it, the further your face drops. Not from acceptance or confusion or anything else you’ve felt from the idea of it. No. It drops from a slow understanding that forms as you watch him.

“Yeah… it is peaceful,” you whisper absentmindedly. 

Todoroki smiles. If his mouth was agape you can imagine his teeth gleaming at you with the way his cheeks rise with the motion. 

“I’m glad,” he says, voice low and comforting. “I was hoping this place can add to your list of things that make you feel at peace. Just the way you like it.”

Flowers and leaves rustle from a strong gust of wind.

Peaceful.

That’s what you told him when you initially set your boundaries with him. Another one of the many lines you’ve drawn to separate you two and his hero world. Something meant to deter him—an obstacle.

But here he is, trying to add to your pockets of peace—trying to accommodate and cater to you through all the chaos that comes with him. Offering you a sanctuary when he thought that promising you his own safety wasn’t enough.

You can’t help the small quiver in your lips as the realization dawns on you. 

While you’ve been scared out of your mind, heedlessly breaking down the bridge that connects you two. Todoroki’s been there, reaching across from the other side: watching, molding, handing you a new brick each and every time the fragile bridge crumbles—patiently waiting for you to lay the final piece down.

And you don’t want to regret it. You don’t want to one day look across and see that he’s not there anymore, that you put the final piece down too late, if ever.

His previous words echo in your mind, 

“Can you give me the chance to fight? To fight to live? For you?”

In what world did you deserve this? To deserve him?

Your heart feels full. Heavy but full. 

Todoroki is still looking at you with a smile. A smile that you’ve always preferred over his sad one. A smile that becomes that much sweeter when you’re able to be the cause of it.

A smile that you’d forever want to remain on that face. 

“Todoroki,” you call out to him.

He looks at you curiously, with the same fond smile, so heart wrenchingly warm. “What is it?”

With a clear voice, you utter your first name. It drifts in between the breezes of the wind, hushed and fleeting. 

And with it, it carries your answer. It cuts through the line you’ve hashed over and over again in between you two. 

A beat passes. Silent but loud.

Todoroki stares at you in shock. 

There’s a breathless moment as he looks at you with his mouth slightly agape, eyes swirling with so much emotion it nearly drowns you. 

He utters your name once—twice—three times. Your heart flips each time and you never knew your name could have such a tender ring to it. Never knew how incredible and wonderful it can sound coming from his lips. 

After a few minutes, Todoroki takes a short breath. He finally speaks, voice low and a little nervous. “May I call you by your first name?

You nod, heat tingling in your cheeks as he says your name again, like an oath.

“My first name is Shouto,” he says a little clumsily. Your soulmate mark flares when he says his name and you wonder if he felt the same when you told him yours. 

You let out a small giggle, “Of course I know that. It’s your hero name afterall.”

He furrows his eyebrows slightly and mumbles, “I know. But I’m not introducing myself as a hero. I’m…”

Todoroki stops and looks at you for another second, as if searching your face for reassurance. A full smile breaks out from your face and you laugh breathlessly, heart thumping hard as you nod. 

He heaves a breath, head darting back and forth between the grass and you, causing the wind to blow his hair around haphazardly. Some of the red strands cross over to the white side. 

He returns your smile and says definitively, “I’m Shouto.”

You reach up, slowly placing his colored hair back on its respective side. 

“Hi, Shouto,” you say playfully, giggling, enthralled with the way his ears start tinging pink. He leans forward, nearly pressing his forehead on yours but stops just an inch away. 

He closes his eyes for a long second before reopening them and looking straight into yours. You can feel his breath on your face.

“Thank you for telling me your name. I— I want to be what you deserve. I mean, we can be whatever you’d like, it doesn’t have to be—”

“I trust you,” you cut him off, giving him another reassuring look, “We can take things slow, yeah?” 

Your reintroduction is vague and clumsy. Nonetheless, it warms your heart, the unspoken words need not to be said. 

He nods and you both stay there like that. Unmoving, breathing in each other’s space.

It suddenly hit you that it didn’t matter where you were. For even in this field, where he blends in with the red and white camellias, he shines brighter like nothing you’ve ever imagined before. 

Presence can be a powerful thing. You could’ve never prepared yourself for how it feels to fully acknowledge and submit to it—letting yourself be completely captivated. Until all your senses are just him and it's as if nothing else in the world can compare. 

You’re currently in your kitchen, one hand on your hip as the other one holds chopsticks, stirring between different pots of boiling water with buckwheat noodles cooking in them. 

Feeling a presence behind, you turn your head slightly to see Todoroki—no, Shouto hovering over your shoulder, watching the four pots overtake your entire stove. 

“Is it ready yet?” he asks calmly, repeating his question from two minutes ago. 

You laugh, playfully rolling your eyes and blushing a little at the closeness.

It’s still something you’re getting used to. Winter has rolled around since your talk in the garden, and Shouto has been getting increasingly ballsy with his touches despite not making skin contact.

A hand on your back when you two are walking, a foot pressed next to yours underneath the table, his hair brushing yours when he leans over to grab something—all done with a layer of clothing or a mere inch of air between you two.  

Frankly, it drives you crazy. 

True to your words, you both have been taking it slow. Extremely slow. And it’s nice, to have some type of transition between almost cutting him off to… whatever it is between you two now. 

It’s almost reassuring in a way, that it seems he didn’t need to touch you to confirm anything. That you two can still get to know each other without the pressure or frenzy of being soulmates looming over. 

And it’s not like you don’t want to. It just feels like something you have to mentally prepare yourself for because if there’s one thing you've finally admitted to yourself in the past month and a half, it’s a simple truth.

Todoroki Shouto is not just a friend.

In between spending time after work and your weekly noodle dinners, you two have been spending copious amounts of time together. Much like before the incident. The main difference is that you don’t berate yourself for every interaction that brings you two closer, or feel like his companionship is overbearing. 

It feels good to slow down—to enjoy being with him without feeling guilty for once.

You want to savor this feeling, this standstill of processing your emotions. The first month of meeting him was nothing short of chaotic, but this… this seems like something you finally have control over. To finally take at your own pace. 

That being said, every near touch still surprises you, and also leaves you desiring just a little bit more. It’s funny looking back on when he first grazed his arm to hand you a lemon at the grocery store, your brain had nearly short-circuited. 

And that’s not to mention you sprawled across him on his hospital bed prior to that. 

And when he kissed your hair.

And how he’s currently in your home for the first time, with you cooking for him. 

It feels intimate, too intimate—how natural he acts in your space. As well as the way he’s hovering over you so closely he might as well put his chin on your shoulder. 

Flushing, and not because of the hot steam, your timer chimes and you tap your phone to turn it off. Carefully draining each pot of buckwheat noodles and running the portion under cold water, you repeat that cycle four times. Each lap, Shouto follows you hot on your heels, like a puppy.

A tall, broad red and white blank-faced puppy. 

You nearly bump into him when you turn around with the last bundle. Inching forward, you signal for him to move but he doesn’t. He stands there, like a wall, trapping you in between him and the sink.

You don’t fail to notice your heart picking up speed as you look up, raising both eyebrows. “Excuse me. I’m afraid there’s too many chefs in the kitchen.”

Shouto blinks. “I’m not a chef.” 

You have to bite your lip from laughing, “Then why are you in the kitchen?”

“Because you’re here,” he simply says. 

What a fucking flirt.

You roll your eyes, softly pushing against his chest with your shoulder. But he doesn’t budge. Instead, he grabs the colander in your hands and sets it on the counter beside the sink.

With nothing in between you two now, he inches closer. You try to leave some space but you can already feel the granite counter digging into your back. Your heart beats harder, rattling in your chest.

Shyly, you peer up at him. “Shouto? Everything okay?”

Shouto looks down, observing you, not saying a word.

It’s as if something shifted in a split second. You squirm underneath his intense gaze and dart your eyes forward, not able to meet his eyes from the sudden tension in the air.

Did you miss something? 

What happened to the lighthearted atmosphere just a second ago? 

His chest is nearly pressed against your face and it makes the heat in your cheeks skyrocket, putting your burners to shame. 

After an excruciatingly long moment, you hear his voice rumble from above you, quiet and low. 

“I want to take you out on a date.”

Your eyes widen and you snap your head up. The intensity in his eyes are still there, if not even stronger.

A date… 

Not walking you home. Or running errands. Or grabbing a quick bite. A date. 

You stare into his eyes—eyes swimming with so much unexpected emotion, you can feel it pull you under. 

And his expression, hard set and determined, all of it aimed at you.  

“Will you do me the honor of letting me take you out on a date?”

Your heart practically explodes. It’s unfair. So, so, so unfair. How something so cheesy-sounding can sound so natural and genuine coming from him. 

How did you ever manage to say no to that face? 

A smile breaks out from your lips, unrestrained and toothy. “I’d love to.”

Shouto softly smiles, looking pleased as he takes a step back. At his retreat, the space around you immediately feels too empty; you almost pull him back towards you. 

You don’t. Instead, your eyes catch the makeshift paper hat you made last night on the counter. 

Swiping it, you look at him with a glint in your eyes. “On one condition.”

He frowns, borderline pouting. You have to force yourself to look away from his lips.

“That’s if you complete the challenge tonight and become a Soba Survivor.” 

As you say the honorary title, you exaggeratedly wave the paper hat in your hands that has Soba Challenger written across it, to which Shouto monotonously responds with, “A hat?”

“It’s the full experience, all challengers have to wear it.”

He eyes it. Then hums once, low and curt. A noise you realized he makes when he's not convinced. 

But you look at him with shining eyes and a wide smile, holding out the paper hat for him to take. He stares at you for a second, surprising you when he bends down and angles the crown of his head towards you instead.

With his height, you still have to tip toe to properly put the hat over his hair. He sees this and bends down even lower. 

With fumbling hands and a smile that almost aches, you secure it safely on his head. When it seems like it won’t fall off, you stand back and clasp your hands in delight. 

Oh, how adorable. 

“Okay, okay. I think you’re ready,” you say excitedly. 

Shouto lifts his brows, trying to look up at the paperhat. With nimble fingers, he gently presses on the line where the hat meets his hair.

“Is this part of the deal of taking you out on a date?” 

You nod with fervor, clasped hands now covering the shit-eating grin on your face. As if a lightbulb went off in your head, you quickly grab your phone off the counter, snapping a quick picture. He doesn’t even flinch. 

Who would’ve thought Pro-Hero Shouto would be in your kitchen, wearing a dingy paper hat, ready to stuff himself with 20lbs of noodles. 

“I feel a little silly,” he says with a blank face, looking at the camera lens then back to you.

Laughing, you snake behind him, pressing both palms into his back and pushing him towards the dining room. The table had already been set with a small pitcher of mentsuyu along with plates of radish and wasabi. 

“You look a little silly, too.” You say quietly, giggling.

“Did you say something?”

It’s late in the evening. You and Goya had just closed up shop, now waiting inside, and he will not stop nagging you.

“You can’t be all pushy and stuff, okay? She’s a little quiet at first.”

You repeat yourself for the fourth time, “Okay.”

“And don’t mention anything remotely embarrassing about me.” 

“I won’t.”

Goya looks at you with crazed eyes, “If I hear anything about why the chair is broken, I’ll quit! Right now!” 

You press your lips to prevent the immediate laugh threatening to come out, eyes darting to said chair in question that broke last week because he fell off of it while napping. He snaps his fingers in front of your face, drawing your attention away from the splintered legs. 

“Focus! You can’t scare her off! Or I really will quit—”

“Goya!” you exclaim, not able to contain your laughter anymore. 

“Relax! I won’t push. I won’t stare. And here— I’ll put the chair in the back room, okay?”

Goya simply stands there, with crossed arms and pouted lips as you drag the broken pieces of wood out of its corner of shame. 

They clatter unceremoniously to the ground and the sound reminds you of the exact moment Goya screamed when his whole body crushed the poor wood. You slap a palm over your mouth and the boy is already protesting left and right again at your trembling figure. 

“Okay, okay!” you stutter out through fits of laughter. 

But oh my god, it was just so fucking funny. 

You bite the inside of your cheek and heave a shuddering breath to calm down. Because now Goya’s pulling at his hair, muttering about how he shouldn’t have suggested introducing you to his soulmate in the first place. 

Your heart tugs at how worked up he’s getting.

“Why are you so worried?” you ask softly. “You don’t think I would really try to make you look bad, right?”

Goya sighs defeatedly, shaking his head and pouting even more.

“No…” he mumbles. “It’s just… I want you two to get along. You’re both important to me…”

He gives you a silent glare with red cheeks at your giggle. 

Oh Goya. You sweet boy. 

As if on cue, the unlocked door to the closed shop softly cracks open and a young girl peaks her head behind it. You immediately straighten your back, shutting the back room with the not-to-be-mentioned chair behind you. 

Goya bounces up and you watch him jog to the door to open it wider, with his tail wagging in between his legs. They exchange greetings in hushed whispers before coming inside, the puppy following after the girl.

“Hi, I’m Himari. I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says, giving you a shy smile and bowing. 

You introduce yourself and give a fond smile in return.

Himari is indeed a little quiet at first, not even taking into account her low and calm voice. She’s a high-school senior and will be going to college next year, just one year younger than Goya. 

After a couple of minutes, you see her relax her shoulders as she starts warming up. She gives you longer responses to your questions, and Goya nods encouragingly by her side, looking to her then to you.

You ignore the fact that the interaction unfolding before you feels weirdly maternal. Like one of those “asking for your blessing“ situations. You’re really not that much older than them.

It’s not helping that they look at you with big doe eyes, almost pleading-like. It makes you laugh—mentally of course, lest Goya blows a fuse.

The three of you go out for dinner as planned with Himari choosing where to eat. Surprise surprise, it’s a noodle shop. You have to physically turn away from their expectant eyes when the idea was suggested, pursing your lips to muffle a giggle.

Maybe Goya wasn’t the only one who was having first-impression worries.

Throughout the night, you can’t help cooing over just how cute, and dare you say it—in love, they are. 

You don’t miss the way Goya looks at Himari first when cracking a joke. Nor the way Himari’s eyes linger on Goya’s chortling face. And when they show you their soulmate marks in its vibrant pink glory, your heart swells at how completely enthralled they are with one another. 

They talk as if in their own world. Good, because you’re not really paying attention when your eyes linger on their etched names, both placed on the insides of their wrists.

The peculiar thing about soulmate marks is that they match in appearance: its color, the weight and flow of the characters, the texture of the engraving; it all makes it rather obvious who your soulmate is, especially if both your marks are showing.

A proud declaration.

Smiling shyly to yourself, you wonder if you and Shouto would ever get to that point.

Would he be the type to draw attention to it? Maybe not. He doesn’t usually flaunt what he has. But you don’t think he would hide it. 

Private but not a secret.

A twitch of intrigue jumps your heart.

How does your name look on his skin?

You know what it should look like: pale as of right now, crisp lines, raised from the skin almost sharply. It lacks the usual webbing that others have to soften the mark. Growing up, you always thought his name looked too much like a painful brand, as if pressed and seared into your skin with no regard.

Now, you see it more for what it is. Steady, clear-cut, leaving no room for interpretation—anchoring.

Just like its owner.

So no, you have a good guess on how your name would look visually. 

Your curiosity veers towards the idea of your name on his skin. The idea that he carries around the weight of your name just like you do his. 

How does it look? How does it feel? To run your fingers over a mark on his skin that embodies you. To see it with your own eyes that it truly is your name that has followed him since the day he was born. 

A heat crawls up your neck.

You look up, thankful that the lovers are still in their own world as a thought hits you. A thought that somehow never crossed your mind before. 

Where is his soulmate mark?

The question lingers on your mind up until the day of your date.

Shouto was insistent on making it a whole day excursion. So here you are on an early Saturday morning, leaving your home in the biting cold after hours of getting ready. 

Walking down the stairs of your apartment, you tug the scarf tighter around your neck and adjust your coat for the millionth time. 

He wouldn’t give any hints on where he’ll bring you, only telling you to dress for the cold. Puffs of air escape in between your bare fingertips as you exhale hotly on them, trying but failing to warm them up.

Despite being a nervous mess all week for today, you feel surprisingly calm right now. 

But maybe calm isn’t the right word. 

Content? 

No. Your heart currently beating a mile a minute would say otherwise. It was a mix between thrill and reassurance. Calm but not in a bleak way.

Calm in a way that when your eyes land on Shouto waiting for you next to his car, a fiery warmth bursts through your veins, both numbing and soothing you at the same time.

He turns around when he hears your footsteps echo in the empty streets. That’s when you notice the bouquet of flowers in his hands.

Red camellias.

Shouto meets you halfway. All you can hear is the heavy thuds of your footsteps hitting the pavement and a buzz in your ears. The ringing gets louder the closer you get to him, only fading away when you both stop in front of each other. 

His eyes roam over your figure—slowly, lingering. You watch him do so, not shying away from his gaze. You tried your best today, you want him to look. It sets a fire to your bones.

”You’re beautiful, as always,” he whispers, mismatched eyes finally meeting yours.

A soft smile forms on your face. 

“Thank you,” you whisper back. “You’re handsome, as always.”

The tips of his ears turn pink as he looks off to the side, first mumbling a soft thank you, then handing you the bouquet of red camellias. 

You giggle at his bashfulness and accept the flowers, giving him another once-over.

He’s dressed in a long cashmere coat and a scarf, all pressed and crisp along the edges. You can see a peak of a knitted sweater and slacks underneath the coat. And his hair is styled slightly, still looking soft to the touch but with a little more body.

From one beautiful thing to another, your eyes shift from him to the bouquet cradled in your arms. You try not to smile too hard but the gesture is just too sweet. 

He’s too sweet.

Shouto comes closer and gently grabs one of your wrists, waiting until you settle the bouquet in the crook of your elbow to pull you closer. You watch in confusion as he lets your arm hang in between you both, eyes widening when you see him taking his gloves off.

You draw your arm back. “Shouto, it’s okay. I don’t want you to get cold—”

”That’s not why I wore them.”

He grasps your wrist once again, gentle as ever, then uses both hands to maneuver his gloves onto each of yours. You’re still not following—still not understanding what he means by his statement as you feel the soft and warm lining slide against your skin.

It’s when he finishes and holds out an open palm towards you.

Your heart thumps hard in your chest, one solid thump.

Shouto looks at you softly. Kind eyes asking for your hand—kind eyes asking for you to take another step with him. 

With a leaping heart, you don’t hesitate to place your cashmere-gloved hand into his. The weight of his slender fingers wraps around yours, feeling—exploring the new territory. 

You give his hand a hard squeeze, as if checking if he’s really there. He squeezes back, steady and firm, as if he’s quietly reassuring you.

He then tugs you towards his car, shifting his fingers so they now interlace yours. In the early morning twilight, you see a puff of air escape his lips as he asks you lowly,

”Do you like the snow?”

You shriek, clutching onto Shouto’s left arm wrapped around you for dear life, the wind whipping your skin as the both of you twist sharply on the sled. 

“Did they say it was this intense?! Isn’t this a ride for kids?!” you yell out through the roaring wind. You feel Shouto’s chest rumble against your back but can’t make out what he’s saying so you yell out again, “What?!” 

His chest actually shakes this time and you look up frantically, head just underneath his chin. The subtle smirk on his face makes you furrow your brows, your eyes then trail suspiciously to his right arm that unwound itself from you earlier. 

It’s pressed against the outside of the sled. When you peer over, your mouth drops open in disbelief at seeing his fingertips dragging through the snow, his quirk manipulating the sled’s path.

This bastard!

You shove his arm out of the snow and Shouto makes a noise of surprise. The sled follows the trajectory of his hand, making it swerve hard to the right. 

He doesn’t even try to stabilize the damn plastic you’re both on. You shake your head furiously as the sled veers from its designated path and shoots off a small cliff, into the open air.

You back up as far as you can, even bringing your knees up to form into a ball. Shouto holds you tight against his chest, which is now vibrating uncontrollably but his laughter can hardly be heard over your screaming. 

In the split second when you open your eyes, you see ice materializing from his hand, creating a path underneath the board. 

If you’re being totally honest with yourself, you probably blacked out halfway through because you don’t remember how you got here. One second you were in the air, the next you’re heaving on the ground, trying to get up on shaky legs. 

“I’m assuming no more rides for the rest of the day?”

You glare up at him and his smiling face that tries to look innocent. Reluctantly, you take his outstretched hand and he pulls you up, steadying you when your legs tremble like a baby deer.

“Let’s grab something to eat, you’re a little pale,” he says without glancing at you, having the audacity to look above your head and clearly biting back a smile.

You raise a palm, ready to shove his shoulder but he grabs it just as your arm shoots forward, smoothly interlacing his fingers into yours. 

He tugs you towards the food stands with a cheeky smile, and you follow along, absolutely speechless by everything that has happened in the past ten minutes. 

For your date, Shouto has brought you to a snow festival two cities over, much to your surprise and excitement. 

Besides the life-threatening event that just transpired, the whole day has been perfect so far. 

It’s not that much different than how you two normally act around each other. Except for the fact that Shouto’s hand rarely leaves yours, the two palms always finding their way back to each other if separated.

Sometimes there’s a reason. Sometimes there isn’t. You find the times when there isn’t to be the sweetest.

He’s also a little more cheeky than usual—more bold in his actions, if the sled incident didn’t already show it. 

Okay… maybe it was a little fun. But you can wait to tell him that.

You’re starting to notice more of his “more something than usual” behavior. It tickles your heart, seeing him become more comfortable with you, showing aspects of himself that the world isn’t familiar with.

It makes you feel like there’s a part of him that you can keep for yourself, what with all that he offers to society already. 

And it's when you two are walking around, admiring the meticulously carved snow sculptures, that the thought manifests itself further into your mind.

Shouto doesn’t notice that you’ve stopped walking. Doesn’t notice how your eyes cling on to his every move, watching—longing. 

You watch him walk a few steps away, fascinated by the ice dragon that looms above him. He holds a fist with a finger curled against his lips, propping the arm connected to it with his other palm. 

You watch him contemplate for a while, peering at the dragon’s grooves and lines. Then, releasing both hands, he tries to create a mini version of the dragon’s scale with his quirk, brows furrowing in concentration. 

You watch him turn to you, holding his masterpiece that’s a little rough around the edges in the palm of his hand. He presents it to you, his face beaming without actually smiling, almost childish-like in its innocent pride.

The realization hits you like a brick. And you mentally brace yourself for any sudden objects.

In this moment, it's like pieces of a puzzle finally clicking together:

You love figuring out the meanings of his minutely different expressions, and the way he doesn’t feel the need to hide them from you.

You love how he methodically thinks most of the time, but unexpectedly—endearingly, the simplest of things can go over his head; it never fails to give you a new perspective, as well as making you laugh until your stomach hurts.

You love his kindness to the world. His strength in persevering. His eagerness to learn and grow. His choice of giving back with a soft smile on his face.

And god, how you want to be the cause of his smiles: the sly, bashful, toothy, and simply just content ones. All of them.

Including the smile he gives you now—innocent as he looks at you, waiting. It reminds you of Goya who turns first to Himari when he cracks a joke, as if it's only her reaction that matters in the world.

It reminds you of Himari, gaze lingering on her soulmate’s face, enthralled with each expression that is crafted.

Is that how you look to other people?

How foolish. 

How foolish must you be. To only realize now just how much you ache for him—how badly you want to keep him all to yourself.

You wonder if he’ll forgive you for being so selfish. A part of you feels like you already know your answer. 

Snow crunches underneath your shoes as you walk towards him. At your silence, he looks at you questioningly, lowering his small little creation on the ground before facing you again. 

“Is everything alright?” he asks gently, so sweet and so gentle, always making sure that you feel nothing short of perfect.

Your eyes roam across his face and you nod your head, smiling softly.

That calm feeling comes back. A mix between thrill and reassurance. Only this time, there’s also adoration. Desire. And decisiveness.

You slowly pull off your gloves—his gloves, and pocket them in your coat. 

Shouto watches the action quizzically, unsure of what you’re doing. 

But you’ve never felt more certain in your life. You know what you want to ask. You know what you want to do.

And you can’t believe it’s taken you this long.

In the sudden quiet of this snow festival, two cities over where you both reside, alone surrounded by the most beautifully made sculptures in the world: you raise both your bare palms up towards his face, heart beating achingly in your chest.

In the small aisle between mountains of ice that his fingers struggle to recreate, with the unusual winter sun beaming through the clouds, snow glittering in its bask: a swirl of emotions swims in his eyes, an understanding flickering across his face.

Your bare awaiting hands that ask for permission.

His beautifully scarred face that falls helplessly forward.

It’s a moment carved with time, tenacity, and fierce dedication. Much like the art around you both. 

In one fluid motion, his cheeks land in the cradle of your palms, and you press your forehead against his.

All at once: it’s hot in one hand, cold in the other, and a mix of both just above your eyebrows. 

You both close your eyes as a warmth unlike you've ever felt before fills your body. Pulsating, hot, electrifying—it finds its way into each crevice like liquid gold. Not burning, not stinging, not painful in any way.

It courses through your veins, all but ending in one spot, one spot where you feel as if the characters there are being etched anew. It eases every ounce of pain you've ever felt associated with the mark, revitalizes your being with something alive—something so satisfyingly special that it makes tears form in your waterline.

Nothing short of pure bliss. 

Shouto sighs and it’s shaky, you feel his brows furrowing against your forehead. He brings his hands to your waist, traveling its way across your lower back, pulling you flush against his body. His hold is desperate, gripping, and so so tender.

You sink into it—sink into him. Sink into the way he holds you like you’re precious. And you could only hope he feels the same way as you cradle the weight of his cheeks with the most care in the world. 

As if the most precious thing landed in the palms of your hands. 

And he is.

A gift. A gift given by the universe.

The warmth still lingers throughout your body as you slowly open your eyes. You find him already staring back at you, with the same torrent of emotions but added with something stronger.

An emotion that’s felt, not said.

“Be mine,” he whispers. Not a question but a hope. A hope that shakes you to your core, questioning how you can ever be anything else.

And in the quiet of this snow festival, with both your hearts beating in tandem: your tears slip down your face as you nod, feeling the world shatter beneath your feet. Shattering and mending itself into a beautifully crafted foundation that rivals all the art in the world.

Is this real?

Shouto pinches himself, hard—hard enough to leave a bruising mark in its aftermath. 

Nothing happens.

You’re still here, next to him, cooing at the snow version of Totoro in front of you. 

Your voice rings like a wind chime in his ears—soft, melodic, a sound that he would only hear in his dreams.

And he watches you, excitedly looking around with frost-bitten cheeks and glittering eyes. The sight warms him unlike any way his quirk does and he can feel his soulmate mark thrum underneath his skin. 

He thought that he liked this expression on you the most. Excited, unguarded, indulging in the things that make you happy. 

But that was before today—before your two bodies came together like the tide meeting the sand upon a full moon, helpless to its gravitational pull. 

It will be forever seared into his mind, the pure bliss on your face as you gazed at him with so much affection; as you accepted him for all that he is and let him fall devastatingly in your embrace.

You—his soulmate. 

He pinches himself again.

This time, he’s slightly alarmed by the vibration in his pocket. 

He narrows his eyes, he’s been feeling it ring for the past hour, annoyingly so. With a huff, he pulls his phone out of his coat, seeing the word Dynamight illuminate across the screen.

Shouto sighs and it doesn’t go unnoticed by you. He watches you look at his ringing phone and then turn to him with a reassuring smile on your face, gently letting go of his hand.

Despite it being his left hand, he immediately feels cold at the loss of your touch. He hums once, low and curt, about to pocket his phone again when your fingers stop him, the feeling sending a spark through his veins.

Oh, how he longed to know the feeling of your soft skin.

It’s wondrous, like the touch of an angel. 

Even more so with the fact that you don’t flinch at his touch anymore, instead, you choose to get close to him.

How can you ever understand the sanctuary you’ve given him?

“Take it. I’m not going anywhere,” you say softly.  

He hums grudgingly, not wanting to be away from you for a second. But your encouraging eyes stump him, and he can never say no to your face. 

Shouto draws you in by the waist and presses a lingering kiss into your hair: a promise that he’ll be back soon. You blush and he marvels at the way you smile shyly before walking a distance away to take his phone call.

“Bakugou?” he flatly asks.

His friend growls through the phone, “You icy-hot bastard, why did it take so long for you to pick up your fucking phone?”

Shouto looks up in irritation. “I told you out of all days—”

“That fuck knows where you are! He followed you! You and that girl need to get out of there right now—”

Instantly, Shouto whips his head around, immediately zeroing in on the spot you were just standing at.

It’s empty.

You’re gone.

In a split second, it was all it took. He took his eyes off of you for one second—

His heart rattles painfully in his chest, his quirk readying itself on instinct, hot and cold emitting from both sides of his body. He runs, trained pro-hero eyes canvassing the area frantically. Vaguely, he hears Bakugou’s voice call out through his phone.

“We’re almost there. Stay put and don’t do anything reckless. Oi! Do you hear…”

There’s a buzz ringing in Shouto’s ears. He should’ve known. He should’ve known the bastard would pick today to come out of hiding. The one day he let his guard down. The one day that would make him the perfect target—

Suddenly, there’s rumbling underneath his feet and a combative instinct spikes through his bones. The sound of crumbling rock dreadfully brings him back to that night the building collapsed.   

Here? Right now? And so close?

His mind races, only one question screaming at him louder than the others.

Where are you?

Screams of terror fill the area. A chilling difference from the excited ones throughout the day. Panic seeps into his being, his head darts left and right, feet plowing through the crunched snow.

Where are you?

A manic laugh breaks through his thoughts and he swivels at the direction of it, fire and frost already bursting from his body before he even pinpoints the bastard. 

His eyes land on you and the buzz from before hits him tenfold, drowning out all the screaming and panic around him. There’s no noise and all the noise ringing at the same time in his ears.

A man with pitch black eyes—the villain from the building collapse, drags your unconscious body behind him by your hair. 

Shouto’s breaths come out increasingly sporadic, downright heaving, as the man drops his hold and your body crumbles to the ground. Red patches start tainting the pure white snow where you lie deathly still.

Your last words echo in his head: soft, melodic, a sound that he would only hear in his dreams,

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Pure rage sends his body forward, along with a mass flurry of ice and fire. It envelopes, scorches, snaps—reducing the beautifully crafted sculptures around into nothing but shards and black snow.

Like hell has just risen.

“We should’ve known, but it was too late. His sacrifice… he saved all of us. None of us would be here without him.”

You wondered why they took you and your mother to a different room. Wondered why when all the awaiting families of the heroes were gathered, you and your mother were pulled aside. Why weren’t you there with them? Why weren’t you having a tearful reunion with the hero you were waiting so long to come back home?

The one hero that didn’t make it back. The hero who sacrificed his life for the mission, for his comrades. 

Saving never felt so devastating before. 

“Please let us or the team know if you need anything during this tough time. We truly are sorry. Daybreak–”

“Did he say anything before he died?” Your voice was unrecognizable to you, strangled, as if someone was holding you by the neck. Why were you even asking this question?

Your father’s sidekick opens and closes his mouth like a fish without water. He looks off to the side and then meets your eyes with remorse. “I’m deeply sorry. He… He turned off his comms when he knew he wouldn’t make it. He didn’t want us to hear. The last thing he said to me was that it was a hero’s duty to fight. Even if it… kills us.”

The man in front of you grimaces as he holds back tears. Bowing deeply, he remains in that position like a stone statue. 

Of course. A man as consistent as your father would say something like that. Words so hauntingly familiar to the last ones he said to you. 

You look over to your mother, and her entire frame has gone still. She turns to you, and her disturbingly hollow eyes chill you to the bone, creeping terror wreaking havoc in your mind. 

“Mom… ?” It’s as if she’s looking through you, not at you. 

It all became a blur from there. You were a mess, sobbing and gripping your mother’s arms. Saying something, but you don’t remember—it turns into screaming. You’re shaking your mother, and her body simply follows the furious motions like a rag doll.

You’re pulled off of her, kicking and crying. You still don’t know what you’re saying, but you’re pleading, begging—your mother’s empty eyes still don’t look at you. She turns to the door, exiting the room without saying anything, and another hero from your father’s team hurriedly follows after her. 

You cry. Without noticing, your body crumples to the ground, and the sidekick has to hold you up. You briefly see tears running down his face too, but he doesn’t say anything. He just holds you, holds you as you break down. 

At the time, you didn’t register it. Didn’t register that this was the moment you lost both your parents. 

One second, you were in the room. The room where you lost everything. The next thing you knew, you were standing on top of a building at Shiketsu’s high school-turned-shelter, gazing endlessly into the night sky. 

Tears stream down your face, and you feel yourself walking closer and closer to the edge. 

It hurts. Everything hurts. 

Regret consumes you. 

Why?

Why?

Why were you silent when your father left? You should’ve said anything, anything but silence. But his words left a despairing feeling in your gut. As if you knew this day would come, where he fought till the bitter end. 

You were a coward, hopeful that he would make it back safely. So that you could soothe the tension lingering between you two as he left with only a sad pat to your head. 

Regret crushes you, reducing you to pieces that fall away as you struggle to pick them up. 

Then anger comes. 

Why?

Why did he leave us behind? His soulmate. His kid. 

Was his soulmate not worth it? Was she second to the so-called honor and sacrifice he held deep in his morals?

Was he angry that you came out quirkless? A hero as powerful as him, who made it as the #14 hero, was he so angry that he would rather die as Daybreak? To die with honor before his legacy died with you?

Your mind can’t seem to grapple with the irrationality of your thoughts. You’re furious. At him. At your mother. At the world. 

Why did your mother leave? Why did she just look through you as if you were nothing? As if you died along with him?

All you could do was cry. Cry at what was left of you and her. When a hero saves lives, not everything comes out unscathed. 

Regret and anger consume you. 

You don’t feel anything else. Not when you’re kneeling at the edge of the building, screaming your grieving heart out. Not when you feel someone slowly pull you away from the threatening edge, carrying your unresponsive body into the building. Not when you lie down on your temporary cot, curled up into a ball, and hoping that the nails drawing blood from your palm would give you any other sensation besides the pure torment in your mind. 

And the worst hasn’t even come yet.

For you were in the same room again, two weeks later. The same room with the chipping paint and walls that seem to cave in on themselves. With the same sidekick who delivered the most soul-sucking news of your life, now bearing news that convinced you he was the grim reaper.

Your mother was found dead that morning, a wrinkled picture of your father clutched coldly in her hand. 

The hospital chair is unforgiving to your exhausted body, not alleviating your aching limbs in any way from its stiff position. Who knows how long you’ve sat here—slumped in the hard piece of furniture, staring blankly at the wall, arms wrapped around your midriff in an attempt to hold yourself together. 

He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s not dead. 

The words replay in your mind like a mantra, the only thread of hope you helplessly cling onto. 

The sterile-smelling hospital smothers you, making you draw into yourself tighter, right palm clutching the soulmate mark you for once wish burned hot. Instead, it was cold. Cold and lacking the pulsating heat that would give you some type of reassurance. 

It’s been three days since the incident, and Todoroki still wasn’t stable. After a panic attack wrecked you that night, your feet moved on their own. Dawn had broken when you found yourself heading to Hosu General Hospital, and your tender eyes stung the whole way here. 

He’s not dead, you repeat. 

Nurses stared at you when you arrived, unwilling to give out the #2 hero’s room, but Pro-hero Deku had appeared by your side and reassured them. With a tired but sincere smile, he led you to the outside of Todoroki’s room, urging you to take a seat on one of the chairs lining the wall. 

“You’re the bookstore owner, right?” You absentmindedly nod. He probably asked out of courtesy, and you didn’t question if and how he knew who you were. You wouldn’t be here if not. 

“Todoroki-kun isn’t stable… not yet, at least. Feel free to wait here, I’m sure he’d want to see you when he wakes up.”

His green eyes look at you softly, and you feel your own start to water. Turning your head to face the wall, you swipe away the oncoming tears. 

“I’m Midoriya Izuku. Let me know if there’s anything I can get you.”

You quietly say your thanks and he gives you a reassuring smile, walking towards the nurses without another word. 

Other than using the bathroom or buying pre-packaged bread from the vending machine, you were rooted in the uncomfortable chair just outside Todoroki’s hospital room. 

There was nothing you could do except wait. Wait and think. One very dangerous combination.

Your fears came true. They undoubtedly, bitterly, mercilessly came true. 

What have you been doing these past couple of weeks? You told yourself it was nothing more than friendship, nothing more than good company. Then why did it hurt so much?

You were greedy—selfishly wanting only some of him and refusing the rest. As if you could separate Pro-Hero Shouto and regular Shouto. As if it’s fair of you to even do so. 

No. This was inevitable—him getting hurt is inevitable. It forever will be. A fact that you’ve been recklessly throwing aside every time you see him after work, every time you tell yourself that just a little more couldn’t hurt. 

You should’ve known two weeks is plenty of time to turn your whole life around. After all, it only took your mother two weeks to decide to meet her end.  

Not noticing yourself slipping away, you fell into the comfort and solace that was Todoroki Shouto. Was it the way he always made sure you had something to eat before going home? Was it his soft smile that never failed to make you warm inside?

When did you start hoping that the sun would set just a little bit slower, prolonging the day? When did you start desiring for more?

Your carelessness led you to this point—sitting outside his hospital room and watching doctors bustle in and out, anxiety peaking when they tell you time and time again that his condition just wouldn't stabilize.

There was no one to blame except yourself. 

Without anything to distract your busy mind, you’re ripped apart endlessly by your spiraling thoughts. 

At some point, your phone died. No, its battery drained. You really can’t stomach anything that died right now. 

Luckily, you were able to call Goya the moment Midoriya left you. His annoyed sleep-ridden voice gave you a familiar sense of comfort when you told him, sloppily, that you wouldn’t be able to come into the shop until further notice. Upon hearing your sniffling, he asked where you were and told you that you didn’t need to worry about anything. 

That was on Friday, before the shop closed for the weekend. And on Sunday, today, after buying yet another pre-packaged bread, you find the aforementioned boy facing you, in front of your unclaimed claimed spot for the past few days. 

Goya’s eyes examine your state. If the bathroom mirror told you anything, it wasn’t good. Scary even. 

But the familiar sight of his tall slouched figure brings another round of tears to your eyes, and you can’t help falling into his arms as he wordlessly pulls you in for a hug. Funny, how four months of working with this brat led to feeling this odd sense of familial security on sight. 

“Let’s get you some real food,” his hands soothingly rub your back in repeated motions. “How does ramen sound?”

You don’t say anything on the way to the ramen shop; Goya doesn’t either, he simply leads. 

It’s a short walk from the hospital. You’ve been to this shop a couple of times when you were in the area; otherwise, it was just out of the way.

Both of you sit down at a secluded table in the back. Goya orders for you two and the silence ensues. When the ramen comes, he doesn’t start his own until you take the first bite. 

He’s babying you, and you start to wonder who the older one really is. 

Before taking a second bite, Goya’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Todoroki Shouto?”

You falter just as you bring a small bundle of noodles up, loosening your grip on the chopsticks. The sudden movement makes the noodles drop back into the broth. 

“I saw his name outside the room you were sitting at.”

You blink, watching the small waves of broth slosh messily in your bowl. 

“Yeah. We’re friends.”

“Just friends?”

“Yes,” you snap, harsher than you intended. A migraine starts pulsating in your temple. 

“Is he the reason you’ve been waiting outside after you lock up shop?”

“I don’t wait,” you say defensively. 

“You sure do.” He points his chopsticks at you ill-manneredly, “I knew something was up when you kept telling me to leave first while taking your sweet ass time locking the gate.”

Biting back a nasty remark, you don’t respond as you play with your noodles — bringing a bundle up then mixing it back into the broth. 

“The #2 hero huh?” he muses. For a second, you’re thankful for the familiar banter, but the topic at hand isn’t something you were thrilled to talk about. 

“How was the store on Friday?”

He ignores your question, “How’d you two meet?”

“Goya.”

“The shop was fine. How’d you two meet?”

You sigh, irritated, “He’s the one who saved me back at the bank.”

He hums and taps the ends of his chopsticks at the edge of your bowl, signaling you to take a bite. You would’ve been appalled at his lack of table manners if not for the scolding look he gave you. Reluctantly, you bring another bundle up to your lips, chewing slowly. 

Goya takes another few bites of his own, watching you the entire time and glaring when you start playing with your noodles again.

“The hospital is gonna run out of bread if you don’t eat.”

“They have plenty of egg sandwiches I could buy. A wide assortment, actually.”

Goya sighs exasperately, “Okay, okay! I’ll stop asking about him if you’ll stop playing with your food.”

A corner of your mouth quirks up and you take another bite triumphantly. Goya grumbles something about being an immature adult, but starts scarfing down his food when he sees you continue eating, albeit slowly. 

Halfway through your bowl, a thought hits you. 

You were supposed to be eating ramen with Todoroki, the next day if that villain never came and crumbled the whole building. 

Nausea builds in your stomach and you push the bowl away, appetite dissipating quicker the longer you stare at the noodles.

“Hey–”

“Hey!”

You lunge forward and snatch his hand not holding his chopsticks, staring widely at the etched name on the inside of his wrist. 

“I thought I was seeing things!”

The soulmate mark that was once white and pale on Goya’s wrist now glows with a vibrant pink. Amazement filters your previous thoughts and nausea out, “You met your soulmate?” 

Goya blushes profusely and tugs his hand back, his other hand coming up to cover his soulmate mark protectively. 

“Yeah. I did–”

“How’d you two meet?”

Goya scowls, and you know you’re both thinking of the irony of your question. Nonetheless, he turns his nose up and declares proudly, “She works at the soba shop I took you to before. The one where I told you to tell them I sent you.” He then glares at you distastefully, “Which you did not, by the way. Not cool! I told her I was gonna recommend the place to my friends!”

You let out a small chuckle, “Sorry… I got a bit distracted.” With Todoroki. 

“I’m sure you did,” he eyes you suspiciously. 

Goya runs his fingers tenderly across his mark, with a smile you know is reserved for his soulmate. It tugs at your heartstrings, seeing his expression remarkably similar to someone else you know. 

He looks up at you and blushes again, picking up his chopsticks. 

“I was actually waiting to tell you about it. I want you to officially meet her, when things calm down a bit.”

You smile fondly, heart warm, “Goya, I would love to meet her.” He gives you a boyish grin and finishes the last of his meal. 

That’s amazing, Goya finally met his soulmate. After months of complaining about not having met his “one and only” yet, his mark now proudly displays without the usual sleeve of his hoodie. 

You wonder how it would feel, to not be afraid of showing off your mark. To flaunt to the world that you’ve met your soulmate. To proudly declare that the one you are fated with is not only bound to you by mark, but also by heart. 

Is that something you want? You’ve never allowed yourself to think of such ideas. 

…

Is that something you want? Having had ample time to think these past few days, your mind reels back to the same thought, the same terrifying conclusion for whenever you think about what it would mean for you and Todoroki. 

If Todoroki ever died, a part of you would die with him. 

You risk losing him, and you risk losing yourself.

And you can’t handle that—can’t risk it. It would be too cruel.

Goya drops you off at the hospital shortly after. Standing in front of the looming building, the uneasiness that had left briefly comes back in full force. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t worry about the store for now. And call me if anything happens, okay?”

You nod, but then remember, “My phone ran out of battery.”

He clicks his tongue and swings his backpack around, fishing out one of those clunky portable chargers that all college students seemed to have. You carried it around like a lifeline at one point too. 

Goya holds his palm out and you hand him your phone. He proceeds to plug in the cord and wait for it to turn on, handing you both the charger and phone when the power-on sign lights up. 

“I mean it. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks, you didn’t need to come all the way out here–” he flicks your forehead before your sentence finishes and you glare at him, fingers coming up to soothe the sting. 

“You’ve seen better days. Just shut up and go inside.”

Fatigue starts creeping up again and you can’t even find it in yourself to retort. You give Goya a small final wave and turn around to head inside, flashing the visitor’s badge that Midoryia gave you. 

Each step feels heavier as you walk to Todoroki’s room, mentally and physically. The sterile environment envelopes you again—threatening the spiraling thoughts to resurface. 

He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He's not dead. 

There’s commotion in the halls, and you look up to finally observe your surroundings. You had passed two heroes in their suits by now and the closer you got to his room, they started appearing left and right. 

You quicken your footsteps, cold sweat chills your forehead from the brisk pace. Your heart starts beating faster. With each hero that passes, you duck your head slightly to carefully examine their expressions.

Is it happiness? Is it sadness? Is it…grieving?

Oh, please don’t be grieving. Please don’t be grieving. Please don’t be grieving. You had only left for at tops one hour–

You hear the call of your name and your head twists at the voice of the green-haired hero you’ve become familiar with in the past few days. Locating him at the end of the hall, he motions for you to come towards him and you immediately break out into a jog. 

“I was worried when I didn’t see you here. Is everything okay?

“I stepped out for a second. How is he?” you frantically ask, not wasting a second. Your erratic heartbeat overwhelms you, and it’s taking all that’s in you right now not to panic. 

Midoriya places a reassuring hand on your arm and smiles, a full wide smile you’d expect no less from such a friendly person, “He’s awake now. The doctors just finished checking on him a bit ago and he’s talking with some of our other friends.”

He’s not dead. You breathe out a sigh of relief, and the anxiety in your bones trickles out slowly. Feeling your eyes already rimming with tears, it’s as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. 

Midoriya’s hand then pulls you lightly and you follow his footsteps towards Todoroki’s hospital room, hearing muffled chatter and the occasional yelling from outside. 

Stopping in front of the door, he turns to you—excitedly and a little jittery. He must’ve been waiting for you to come back before going in himself. 

“Would you like to see him?”

“I– I just need a second, you go ahead first.”

The kind green-eyed man nods and gives you another reassuring squeeze on the arm. Opening the door, it slides shut as you see his frame make it through the threshold. 

You can’t help the stray tears that leave your eyes, and you bring both your palms up to cup your mouth, breaths coming out unevenly.

He’s okay. He’s alive. 

That’s all you needed to know, right?

You didn’t think this far while waiting, didn’t think of what to do or say if he finally woke up. Too focused on if he woke up. 

Do you leave?

“I’m sure he’d want to see you when he wakes up.”

Maybe just one glance. One glance to make sure he’s really okay. That he’s really not dead. 

With a hesitant hand, you quietly slide the door open and the muffled voices instantly amplify, rushing into your ears. A group of heroes crowd around the lone bed in the room with their backs turned, blocking your view of the bed’s occupant. 

“I told you I had it, why’d you have to fucking shove your way through?!”

“Bakugo. You really should be thanking him instead.” 

“Like hell I should! I had it! Now the fucking loser is out on the run.”

The villain escaped? 

The heroes haven’t noticed your presence yet, and you opt to stay quiet. Taking in their conversation like a bystander, you start stringing together bits and pieces of information they throw out. 

“It can’t be helped. He annihilated the building before we could capture him. It’s a miracle that we were able to get everyone out.”

“Tch. It’s not a fucking miracle.”

“We’ve seen worse before. If anything, this was one of the better outcomes.”

Your ears perk at that comment. 

One of the better outcomes? 

“Yeah! It feels like nothing, right, Todoroki?”

Like nothing? 

You feel your body grow cold. 

He was unconscious. His whole right side was so goddamn bloody. He practically seemed half-dead when Dynamight hauled him out. 

This… This was the best outcome? 

What would the worst outcome look like?

“Guys… Calm down. Todoroki-kun needs to rest.”

“He’s rested plenty the past few days. Must’ve felt like a vacation, huh?”

The laughter that follows echoes in your reeling mind. 

Oh no. This isn’t right. This…this was a mistake. 

You know. God, you know that they’re heroes. You know that they’ve seen tragedy and destruction like no one else before. They’re practically on the frontlines for it. 

But one of the better outcomes was that he came out half-dead?

It’s suffocating in here—you can’t fucking breathe. This isn’t right. You’re not supposed to be here. Everything you’ve tried to avoid after your parents' death—grief, devastation, violence. It’s all here, in this room.

You’ve never felt the separation between your world and his so vehemently before. It pulls the rug underneath your feet, and you want nothing more than to run away.

You turn towards the door and reach for the handle with shaky hands. He’s okay—he’s alive and breathing, his friends are here, keeping him company.

He doesn’t need to see you. Someone as anxious as you is not needed in his world. 

The door slides open slowly, and you’re about to take the first step until a voice calls out to you. His voice. His deep and calming voice that you had so desperately wished to hear one more time. You twist your head as if it’s second nature—like your body is naturally drawn to him.  

A space has opened in between the bodies that hover around his bed, and your eyes find Todoroki’s wide ones. You feel your heart thump hard and your soulmate mark burns hot and heavy, you resist the urge to cradle it. 

When you don’t move an inch from your spot, it’s Midoriya who comes forward and gently tugs your unwilling body towards the crowd. You look up and vaguely recognize some of Japan’s top heroes in this very room. Besides Deku, there’s Dynamight, Chargebolt, Uravity, Froppy, and of course–

“You’re here,” Todoroki breathes out. Your eyes meet his earnest ones once again and you marvel at the way they shine bright, filled with light—with life. His mismatched eyes roam over your figure, taking every bit of you in—assessing you, you can’t help fiddling nervously with your fingers under his gaze. 

A feminine voice chirps from behind you, “Oh! Are you–” 

“Ochako-chan,” another voice hushes quietly. 

Todoroki pays them no mind and continues to gaze at you with honest eagerness. It unnerves your every resolve. When he sees that you’ve stopped at the end of the bed, his eyes briefly leave yours to give a blank waiting look to the ash-blonde standing next to him.

“Bakugo, can you please step aside. You’re in the way,” he deadpans.

Dynamight opens his mouth and you can practically hear the incoming onslaught of curses before Uravity yanks him back, shoving a palm over his mouth. 

“Don’t mind him!” she says sheepishly, having a surprisingly tight grip on the fuming man, “Go ahead, go ahead!” She pulls Dynamight aside and you’re ushered to the closest spot near Todoroki—on his left side. It’s warm, even from a distance. Is it his quirk?

You feel the others watching your every move like a hawk—it’s unsettling. The sensation of their awaiting eyes makes you feel smaller than ever. 

Now that you’re closer, you take a quick sweep over Todoroki’s injuries. His whole right side was covered in bandages, replacing the bloodied look it had on TV. His head was also wrapped in the same way as yours was when you hit that concrete wall, with most of the bandaging sitting on top of his white hair. 

A stark and clean difference from the Todoroki you saw on the news. 

You can’t comprehend it. How someone who looked so brutally mangled up could sit here, as if nothing happened.

Maybe it was because you were young, but you never saw how graphic it could get when your father was a hero. It seemed he made an effort to keep your eyes clean from bloodshed. But his sentiments merely made your young mind ignorant—ignorant to think that he would always return home, untouched. 

You vaguely hear someone saying to give you both some space, and the shuffling of footsteps brings your attention back to the moment. To the man sitting in front of you, upright and keen, waiting almost impatiently for the last hero to filter out. 

Once you two are alone, Todoroki quietly starts, “Look, we match now,” pointing to the wound on the right side of his head. 

He probably meant it as a joke, but it makes your face crinkle, and you can’t stop the familiar sting in your nose. 

You don’t laugh—simply stare. 

His face drops slightly at your lack of reaction, “Are you alright? I heard you’ve been waiting while I was out.” The low timbre of his voice comes out slightly concerned, but the mere sound of it sounds so sweet to your ears. 

“I apologize I took so long, but I’m awake now,” he softly says, and it’s the line that breaks the dam. Tears start running down your face, and you watch as his lightened expression turns into worry. 

Oh my god. He was the one in a hospital bed, and he’s worried about you?

You’ve never claimed to be those strong people who refused to cry, and it embarrassingly shows now. 

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Do you need anything?” his doting makes the tears fall faster and you can’t stop staring at him. At his beautiful gray and turquoise eyes filled with distress. At his scar that healed smoothly over time. At his white and red hair that laid flat from the tightness of the bandages. 

“… Why?” 

Todoroki stops his rush of questions and looks at you, confused. 

“Why? Why are you asking me if I’m okay? You… you were…!”

It doesn’t stop. Images of his bloodied limbs. Glimpses of his deathly still body seen from outside the tiny hospital room window. It’s burned in your mind. 

You bring up your hands to cover your tear-stricken face, hiccups vibrate in your chest and escape out of your mouth.

“You almost died! You were so bloody, and the doctors… They wouldn't tell me anything– I couldn’t– I couldn’t do anything. Why are you asking if I’m okay?”

Todoroki doesn’t say anything. When you pull your hands away from your face and furiously wipe away your tears, you see his hand reaching out to you. 

You lean away from his awaiting touch and watch as he grasps air. His arm helplessly falls to his side, and he frowns, “It’s not as bad as you think…”

“And that’s the thing!”

Anger consumes you. 

“You say it’s not that bad. Your friends say it was like nothing. But– I just don’t understand. How? If this is nothing, then what’s something?”

Your voice is louder than you anticipated. You’re panicking. You’re angry. You’re still furiously wiping away your tears that have already dried, making your fingers drag harshly across your skin. 

What comes after anger?

You jolt when Todoroki’s palms grip your forearms to pull your frantic hands away from your face. You could almost feel his skin through the thin sleeves of your shirt, and you move to pull away, but his hold remains tight. 

He’s careful. Careful not to touch your bare skin, and your tension subconsciously eases just the slightest bit under his firm hold. 

“I apologize. Please calm down… It wasn’t my intention to upset you. I didn’t want you to worry.” His troubled eyes find yours, and you hate that you’re the cause of it. 

Your voice comes out weak, and your heart feels heavy, weighing like a million tons. 

“How?” you whisper, “How can I not worry? When we’re–” you bite your tongue, not able to say the word out loud. 

Soulmates. It’s never been a topic brought up between you two, a word you avoided like the plague. 

But he seems to understand, the weight of the unsaid word. His brows furrow deeper, and his grip is unrelenting—not painful, but tight. As if you’d suddenly disappear. 

Silence hangs heavy in the atmosphere, and a ghostly impulsive decisiveness washes over you.

Your voice sounds empty even to your ears. “I think it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore.” 

Todoroki’s face immediately morphs into a distraught one. Breathlessly, he asks, “What?”

“I– I don’t think I can do this. It’s…it’s too much. I don’t think I can handle it. Not again.”

He seems to be at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing. You see him calculating, trying to make sense of you and what you’ve just said.

In the moment of tense silence, you try to move away again, but his iron-grip prevents you from doing so.

His expression looks tormented, and a flicker of anger flits across his face, immediately masked by frustration, “You’re pushing me away. Again.”

You close your eyes at his statement, and it makes it infinitely harder to follow through with your decision. It’s almost shameful how he’s so capable of making your resolve falter. 

He pushes, “Is this really what you want?”

Is it?

Your body betrays you, head helplessly shaking side to side with the smallest movement, “Todoroki… please,” you plead, gaze dropping to his lap. Let me go.

Todoroki lets your left arm go, and the warmth he emitted dissipates. You think he’s about to release your right arm when he suddenly gives it a firm, sharp tug. You let out a small yelp as your body falls onto the bed and nearly crashes into his upright one. Your left hand rushes to catch yourself, pressing hard into the mattress and against his blanket-covered leg. 

Your heart stops, eyes widening at his face just inches away, mismatched eyes boring heavily into yours. Through layers of blankets and clothing, your bodies press against each other, and it’s the closest you two have ever been physically. It makes you freeze like a deer in headlights.

Parts of your hair had fallen forward in the midst of your fall. With slow motions, his free hand comes up to lightly push them away from your face, careful the whole time. 

He attempts to tuck the fallen hair behind your ear, but the respectful intention of not touching your bare skin causes a few strands to fall back. Nonetheless, he tries. He lingers on the last bundle, fingers curling around it. 

As if you’re in a trance, you watch as he slowly brings your hair up to his lips, eyes closing as he tenderly kisses it. 

Your heart lurches at the intimate gesture, and your nails find the familiar spot in your palm, nails pressing down hard. 

What is he doing?

He’s quiet, as if savoring this moment—this proximity. Up close, you can see the slightly raised skin caused by his burn. It runs across his cheek, above his eye, and it makes you wonder how it would feel underneath your fingertips. 

You watch as his eyelashes slowly flutter open; they match the colors of his hair on each respective side, not long but not short. 

Todoroki lifts his lips just slightly away from your hair, face contemplative. It takes him a moment before he finally speaks, voice low and soft as a whisper, “…I can't promise that I won’t ever get hurt. I don’t want to lie and have you believe that you won’t ever see me like this again.” 

Your brows furrow in hurt confusion. Why is he saying this?

“But I meant what I said back then,” his eyes shoot up to yours with an unwavering determination that makes you flinch slightly, but you don’t pull away. “What I can promise is that if I get hurt, I’ll do everything in my power to make it back. To choose between sacrificing and fighting, I will always give it my all to fight. To fight and live.” 

His face is close. So close that you can feel the breath of his every word fan across your face. At some point, his hold on your right arm had loosened, and both your arms dropped to the bed, skin inches from touching.

That look. That look that you just can’t seem to decipher from him, it encapsulates his whole demeanor. 

Todoroki huffs out a soft laugh, tinged with bitterness, “I apologize. I guess I'm more selfish than I thought.” He fiddles with your sleeve and looks up past your head, carefully considering his next words. 

“We can both agree that it hasn’t been long since we’ve met each other.” 

You nod along, tentatively. 

Two weeks.

“Twenty-seven days. Oh. Today’s Sunday, so actually…” he counts with his fingers. One. Two. Three. “Thirty days.”

“Thirty days…” he repeats, drawing out the words. “I don’t think it’s ever taken me this short of a time to be so sure about something.”

So many questions are on the tip of your tongue. There’s longing in your heart, but you observe him. You wait. You want to hear what he has to say. 

Todoroki faces towards you again, and his tone takes on a melancholic one. “We can be friends. Acquaintances. I can be a simple customer. All I ask is for you to not push me away. Please, can you give me the chance to fight? To fight to live? For you?”

Trembling. You feel your body tremble at the intensity of his words, at the implication. It takes you by surprise—the boldness in his attitude, the fearlessness in his request. It’s almost confusing—how resolute he sounds, and you can’t help asking a question that’s been blaring in your mind. 

“Why are you doing all this? We’ve barely known each other, it’s like you said. It’s only been… a couple of weeks.”

He simply smiles at you, a small affectionate smile that seeps deep in your bones. He cocks his head to the side, as if knowing something you don’t. 

“I know you have a rather peculiar obsession with noodles.” A small laugh escapes your lips, and your palm rushes up to muffle it. He brightens at your change in expression and takes it as a cue to keep going.

“I know you tend to question yourself three times before committing to a purchase—items as trivial as a bookmark.”

It’s a habit your mother taught you to curb your impulsive purchases. 

“I know when you get nervous, you clench your fist. Tight. I see the indents in your palms, and it worries me.”

Your fingers lightly graze the crescent moons made from earlier. 

“I know you’ve gone through your own battles during the war,” he says quietly, approaching lightly. “And you’re strong, even if you don’t notice it yourself.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the tears welling in your eyes again.

“It’s unusual for me to say this much, but I could keep going. I’m aware our time together has been short. And to me, it only means we’ve barely scratched the surface.” 

His eyes. His captivating gray and turquoise eyes that you can’t look away from. 

“You’re honest, even in times you might not want to be. I also notice you…” he tilts once to your forehead, “tend to think. Quite a lot. And fast. Though, I’m confident I can keep up. I’ve done my fair share of training over the years after all.”

This makes you blush; your therapist did say your spiraling thoughts would outrun you faster than you could keep up. 

Frankly, you’re shocked. To think he would notice these things, it’s hard to fathom that he would put the effort into doing so. Your heart feels like it’s two seconds away from bursting. 

Todoroki scans your face, watching your expressions. Minutes pass between you two as you try to let his words sink in. But it’s hard.

In the silence, you realize again what position you’re in—the wrist pressed against his thigh, your legs still haphazardly laid on top of his, the bundle of hair innocently being played with between his fingers. Each realization sends an electrifying heat up to your neck, and you reluctantly pull away to gather your thoughts, much to Todoroki’s dismay. 

He doesn’t follow, and the hair between his fingers softly slips away. 

Your head swims with too much information. It’s overwhelming—the villain attack, the hospital, Todoroki. Forming a single coherent thought seems too difficult a task right now, and it seems he could see the conflict in your face.

His voice cuts through your thoughts, comforting and deep, “Don’t pressure yourself to answer now. I’ll wait, as long as you need.” 

You leave the room with those words ringing in your mind. After Todoroki had insisted you get some rest, you found yourself walking out of the hospital doors and into the warmth of the setting sun. 

Muscle memory takes you home. On the train, you stare out aimlessly at the passing buildings, and the quietness of the empty car soothes the jumbled thoughts in your head. You press your forehead to the window, hoping the cool glass will calm your overworked mind.

As you see your station coming up, you get up from your seat to move to the doors. The rocking of the train sways your body, and you feel your foot clumsily catch onto something.

A brief moment of panic sets in as you trip, and your body falls forward as you hold out your hands to brace for impact. 

But you don’t meet the floor. Your body is yanked back as someone grabs your arm and you whirl around, heart beating erratically. 

You weren’t alone?

One glance to the floor of the train shows that it’s clear, except for the foot of the person who grabbed you. Body tensing, you slowly trail your eyes up, meeting pitch-black ones glaring harshly at you, sending shivers down your spine. 

Your guard immediately flies up and you cautiously shrug your arm out of the stranger’s tight grip. 

Did this guy just trip you?

“Thank you,” you mumble out, taking a step away from him.

The man is ominously quiet and it makes you further on edge. You sweep your eyes across the car and see that it’s just the two of you, alone. 

When did he get here?

His chuckle makes you dart back to his frame. It’s alarming, how his once harsh glare now feigns innocence. 

“You should be more careful next time, miss,” he says, laughing. “You almost got hurt.” 

You let out a nervous chuckle and only bow your head in response, itching for the doors to open. 

As soon as it does, you will yourself to walk out of the train as calmly as you can, hoping the man won't follow. Thankfully, he doesn’t, and the doors slam shut behind you. 

You look back as the train pulls out of the station, heart beating wildly, and a palm rubbing the now sore spots forming on your arm. 

What was that?

In a semblance of gaining some normalcy and peace of mind, you’re back at the bookstore the very next day. It catches Goya by surprise when he opens the unlocked store to find you already stocking books. He tries to ask you about your hospital visit, but respectfully backs off when you show no inclination to speak a word of it. Instead, he resumes like normal, whining and complaining about the heaps of assignments he has. 

It’s nice. It makes you feel like you still have control over the things happening around you. 

Except for when it comes time to lock up shop and you remember all the evenings Todoroki had been outside waiting for you, huffing and puffing. You’re thankful when you don’t see the blob of white and red hair on your way out of the store. 

For the next few days, you force yourself not to think of him. You need time, time to settle your thoughts and ground yourself. 

A few days turn into a week ,and a week turns into two. At the end of the first week, you had received a text from Todoroki simply hoping you were doing well. You had responded cordially, but neither of you continued the conversation.

Other than that, you give yourself the much-needed space from him. 

You go back to reading your favorite book. You treat yourself to more nights of take-out. And you visit a pop-up at a nearby museum for a change in pace. 

It all helps substantially, but there’s a lingering emptiness in your chest at the end of most days.

It’s a Wednesday night when you sit at your desk, a pen neatly set beside a journal opened to a blank page. A journal that hasn’t seen the light of day ever since your parents’ deaths. 

You write. You write until your fingers start cramping from the continuous grip of the pen. You write until the pages start to blur, and you have to avoid the wet spots that drop from your eyes down to the uncreased pages. 

You write until you can’t anymore. Not until all your frustrations and sadness take on the form of words and your disorganized thoughts fill page after page. Hours pass, and it's in the middle of the night when you tenderly close the journal, eyes raw from crying, but mind finally gaining some peace. 

Going outside for fresh air, you lean your arms across the railing of your balcony, eyes closed. The stillness of the night soothes your soul, and the gentle breeze passes through your hair. 

Images of the pro-hero flash behind your eyelids, and for the first time in two weeks, the recurring anxiousness doesn’t hit when you think about him. 

Todoroki Shouto.

“What I can promise is that if I get hurt, I’ll do everything in my power to make it back. To choose between sacrificing and fighting, I will always give it my all to fight. To fight and live.”

You mull over his words—his promise. 

A promise of hope rather than a bitter ending. 

Pro-heroes will always try to save lives. That’s their mission—their reason for pursuing such a dangerous career.

It’d be naive to think Todoroki would never get hurt. To take his words as an excuse to think that he would always be safe from danger.

Separating his pro-heroness from himself, it’s been an unconscious and downright unfair approach you’ve been using when interacting with him. But you can’t uphold that notion now, nor should you. 

It’s one with himself, a part of who he is. His request comes from all of him—not just one or the other. 

Is that something you can handle? Something you can willingly put yourself through?

What comes after anger?

Regret. It was always regret. Regret for staying silent, for assuming that things would run their natural course and that you would have a second chance. 

Would you regret running away from Todoroki now? Will you run back to the oasis of comfort you’ve helplessly chained yourself to, in favor of a peaceful life?

You’re scared. So scared of losing someone important, again. 

“Please, can you give me the chance to fight? To fight to live? For you?”

Every time these words passed through your mind, they left confusion, fear, and panic. 

In the quiet of the night, you find inklings of a new emotion bubble in your gut. It slowly overtakes the feelings of anxiety and makes you buzz with adrenaline. Mixing in with the others, swirling and concocting its effect that leaves you more scared than before.

Anticipation.

“This is new. It’s not a Friday night.” 

“I’m glad to see you too, Okamoto-san.” 

The elder quirks an eyebrow up at the sight of your flushed face. It’s clear that you’ve been running, and for good reason too, seeing that he was about to close for the night. Wordlessly, he opens the door and motions for you to come inside. You plop into the same seat you’ve been sitting in for years, and he moves to prepare a bowl of ramen for you.

“It’s okay, I ate before I came here.”

Okamoto gives you a weird look but proceeds to pour two cups of tea instead, placing one in front of you. 

The wrinkles of his face are set in a frown, but you know there’s no genuine discomfort behind it, simply a passive look that has aged over time. He sips his cup of tea, waiting for you to explain why you’ve come running to his shop at nearly midnight. 

Your voice comes out small, his presence never failing to make you feel like a kid all over again. “Okamoto-san, can I ask you a question?”

He grunts in response and sets his cup of tea down on the counter.

“Why do you think my parents ended the way they did?”

Silence envelopes you both as his eyebrows raise in rare surprise, a little taken aback by the bluntness of your question. It surprises you as well, but you remember why you wanted to talk to him in the first place—why it had to be with him. 

This place. This shop where your parents had taken you ever since you were born. This shop where Okamoto had been serving bowls of ramen to them even before they met one another. This shop that was destroyed by the war but was persistently rebuilt afterwards, not a piece of furniture differing from its origin, even if new. 

He had known your parents for so long, and is one of the only people you’ve kept in contact with who had a close relationship with them. 

Upon his silence, you state, “My soulmate is a pro-hero.” 

You spend the next half hour spilling all that has happened in the past month and a half. Recollections of memories and pent-up feelings flow out endlessly. Eventually, Okamoto takes a seat at the bar next to you, resting his wearied legs from the day and listening calmly. 

It feels liberating, for all these emotions to be spoken into existence. 

Your eyes are rimmed with unfallen tears at the end of it as you heave a relieving sigh. 

Looking over, you see Okamoto’s posture sitting tiredly, cradling his third cup of tea. A sudden wave of guilt washes over you for keeping the elder man from going home. Right before an apology leaves your lips, he looks over to you and gives you a gentle look. 

With sure movements, he reaches up to pat your head. His hand presses with light pressure, and you bite your lip to keep from bawling at the comforting gesture. 

“You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”

Silent tears break from your waterline and trickle slowly down your cheeks. God, how embarrassing. 

Okamoto simply grabs a tissue box nearby and sets it in front of you. You use one to quickly wipe away the hot tears cried from the old man’s affection.

He asks you in a gravely voice, “Is this boy important to you?”

Sniffling, you take a second before answering, thinking carefully. “Yes, he is.”

A beat passes. “Do you love him?”

Your face flushes immediately, and you furiously shake your head, “No. I mean– I– I don’t know… I’m having a hard time just being near him. I haven’t thought about… loving him.”

He hums suspiciously, and you turn your flustered face away. 

“I understand. I know that it’s taken a lot for you to have even considered being friends with him.” 

You nod and vigorously shove away the mental image of Todoroki kissing your hair. 

“I’m going to be straightforward with you.”

Turning, you face Okamoto’s serious expression and nod your head, bracing yourself.

“Your mother… Your mother was mentally ill. Not even taking her soulmate mark into account, she depended far too much on your father. She was trying to get help, but…”

He sighs, shaking his head, choosing to move the conversation in a different direction. 

“Now, trust me when I say this, she loved you very much. I do not doubt that both of them did. But I think a part of her had hoped that you would also keep your father from continuing his pro-hero career. She could never fully accept his choice to give himself to society the way he did.”

Your body becomes rigid with the harsh truth spoken aloud.

Yes, a part of you knew your mother devoted her life to your father, excessively so. Maybe that was why you looked to her first at the news of your father’s death, afraid of her reaction. 

But you had thought maybe it was because of the soulmate mark. A mark that binds you mercilessly to another. 

“Look at me when I say this.” 

Your eyes that have strayed aside look up to see Okamoto’s hard set face, droopy with age, and framed by graying hair. 

“You are not your mother,” he says firmly, “You are your own person, with your own experiences and thinking. Do not let her actions define your life and how you live it.” 

Your heart sinks, and Okamoto-san’s face instantly softens at your expression. You don’t even want to know what you must look to him now. 

Quietly, you whisper. “What if I lose myself? I’m scared I would be following in her footsteps. What if I meet the same end?”

“That is a reasonable fear. I wouldn’t want to lose you too.” 

For a moment, only your sniffling could be heard in the empty dim-lit shop. 

Okamoto’s voice cuts through the silence. “I can’t tell you what’s the right or wrong choice, but this boy is clearly important to you. Will you regret it again? If something does happen to him?”

Regret. 

The thought of it circles back, and you reel at the consequences of it. 

Regret at not saying anything. Regret at thinking you would have a second chance.

You think back on all the moments you found yourself smiling at his unexpected silliness. All the conversations that made you admire his way of thinking. His wonder and excitement at the prospect of getting to know each other more, to understand each other better. 

Will you regret it?

“You are not your mother.”

The simple yet strong declaration repeats in your mind and engraves into your soul. 

Witnessing grief overtake her very being, seeing the life leave her eyes before it really did. It terrified you beyond belief and before you could help it, you associated that look every time you thought of a soulmate bond. 

“Do not let her actions define your life and how you live it.”

A peaceful life. A peaceful but dull life was what you came up with. A defensive mechanism to avoid the same fate. 

But will you regret it? Will you regret not taking his hand? Will you watch it grasp air helplessly, again?

His captivating heterochromatic eyes that you’ve grown so fond of. His soft and reassuring smile that you undoubtedly preferred over his distressed one. His tall and protective frame that you’ve unconsciously missed being next to you in the past two weeks. 

Suddenly, in this empty dim-lit shop that you’ve been frequenting for years, an overwhelming urge to see Shouto sparks in you. It runs through your veins, passes through your limbs, beats through your soulmate mark. It rises with each pulse of your heartbeat, and you let it. 

In this definitive moment, you bask in it. You embrace this new-found feeling and cradle it, close to your chest and let it thrum throughout your whole body. A conclusion that comes forth and completely overtakes your thoughts. 

I want to see him. 

I want to see Shouto.

The clock was about to strike midnight, ending your anniversary, and right when you were about to lose hope and head to bed, the door burst open, startling you.

Bakugou heaved, bent over slightly. He was in his hero suit and he looked incredibly disheveled. When you approached him upon closer inspection you saw that he was covered in cuts and bruises. His hero suit was torn at various places and he quite literally looked as if an entire building had collapsed on top of him.

“Katsuki!” You exclaimed.

“Fuck–” Bakugou said in between his breaths. “I– made it–”

He checked the time and reached out to grab your hand, pulling you out into the hallway of your apartment complex, and shutting the door behind him. “C’mon, we can still make it to dinner.”

“Kats, wait,” you said, struggling to keep up as he dragged you along until you reached the elevator. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s just a scratch,” Bakugou said in an attempt to reassure you. “Fuck, there was an attack on the way here but I had to get back in time. For our date.”

You watched in horror as a thick stream of blood dripped from his head and stained the side of his face. “You’re bleeding! Let’s just go back–”

“No, we’ve gotta get there,” Bakugou said adamantly, restless as he waited impatiently for the elevator.

“We can just have dinner at home,” you said, pulling on his arm that still tightly held your hand. He seemed dazed, focused on something else entirely. Any annoyance you felt earlier had dissipated and now you were concerned about him.

Bakugou looked at you like you had two heads. “It’s our anniversary.”

The elevator doors opened right when you opened your mouth to say something and Bakugou pulled you inside, aggressively and repeatedly punching the lobby button until the doors closed.

Bakugou leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes momentarily. “I can’t lose you…” Bakugou said in a whisper.

You squeezed his hand, putting your other hand to his chest. “You’re not ever losing me. I know how busy you are but you’ve been working on it. I’m not upset about you being late if that’s what this is about.”

Bakugou nodded slightly, running a hand through his hair and wincing, looking at his palm now covered in blood. “Fuck…”

“Let’s just go to a hospital, Kats,” you said, getting more and more worried.

“I’m fine.”

“Katsuki!”

Before you could yell at him further, the elevator shook slightly, causing you and Bakugou to go wide-eyed. It stopped moving, the screen displaying the fifth floor where it was at currently but the doors were still closed. Bakugou pressed the lobby button again but the elevator didn’t move. 

It had broken down; and you were both stuck.

“God fucking dammit,” Bakugou cursed, slamming the emergency button.

Shortly after, an operator picked up the call, informing you that help was on the way and to ‘sit tight’ until then.

After getting off the call, Bakugou slid down against the elevator wall, sitting on the floor with his knees bent. You sat beside him, watching as he tore his eye mask from his head, rubbing his eyes and smearing his black liner he always wore with the mask.

The blood still smeared his skin and you slipped off your coat, holding it to his head since it was the only loose clothing you had to collect the blood. “What’s going on?” You asked, continuing to press your coat to his wound.

He winced from the pressure. “What do you mean?”

You pulled the coat away from his face. “Why do we need to make our reservation?”

Bakugou blinked back at you. “‘Cause it’s our anniversary… and I wanted to make this special.”

“That’s sweet but I can’t see you hurt like this,” you said with a shake of your head. “No dinner’s worth that.”

“I’m fine,” Bakugou repeated.

“No, you’re not!” You exclaimed, growing frustrated. “Don’t lie to me.”

Bakugou looked back at you and sighed, looking up at the dim lighting on the ceiling. “Fuck, I just wanted everythin’ to go perfect for once.”

You looped your arm into his, looking up at him. “I think the blood loss is getting to you…”

Bakugou let out a laugh, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. He looked back at you, his gaze softening. “You’re everythin’ to me. And I know I’m always workin’ but I wanna show you how much you mean to me… that’s why I wanted to get to dinner tonight.”

You smiled. “You do show me how much I mean to you. Everyday, Kats. It’s okay if we miss one dinner.”

“No, it’s not,” Bakugou refuted. “Shit, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

You were getting more and more confused. Sure Bakugou was always apologetic if he was late to your date or dinner plans but he was never as urgent as he was that day. His behavior wasn’t adding up and you knew something else was going on.

Bakugou held your hand in his, turning slightly towards you with a groan as his body ached with every movement. “I love you more than anythin’... and I don’t wanna ever be without you.”

He let out a laugh, his free hand going into his pocket and he held something in his fist. “Was supposed to do this during dinner. Y’know, with candles under the moonlight and fireworks and shit but now we’re stuck in a fuckin’ elevator.”

You stared back at him with furrowed brows, just about to question him until you choked on a gasp. 

He opened his fist, revealing a red velvet box. He flicked it open, revealing an extremely large diamond ring inside, shining and sparkling brilliantly even under the poor lighting of the elevator shaft. 

You covered your mouth with your hand, completely frozen at the sight of the diamond ring. Bakugou watched you with a small smile, his eyelids getting heavy as he blinked slowly. 

“I wanna spend the rest of my life with you,” Bakugou said softly. “I’ve known for a while now and I can’t let you go so…”

You stared right into his crimson eyes as he asked, “Y/N… will you marry me?”

The tears were immediate and you covered your face in your hands. “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot,” you said in between your sobs.

You nearly tackled him to the floor as you embraced him, your arms wound around his neck and he wrapped an arm around your waist, nestling his head into the crook of your neck. “This is what you were about to sacrifice your life for?” You asked, tears still streaming down your face.

Bakugou let out a laugh and you pulled away, holding his face in your hands. His beautiful, scarred face that was all cut up and bruised. “You could’ve just waited. We should’ve gone to the hospital first.”

“Nah, you’re worth it,” Bakugou said. “Couldn’t wait a second longer. I didn’t even have the patience to go on one knee.”

“Oh, Kats,” you murmured.

“Been planning this for a long time and I wanted things to go right… y’know on our anniversary,” Bakugou said, his words coming out slower than he intended.

You smiled, kissing him softly. “It’s okay.”

He grabbed the box, taking the ring out and carefully sliding it onto your finger with his shaky hands.

“Finally,” he murmured.

And then he passed out, his body slumping back and lying on the floor.

When Bakugou finally woke up, it had been well past two in the morning and you were exhausted beyond belief. 

He looked over to where you sat beside his hospital bed on a stool, blinking rapidly as his eyesight adjusted. “Where am I?”

You straightened your back after hearing his voice, not realizing he had awoken. “The hospital.”

“Fuck,” Bakugou cursed, sitting up and putting a hand to his aching forehead that was now bandaged. “Was… that a dream?”

“What? This?” You asked with a smile, raising your left hand and showing off your new diamond ring.

 Bakugou grinned, throwing his head back. “Thank fuckin’ god.”

“Some firefighters came to get us out of the elevator and they brought us here,” you explained, catching him up to speed.

“Oh,” Bakugou simply said.

“How are you feeling?” You asked, taking his hand in yours.

“Fine… head fuckin’ hurts but better,” Bakugou grumbled.

The door slid open and the doctor walked in, holding a clipboard and smiling when she realized Bakugou had awoken. “Alright, Mr. Dynamight. You had a deep cut on your forehead but we were able to stitch it together. We also gave you some pain meds because, well, you were pretty banged up, which is a severe understatement. We advise that you stay the night.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Bakugou said despondently.  

The doctor glanced over to you. “Are you family?”

“Um, I’m his gi– I mean fiancee. I’m his fiancee,” you corrected yourself, causing Bakugou to grin.

The doctor nodded. “Okay. Please feel free to stay as well.” She left shortly after that.

Bakugou leaned back with a sigh. “Man, spendin’ our first day engaged in a fuckin’ hospital…”

“And who’s fault is that?” You quipped.

“Yeah, yeah.”

You squeezed his hand. “From now on don’t do things like this again. You’ll make me worry more than I already do.”

“Can’t guarantee that…” Bakugou said then he smirked. “Should’ve thought about that before you decided to spend the rest of your life with me.”

“she doesn’t let the ball drop,” ushijima stated, his voice booming in the quiet tatami room like a sacred temple gong. he’s sitting perfectly straight, staring at his mother with an expression that could only be described as aggressively proud. “her platform is the most stable i have seen in the miyagi prefecture high school girls’ division. her center of gravity is remarkable.”

mrs. ushijima sat across from you, pouring barley tea with the grace of a woman who had never accidentally stubbed her toe in her entire life. she looked up, her sharp eyes scanning your face, then landing on her son.

“i see,” she murmured. then, a very tiny, very elegant smile touched her lips. “you chose well, wakatoshi. she has excellent posture.”

“thank you,” ushijima said, nodding once, looking immensely pleased with himself. “she’s my girlfriend.”

you, currently chewing on a piece of pear, just beamed and nodded along. yes! friend who is a girl! that’s me! you even gave his mom a little thumbs-up. “he’s really nice to me at school, mrs. ushijima! he let me use his personal muscle roller yesterday. it’s very heavy, but he carried it across campus for me.”

mrs. ushijima’s smile widened by approximately two millimeters—a monumental shift. “he’s a boy of few words, but he’s dedicated. please take care of him. he can be… single-minded.”

“oh, i know!” you laughed, completely missing the heavy, deliberate weight behind her words. “at practice, he just stares at me until i take a water break. it’s like having a giant guard dog.”

ushijima’s eyes softened so much they looked like melting chocolate. his hand came down on your knee—not a casual tap, but a heavy, warm weight that felt like an anchor anchoring you to the earth. “you require hydration to maintain your response time. i’m only monitoring your safety.”

your heart did a weird, violent salsa dance against your ribs. wow, you thought, he’s such a caring friend. boys’ volleyball captains are so intense.

the real test came twenty minutes later when ushijima’s phone began to buzz with a video call notification. he slid the screen open, revealing the face of his father, takashi utsui, sitting in what looked like an apartment in california.

“wakatoshi!” his dad grinned, the background behind him bright with american sunlight. “how’s the training going? are you hitting the cross-shots like we talked about?”

“the training is optimal, father,” wakatoshi replied, holding the phone out at an angle that gave his dad a magnificent view of the ceiling and half of his own forehead. “however, that isn’t why i’m calling. i need you to see her.”

he aggressively pivoted the phone toward your face. you suddenly found yourself staring into a screen, your eyes wide like a deer caught in high-beam headlights.

“hello!” you chirped, waving a hand.

his dad blinked, leaning closer to his camera. “oh! oh, wow! wakatoshi, is this—?”

“this is my girlfriend,” ushijima declared to the entire state of california. “she plays as a libero. her lateral movement is exceptional. during our last scrimmage, she defended three consecutive spikes from my opposite angle without losing her balance.”

takashi’s face erupted into a massive, delighted grin. “no way! a libero? you pulled a defensive specialist? man, i always knew you had good taste, but this is legendary! hey there, kiddo! how do his serves taste? they’re heavy, right?”

“they feel like a bowling ball falling from the second floor, sir!” you replied honestly, leaning into the frame. “but if i angle my wrists just right, they pop right back up to the ceiling!”

“she’s magnificent,” ushijima added, his voice dropping into a register so thick with reverence it belonged in a cathedral. he was looking at you through the screen, even though you were sitting right next to him. his gaze was a physical weight, warm and utterly unblinking. “i have no intention of letting anyone else have her.”

you blushed, your cheeks feeling like they have a built in heater. jeez, he really takes this friendship loyalty seriously. sport bonds are crazy.

“hey, treat her right, you hear me?” takashi laughed, shaking his fist playfully at the camera. “don’t just talk to her about air resistance and muscle fibers! take her out for parfaits!”

“i buy her meat buns every tuesday,” ushijima said, entirely serious. “and i carry her duffel bag because it keeps her shoulders aligned for the weekend matches.”

“good lad! nice to meet you, kid! keep him in line!”

the call ended, leaving the room quiet again. you turned to ushijima, your heart thumping against your chest like a trapped bird. “your dad seems really cool, waka. you look a lot like him.”

wakatoshi set the phone down. he didn’t pick up his tea. instead, he shifted his massive frame so he was facing you completely, his knees brushing against your thigh. the sheer size of him always made you feel small, but right now, with the afternoon sun hitting the side of his olive-brown hair, he felt massive in a way that made your stomach twist into a bunch of happy knots.

“he’s glad,” wakatoshi said softly.

“glad about what?”

“that i found you.” his large, calloused hand reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray crumb of mango from the corner of your mouth. his touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the hands that could dent floors with a leather ball. “i told him last month that i found someone who makes me want to play better. he told me to keep her close.”

your throat felt entirely dry. “oh. that’s… that’s really nice of him.”

the next morning at school, you were standing by the shoe lockers when tendō materialized from behind a pillar like a tall, red-headed sleep paralysis demon.

“soooo!” tendō sang, leaning down until his nose was nearly touching yours, his eyes wide with interest for gossip. “the golden boy took the celestial shield to the home fortress! how was the queen mother? did she approve of the future daughter-in-law? did wakatoshi show you his collection of perfectly organized sports towels? details, look, details!”

you slipped your indoor shoes on, looking at him with mild confusion. “mrs. ushijima was really nice! she gave me barley tea. and we talked to his dad on the phone. he’s in california!”

semi, who was walking past with a stack of printouts, stopped dead in his tracks. the papers creased under his grip. “wait. hold on. he introduced you to his parents? both of them? in the same afternoon?”

“yeah,” you said, adjusting your school bag. “wakatoshi’s so sweet. he’s the best friend i’ve made since coming to shiratorizawa. he’s just so supportive of my volleyball career.”

the hallway went dead silent.

semi’s soul looked like it was actively trying to escape through his ears again. tendō froze mid-sway, his long fingers locking into claws in front of his chest.

“…friend?” tendō whispered, his voice cracking like dry kindling. “friend who is a boy? platonic? like… a buddy? a pal? a comrade-in-arms?”

“well, yeah,” you said, completely earnest. “he asked me to be his girl-friend after that joint practice, remember? it’s really nice having a guy friend who doesn’t make a big deal out of things. he just treats me normally.”

from five feet away, shirabu walked past, paused, looked at your face, looked at tendō’s melting expression, and simply said, “moron.” then he kept walking.

“no, no, no,” semi said, dropping his papers onto a nearby bench. he grabbed you by the shoulders, his eyes wide with a frantic, desperate energy. “look at my face. listen to my words. ushijima wakatoshi does not have ‘girl-friends.’ he doesn’t even have regular friends that he invites over to meet his mother. tendō has been close to him for years and he’s only seen the inside of that house twice, and both times were because of a group project on regional agriculture!”

“he’s literally courting you like an eighteenth-century warlord,” tendō wheezed, clutching his stomach as a massive grin broke across his face. “oh my god. he thinks you’re his fiancé at this point. he probably has a small shrine dedicated to your knee pads in his bedroom.”

you blinked, the words slowly tumbling around in your brain. courting? fiancé? shrine?

“but… he just likes my receives,” you mumbled, though your face was suddenly reaching a boiling point. “he says my center of gravity is optimal.”

“that is the equivalent of a poetry slam for him!” semi yelled, throwing his hands up. “if that man tells you your platform is stable, he’s basically asking you to move in with him!”

before you could process the absolute collapse of your reality, a heavy shadow fell over the three of you.

ushijima stood at the end of the hall. he had his blazer buttoned perfectly, his hair neat, and in his right hand, he was holding a small, warm plastic bag from the convenience store. he walked past semi and tendō as if they were nothing more than decorative house plants, stopping right in front of you.

“the cafeteria was out of the pork buns you like,” he said, his deep voice instantly cutting through the panic in your head. he reached into the bag and pulled out a fresh, steaming bun, wrapping it carefully in a napkin so you wouldn’t burn your fingers. “so i walked to the station store before the bell rang. eat it before class starts. your energy levels need to be high for the afternoon receiving drills.”

you looked at the warm bun in your hands. then you looked up at his face.

for the first time, you noticed the way he was looking at you. it wasn’t the look he gave the whiteboard during strategy meetings. it wasn’t even the look he gave a perfectly inflated ball. his pupils were blown wide, his jaw was slightly relaxed, and there was a soft, almost desperate warmth in his eyes that was entirely directed at you. he looked like a man who had stared into the sun and decided he never wanted to look at the dark again.

“wakatoshi,” you squeaked, your heart doing a massive backflip that left you slightly dizzy. “do you… do you think we’re dating?”

ushijima tilted his head, his brow furrowing in genuine, uncomplicated confusion.

“we are,” he said simply. “i asked you to be my girlfriend. you said yes. i have already informed my family and the team captain registration form for the summer tournament lists you as my emergency contact.”

tendō let out a high-pitched shriek of pure joy behind him, while semi just covered his face with both hands, groaning into his palms.

you stared at him, the sheer, beautiful absurdity of the situation finally crashing down. he was so serious. so completely, utterly devoted to you that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of a misunderstanding. he had just decided you were his, and he had been taking care of you with every ounce of his massive, stubborn heart ever since.

a sudden, wild burst of affection bloomed in your chest. you took a big bite of the pork bun, chewed quickly, swallowed, and grabbed his free hand with both of yours.

“okay,” you said, your face burning but your grin matching his dad’s from across the ocean. “then you better buy me the big parfait after practice today, boyfriend.”

ushijima’s eyes widened slightly, a rare, beautiful flash of teeth showing as a genuine smile broke across his face. his hand squeezed yours back, so hard your fingers cracked a little, but you didn’t care at all.

“i will buy you three,” he said.

n: i’ll be going out to treat my siblings tomorrow so idk if i can upload :3 it’s my little sister’s birthday tomorrow !

© showhay — don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.