Life, Liberty, And The Pursuit Of Ass

By mid-October, her life had settled into something that could almost be called a rhythm.

Not balance. Balance had been before: when the long nights and the borderline caffeine dependency and the color-coded notes were all choices she’d signed up for. When, some nights, that wasn’t her at all. Some nights it was her friends and a couple of drinks in a dim bar and laughter that rang a little too loudly.

Not ease, either. Ease had been throwing herself fully at the same dream she’d had since she was ten reading a book about medical marvels until the pages nearly fell out.

This was different.

Just a series of motions that, day in and day out, started to feel routine.

Mornings were chaos. Always.

Her alarm would sound too early. And, for a brief flicker of time, she could feel the old life hover at the edges, a ghost that haunted the edges of the new life she’d been thrust into. For a few heartbeats, suspended between bone-deep exhaustion and incessant responsibility, it almost felt like her biggest concern was an upcoming exam or whether the boy she found cute would flirt with her or not.

Then Juniper would squeak from her crib- the one she’d cobbled together with shaky hands and eyes blurred with tears- and reality would settle itself like the sunrise.

She moved with surprising efficiency now, the kind that came from necessity, not confidence.

Warm the formula while she prepped the couch as a pseudo-changing table. Shush and scoop up Juniper, who hovered in the pre-meltdown zone: sounds too impatient to be content, too uncertain to commit to a full cry. She’d wriggle around as she changed her with a practiced ease she didn’t have four months ago. Once the formula was ready, Juniper would take the bottle with uncoordinated, jerky grabs.

Sunny would let her, propping the baby on her hip as she got ready around the now-familiar weight. Juniper would occasionally fuss, only to stop once Sunny cracked open the curtains. Her deep green eyes would go wide, and she’d track the rays of sunlight across the floor in quiet reverence.

Some days, when the universe decided to align itself just right she’d have enough time to eat something small before she scurried out the door in a panic. Most days, however, something happened: Juniper would move to full blown meltdown status, the coffee maker would break for the sixth time, tiny socks would be launched to oblivion.

It wouldn’t last.

There was too much to do and too little energy to focus.

Once Juniper was dropped off with Rin for the day- after an inevitable guilty goodbye and an ache from walking away from a baby whose lips might wobble- Sunny breathed differently. Not easier. Not like the old her. Just… differently.

Hospital rotations had become more manageable- at least more so than the initial hollow, empty attempts she’d had after returning to Japan with Juniper in tow. Faces had names now, and rooms had purpose. She knew which attendings to expect more from, which nurses would help her when she asked, and where she could hide away for just a minute when the world became too much. With her scrubs and white coat on, she could almost remember who she used to be.

Almost.

Some days, Yagi would be there.

He lingered at the edges of her schedule, when she had a handful of minutes extra to spare for the impossible task she’d been handed. He was quiet, kind. Always soft-spoken. Always encouraging.

He never pushed when the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Never asked her to give more when her hands shook at the end of each session. He listened to her as she mumbled about her day, or some cute thing Juniper did, or that one concept that she was still internalizing- like every word she spoke meant something, was worth hearing. He made a point of telling her, each time she finished healing him, “You’ve done more than enough,” like he was trying to convince her.

She’d watch as he left looking a little taller, a little less winded, after each session.

She wasn’t used to adults staying. Or checking in. Or texting her to remind her to take care of herself.

She’d stare at those texts a little too long- not as the woman who was holding too much, but as the little girl who’d cried herself to sleep when she realized that she’d never know what it meant to be a daughter.

Studying had been forced into the cracks of her life. The in-betweens. She recited pathways of B cell activation on the walk to the babysitter. Her lunch sat untouched as she reviewed patterns of cell atrophy. Juniper’s midnight feedings were filled with adverse drug interactions muttered in between wails. The life she’d always wanted had become an afterthought, the “if I have time”. Concepts she once understood, believed herself capable of applying, felt slippery, like everything else.

Sometimes the panic would rush in. A cold that would start in her chest and spread outward, like ice, turning her fingers numb and freezing her limbs while the dizzying responsibility of it all crawled up her spine.

Guardian. Healer. Student.

She’d drop her head in her textbooks, or stand in the crowded bathroom with the shower running to muffle the sound, and cry- sob- until it felt like her ribs might crack underneath the pressure of it all. Then, she’d squeeze her fists together and smile. Smile until it became real. Or, at least, less of a lie. And step back into her life that never truly felt like home.

Because home had been her sister’s laugh and her brother-in-law’s terrible jokes and the promise of being “the cool aunt” who swept in with presents and left before tantrums. Home had been unfamiliar homes filled with strangers while her and Maya clung to each other promising that one day, one day, they’d make something better.

Home was a before that she couldn’t get back, no matter how many times she cried, and begged, and fallen apart.

Now, mostly, she shouldered the burden of a life she had never asked for tangled with the life she’d always dreamed of, and tried to find joy where she could: Juniper’s gummy smile, Yagi’s warm hands as he pressed a snack into her hold, a good grade that proved she was still capable.

And the café.

The damn café.

The café that, against her better judgement, had become a very important part of her routine.

Or, more specifically, Aizawa.

Aizawa, with his kindness hidden behind bored disinterest and dry sarcasm. Aizawa, who listened to her ramble with a patience she’d never been given before, who remembered the little things she said, even when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Aizawa, with his quiet strength that both emboldened and relaxed her in the same breath.

Aizawa, who had caught her like it was nothing. Who had held her close for far too long. Who had looked down at her like he’d been waiting for an excuse to move closer. Who had leaned towards her, like there wasn’t any other option. Whose arms had-

Oh boy.

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

She was not so weak-willed to fall victim to a set of very strong arms. No matter how good they’d felt, or how she’d imagined pressing her lips-

She would not think about the incident.

Not the incident- which really could mean a number of things, like the spit up crusted on the second shirt of the morning or the pile of diapers Juniper had gone through just in the previous night alone- but the incident.

The incident where Aizawa had saved her from her own lack of awareness and gravity. Where he’d pulled her to him instead, close enough their bodies had been pressed. Where she’d moaned at the feel of his biceps.

She fumbled with the straps of the carrier, focusing on something else, like a distraction could physically scrub the memory from her frontal lobe. Juniper gave a small, breathy huff in complaint at being hoisted from her playmat and confined against Sunny’s chest.

The baby blinked up at her, upset at being robbed at tummy time. Her lower lip wobbled, like she might vocalize her feelings with sobs.

“I know, I know,” Sunbeam murmured, righting the socks Juniper had almost successfully kicked away in her displeasure. “I don’t want to be awake either.”

Juniper was three and a half months old now. Her cheeks had gotten rounder, her soft brown hair had curled, and her eyes- deep green, like the evergreens she’d used to climb- tracked everything with alert curiosity.

She looked achingly familiar.

Physically, she took most of her traits from Marcus- the hair, the eyes, the dimples on her cheeks.

But her expressions, her nose scrunches- they were all Maya.

Two ghosts stitched together in the most precious way, that kicked and gurgled and reminded her of all the things she’d ever loved.

Sunbeam leaned down and pressed a kiss to her niece’s forehead, breathing in her baby shampoo and the faint milky scent that always clung to her. It was warm. Familiar.

And it had slowly become the axis of her world.

“You’re getting heavy,” she whispered, as if sharing the information with the ache in her heart. “Nobody asked you to grow this fast.”

Juniper hiccuped, gave one last great effort at flipping herself out towards the world, then gave up and grabbed at Sunbeam’s shirt. Her little pacifier bobbed, then fell to the ground, as she gave a smile that crinkled the skin around her eyes.

Like Maya.

Something sharp and hot twisted together in Sunny’s chest- anger and grief tangled so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Then shame.

Shame for the roaring flames of rage she couldn’t quite put out. For the blame she wanted to throw, and the unfairness of it all she couldn’t swallow.

She smiled instead.

A small lift of her lips- insincere, but visible.

“Clingy,” Sunbeam noted dryly, scooping another pacifier off the counter while she adjusted the baby properly against her.

She didn’t bother picking up the one on the ground. It was a future Sunny problem, because current Sunny was running late to a healing session with Yagi. He insisted that it was okay she brought Juniper, even claimed he was looking forward to it, but that didn’t stop her nerves from settling in.

She grabbed the diaper bag- the same ridiculously large one she’d once spent 30 minutes over a video call laughing at her sister for- because, surely, it was excessive and inconvenient.

Unfortunately for her, it was neither. She had never realized how often babies soiled clothing, how many diapers they could go through in a handful of hours, how spare pacifiers were necessities at this stage.

It hurt to remember the little moments like that, the ones where she was going to be the cool aunt who breezed in to spoil and love her niece. The ones where her own children were theoretical and distant- a half-baked maybe one day- instead of a solid weight against her chest.

But all of the pain and the unfairness and the unpreparedness wouldn’t change that this was her life now.

Old Sunny- before the pain and the sudden responsibility- would have shamelessly flirted with Aizawa. She would’ve kissed him on that sidewalk. She would’ve invited him home, slept with him, and enjoyed every minute of it without some looming guilt or pressing worry.

Not now, though.

Now, she counted money for her groceries and refused to touch the life insurance deposit that sat in her account, mocking her. She watched teething tips with the desperation of a fraying thread, still so unsure but unwilling to give anything less. She dropped into her bed only after her body began to fail, and she dreamed of concrete and blood and words she’d never get to say.

She wasn’t the same girl who chased her dreams and romance and Friday nights filled with laughter like she deserved something good.

She didn’t have time for any of it, not anymore. And especially not some silly, irrational crush that wouldn’t ever go anywhere anyways.

Guys didn’t want complications. They didn’t want emergency guardianships and sleepless, fear filled nights.

Some guys didn’t even want a drunk girlfriend at a party, she thought bitterly. The kind that stood between his jerk friends and an unconscious girl. Blake’s voice still curled low against the beating of her heart, an unconscious, unwelcome reminder of her own insecurities: You always have to make everything difficult, Sunny.

She’d broken up with him from the passenger seat of Marcus’s car- drunk, sobbing, but more resolute than she’d ever been in her life. Mascara had smeared over most of her face, while she cried and cried, explaining her fears to a patient, protective Marcus- who’d driven an hour in the middle of the night to pick up his drunk, twenty-three year old sister-in-law. Without complaint, without being told twice, all because her sister was sick and he wouldn’t leave her alone.

And he’d listened.

The entire drive, he listened to her sob and ramble and curse. Only once did he speak, and it was an echo of everything they’d been telling her for years: You deserve better.

She’d believed him that night. And the night after. And every risky text and shy first date from one side of the world to the other, slowly rearranging her mind around the idea that she might actually deserve more.

And then he died.

And Maya died.

And she didn’t believe it anymore. She couldn’t. Because the only person who deserved better, who deserved more, was Juniper.

All of the pain and unfairness and unpreparedness wouldn’t change the simple, immovable fact that this was her life now.

The lock of her apartment clicked into place behind her, as she started making her way to the hospital, Juniper settled limply against her chest.

She’d made a vow that night. Right there on the blood-soaked concrete, her voice hoarse from pleas that’d fallen on a deaf universe: Juniper would never know less.

Not less love. Not less safety. Not less gentleness. She would never have to beg the way Sunny had begged.

She would know love and comfort and happiness.

Sunny would sacrifice every piece of herself- every dream and every almost and every bit of strength- to make it happen.

Sunny didn’t look at her phone when it first buzzed. Juniper was strapped to her chest, which meant the anxiety around any unexpected phone calls was virtually zero.

But then it went off again.

And again.

By the sixth message, she pulled it out on principle alone. Her phone had never been so active. She’d really only used it for the occasional meme, study group updates, and Juniper monitoring.

Now, as assuming as a screen full of emojis could be, there sat a new set of notifications.

Sunshine Squad ☀️

A new group chat.

One with only four members: Kayama, Yamada, Aizawa, and herself.

She blinked, then forced her eyes up for half a second to make sure she was still following the familiar path to the hospital. She was.

Kayama: Good morning Sunshineeeee

Kayama: You + us + drinks Saturday???

Kayama: Before you answer you have to know I don’t respond well to rejection

She huffed something like a laugh. Kayama reminded her of a piece of herself she’d lost somewhere along the way.

Yamada: SUNNY

There was a string of unintelligible emojis following her nickname.

Yamada: she’s not joking 😐

Yamada: all the more reason to GET DRINKS WITH US SATURDAY 🕺🕺

And then, at the very bottom of the recent messages, was Aizawa’s default contact picture.

Stormcloud: You’re being pushy.

His words were directed at Yamada and Kayama, who had already begun typing in response.

Stormcloud: You’re busy. Say no if you need to.

That was…

She frowned at the thump of her heart, the same spot that Juniper currently inhabited. She wouldn’t acknowledge what that possibly meant.

Sunny: I think I would genuinely contemplate murder for a margarita and two hours away from medicine

Kayama: See Sho

Kayama: Not everyone wants to spend their weekends in the dark

Her hesitation had nothing to do with her desire to socialize, though.

It had everything to do with the baby currently strapped to her chest, whose tiny fingers occasionally curled tighter against her shirt, and gummed at her neckline. The weight of responsibility. Literally.

Yamada sent another string of emojis that made her feel wildly out of touch with texting culture.

Sunny: i don’t know if I’m free yet

That was… not technically a lie.

It was hard to describe, her hesitance. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of Juniper. She’d never felt anything but pride and love for the baby resting against her.

No.

This was more about her own life. The intersection of her past and her future. At the hospital, at her too-cramped apartment- she felt lost in the expectation of who she had to be.

But in the café?

With Kayama and Yamada and Aizawa?

For just a brief second, she wasn’t a title. She wasn’t what she could do for someone else.

She was just a person.

Just herself.

And maybe it was selfish of her, maybe it made her a bad person, but she missed the woman she used to be.

That thought was shoved deep, deep down with the rage and the shaking hands and the bloody concrete.

Kayama: I’m flexible 😉

Kayama: And I’m sure the boys can make time too

Yamada: !!! Hey now

Yamada: Sho is flexible too

Yamada: schedule-wise

Yamada: And otherwise 😏

Sunny almost (almost) walked directly into a street sign. Luckily, her instincts were polished enough to stop a full collision, and only managed a light jostle, which prompted an indignant squeak from Juniper.

“Sorry, Junie-Bug,” she muttered, investigating the nearby foot traffic for any notoriety.

Everyone either didn’t notice, or were being too polite to mention anything.

Stormcloud: Stop talking.

Yamada: What?

Yamada: I’m being SUPPORTIVE

Yamada: Sunny did you know that Sho can cook and likes to cuddle??? 🥵🥵🥵

She was not smiling.

Absolutely not.

It was not a smile that was tugging her lips upwards as she imagined a sleepy, messy-haired Aizawa slinging an arm around her and-

Down girl.

Kayama: He’s house-trained 🤭

Stormcloud: I’m not a cat.

Yamada: Debatable

Sunny typed slowly, thoughtfully.

Sunny: is this part of the campaign to get me to go out for drinks???

And then, because she couldn’t help herself.

Sunny: there’s nothing wrong with liking to cuddle

Sunny: some of us are tragically undercuddled right now and could really use that positivity

As soon as she hit send, she realized how that sounded.

“Your aunt is an idiot,” she muttered to Juniper, ignoring the typing notifications from the other people in the group chat as she backpedaled.

Sunny: that was NOT

Sunny: it sounded different in my head

Sunny: i was not volunteering myself or anything

Yamada: 👀👀 don’t be shy

Yamada: Sho would LOVE a volunteer

Stormcloud: Hizashi.

Yamada: Shota ❤️

Kayama: tragically undercuddled you say? 🤨

Even through text, Kayama’s tone could best be described as mischievous. Sunny would’ve questioned why that was, but the traffic sign changed.

She put her phone in her pocket, taking a minute to recalibrate. She’d always had a bit of a problem with her mouth- or thumbs, in this case- moving faster than her thoughts.

Her phone buzzed insistently, and she ignored it for a moment longer, instead placing a hand against the back of Juniper’s head. She was watching the world pass her by with wide, glassy eyes. Besides the occasional squeak or half-formed “ah”, she was quiet.

Sunny wondered, not for the first time, if she felt the loss of Maya. She’d only been two weeks old when she’d died.

The social worker had warned Sunny about the effects of loss and trauma on a developing brain. The one thing Sunny could never protect her from.

By the time she tuned back into the groupchat, chaos had erupted.

Kayama: explain this???

Kayama had sent a photo. It was an old one, obviously screenshotted off of Sunny’s social media page, which she hadn’t touched in almost a year. In the picture, Sunny was smiling, her lips painted a deep red and eyeliner rimming her eyes that made them look particularly sultry. Her hair was neat, her skin was glowing, and the dark green dress she wore complemented her every curve.

Beside her, with an arm wrapped tightly around her waist and his lips pressed to her temple, was Blake. His jaw was sharp, his dark hair slicked back, and his suit tailored.

The caption beneath it read, almost cruel in hindsight: “my forever dance partner ❤️”.

Her stomach clenched. Juniper, as if she could sense it, cooed softly, tightening her grip in Sunny’s shirt.

Kayama: he’s hot???? 🥵

Kayama: what’s his name???

Kayama: why haven’t you told us about him???

Yamada: SUNNY

Yamada: why didn’t you tell us your wardrobe has more than oversized sweaters???

Kayama: we need answers

Her fingers did a dance over the keyboard as she voiced her confusion.

Sunny: how did you even find that????

Sunny: i haven’t used my account in so long

She tried to ignore the typing bubbles that kept appearing and disappearing by Aizawa’s contact.

Kayama: don’t doubt my abilities

Kayama: I’m very talented 😉

Yamada: very SCARY

Kayama: not the point

Kayama: what’s his name????

Sunny: Blake

Kayama: Hot blake with the tuxedo

Kayama: what does he do???

Yamada: a hero??? A teacher??? A doctor???

Sunny: not even a little bit

Sunny: his dad owns a real estate company in Massachusetts

Sunny: he’s taking over for him eventually

Kayama: oh so he’s rich rich?? 💅

Yamada: but doesn’t save lives???

Her brow quirked.

Stormcloud: You have a boyfriend.

The words felt heavy, coming from him. Final.

Like it sat tangibly between her and Aizawa, unnatural in a way she’d never really experienced with him.

And that annoying, stubborn part of her that couldn’t just let it go had her typing out a denial.

A car horn sounded behind her.

She jerked her head up and nearly dropped her phone to the ground when she realized that the crowd that had gathered at the crosswalk was finally walking, except for her. Causing a minor traffic jam.

Oops.

“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered, half to the crowd of people and half to Juniper, who gave an offended coo.

Sunny scurried across the street, her cheeks red as she tucked herself against a wall just on the other side. The hospital was in view now, so she could afford to take a couple of minutes to answer.

Yamada: …do you??

Yamada: is it serious??

Kayama: I support all of your decisions good and bad

Kayama: BUT

Kayama: if he sucks I support you kicking his ass to the curb and upgrading 🫶🏼

She’d done one of the two, at least.

Sunny: Blake is the ex that I was supposed to come to Japan with

Sunny: very much not my boyfriend

There.

Not emotional, not a sob story- just a run of the mill explanation.

A normal, mundane breakup that wouldn’t make her new friends think she was “too much” or “too emotional”.

Juniper squawked softly, one tiny fist bumping the underside of her chin. She ran a hand over her hair, both soothing herself and the baby.

Yamada: EX 😩

Yamada: we ARE BLESSED

Yamada: sorry

Yamada: that was insensitive

Kayama: why the breakup??

These two were very persistent. She had the horrible, nagging feeling that it wasn’t just because of their own curiosity.

Sunny: im a lot sometimes

Sunny: and he didnt like it

She stared at the text, his voice curling around it. He’d always made her feel… small. When she first met him, he’d been kind, respectful- sweet, even. He’d made her feel special, seen.

And then, as time went on, as her confidence and competence grew, his words had grown harsher.

Because the truth was, he’d never cared about her because of her accomplishments, or her dreams, or her abilities.

He’d loved the idea of her.

The her that was young and insecure and doe-eyed. Her ambition was an inconvenience, and her kindness an embarrassment.

If not for Marcus, for that night, she probably would’ve never broken up with him. And he would’ve held on tight, broken her down, and loved the fragments of the woman she was meant to be.

Kayama: sounds like a tragic case of weak man syndrome 🫡

Yamada: A LOT????

Yamada: EXCUSE YOU????

Stormcloud: Maybe he was too little.

Her chest tightened, and- unbidden- she could feel the ghost of his arms- wrapped securely around her, one broad hand on her waist, the other on her back. Solid. Warm.

Alive.

The world had tilted, but then he’d been there. Had let her crash into him, instead of the ground.

For one moment, suspended in time, their chests brushing with each breath- it’d felt right. Right in a way she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt before. Like her whole being had recognized something her brain wouldn’t. Like if she’d just leaned into him, just a little closer, her world would shift into something softer. Steadier.

Safer.

Her fingers twitched, and she caught the edge of the baby carrier with them.

Right.

Reality.

It always had a way of smacking her in the face- sometimes literally.

She did not have the time, nor the bandwidth, nor the capacity, for anything remotely like the direction her thoughts were moving towards.

He was… hot.

She could admit that. Begrudgingly.

She could also admit that his unfairly sculpted biceps would probably feel like some form of heaven she could hardly imagine pinning her against her bed. Or a wall. Maybe a countertop.

And his hands?

Just the scrape of his palm against her thigh would probably send her-

Nope.

Not the time.

Juniper, as if she could hear her inner monologue- which she really, really hoped she couldn’t- fussed against her shirt. She was rubbing her eyes, a telltale sign that a nap was most definitely in her future.

She couldn’t blame the baby.

Her phone buzzed again.

Yamada: Sho’s never been too little for anything in his life

Yamada: a perfectly sized KING 🍆

The image that conjured was probably not the one Yamada was intending. Or maybe, it was exactly what he was intending.

Tall, broad shoulders, long legs, large hands- it made perfect sense that he’d be… proportionally adequate.

Her cheeks burned.

Stormcloud: Keep going and I’m leaving this group chat.

Yamada: that was not a denial 👀

Kayama: as much as I love discussing anatomy

Kayama: back to what really matters

Kayama: LOOK AT BABY SUNNY

The photo that loaded in the group chat was not nearly as startling as the one of her and Blake. It was her, maybe nine or ten, with a smile that took up half of her face. Her hair was wild, there was flour everywhere, and the mess on her hands looked like something that resembled slime more than anything edible.

Behind her, a bowl of lumpy dough teetered on the edge of the countertop, one uncoordinated turn away from falling altogether. She’d so desperately wanted her own kitchen to cook, and finally, one of the group homes had let her.

She wasn’t good then, not by any stretch of the word. But she’d learned.

Yamada: SUNNY LORE DROP

Yamada: SMALL BUT MIGHTY

Sunny: oh my god

Sunny: why must you slander my good name

Kayama: you said you know how to cook but this picture directly proves otherwise

She laughed- a deep, hearty chuckle that made Juniper jump from the suddenness of it. She let the baby hold her hand around her pointer finger as consolation.

Sunny: i know how to cook now

Sunny: trust me

Sunny: youll be singing my praises when im done with you

Kayama: GIRL 😛

Kayama: praises, huh?

She winced, dropping her forehead against Juniper, who was entirely unaware of her aunt’s plight. She was, however, delighted at the sudden attention. Her whole face lit up with a gummy smile, tiny fingers holding tighter to her.

Sunny momentarily ignored her phone, pressing a kiss to Junie-Bug’s chubby, sticky cheek.

“One last check,” she promised, “then you can go meet Yagi.”

Messages were still rolling in when she checked her phone again.

Yamada: OHHH????

Yamada: Sho do YOU wanna be the one singing Sunny’s praises???? 🧐

Stormcloud: Hizashi. Enough.

Yamada: that wasn’t a no 🥳

And a new picture.

This picture was more recent than the others. It was about a year ago, on a beach in northern Japan.

Lena had taken it. Of course she had. The bright-eyed, wild child that was so unapologetically herself. She’d taught Sunny the importance of joy and sharp winged liner in the same night.

In the photo, Sunny stood in the shallow water, with her head tipped back towards the sky. The golden light of the sun spilled over her shoulders, and down her skin, like she was glowing herself. A smile- wide, genuine, caught in between a laugh- was plastered to her face, her eyes shut against the breeze. The bikini she wore was black and small, smaller than she would’ve ever picked on her own, but Lena had convinced her that she was hot, single, and in a new country. One hand skimmed the waterline, while the other held a bottle against the skin of her sternum, conveniently covering all but the barest hint of her tattoo that lay beneath.

The difference between the woman in the photo and the woman standing on the sidewalk was startling. Thirteen months and a lifetime apart.

She looked free then. Light. Happy.

Lena had been her roommate throughout undergrad. They’d visited each other a number of times throughout her first three years of med school. When she told her about moving to Japan, she’d jumped on the opportunity. Sunny was only in Japan for a couple of months before Lena crashed into her apartment with a suitcase and a notebook full of “must-see” destinations.

They’d always been girls together- laughing, crying, living loud in whatever time they had together.

Sunny hadn’t answered any of her texts since Marcus and Maya died.

She wasn’t sure she could.

Some nights, her thumb would hover over Lena’s name, the message window open and empty. The words always curdled before she could type them.

Maybe it was because she knew Lena would’ve never let her become the woman she is now. She wouldn’t let the light wither away, not when she knew how bright it shined before.

Or maybe it was because it was easier to be the version of herself she thought she had to be when nobody knew who she was before. She didn’t have to think about the late-nights laughing or the spontaneous day trips or the hours in the car screaming a catchy song at the top of her lungs with her best friend.

It was easier to let it all go, to leave it on that blood-soaked concrete to be buried with the person she’d been.

Because Lena would see the anger. The rage.

At the universe. At Marcus. At Maya.

At herself.

And she couldn’t answer those questions. Not right now.

It took everything she had to just exist, to keep moving forward.

Juniper shifted against her. She was on her way to see Yagi. Her phone buzzed with new friends.

Joy in misery. The kind of good that existed in spite of all the bad.

The group chat was losing its mind at the picture, unaware of the spiral it’d sent her down. She forced a deep breath out, choosing to focus on the here and now.

Kayama: MAAM?????

Kayama: HELLO????

Kayama: WHY DO YOU DEPRIVE THE WORLD OF THIS ON THE REGULAR??

Yamada: okay LIL MISS OVERSIZED SWEATERS

Sunny: i was tipsy

Sunny: i was being hyped up

Sunny: and i felt hot

Kayama: felt???

Kayama: GIRL. YOU. ARE.

Kayama: and DON’T THINK I don’t see a tattoo peeking from behind that glass

Sunny groaned under her breath, earning another curious squeak from Juniper, who was staring at her with big, green eyes.

She could practically feel the moment Aizawa saw the picture. The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Back and forth.

The morning traffic began to thin, as the rush turned more to a slow trickle. Yagi always tried to schedule his sessions when she was already at the hospital, or, when it would be most convenient for her.

For someone she’d only known for a few weeks, he had a tendency to worry about her sleeping habits. And general wellbeing.

Sunny: did you really zoom in on my boobs just to check??

The constant cycling of typing and not-typing next to Aizawa’s contact disappeared, and a message came through.

Stormcloud:

Nothing.

He’d sent nothing.

Like the word “boobs” had caused his hand to twitch and send an empty text. Or a deleted one.

Yamada: you BROKE SHO

Kayama: RESPECTFULLY

Kayama: your face = HOT

Kayama: your body = KILLER

Kayama: and your tattoo is intriguing 😙

Yamada: SHO ARE YOU ALIVE???

Stormcloud: Stop shouting.

Yamada: HE LIVES 😩

Yamada: thoughts on the pic??? On Sunny’s mysterious tattoo????

Stormcloud: No.

Kayama: he says that

Kayama: BUT

Kayama: I’m watching him stare at his phone like he needs a cold shower and a few minutes alone

Yamada: probably drooling and EVERYTHING 😌

Sunny’s face burned.

Yamada was not subtle. He’d been teetering on the edge of supportive wingman the entire conversation.

It was one thing to acknowledge Aizawa was hot.

That maybe, if given half a chance a lifetime ago, she would’ve kissed him on that sidewalk.

She would’ve undressed him with something like near-reverence, because just the feel of him against her had made her mouth water.

She might’ve even gone to her knees, because that man certainly seemed like he could use it and it’d be a damn shame not to make him feel worshipped.

But.

She couldn’t now.

She could think of the heat of his body so close to hers, the way his eyes begged for her to move, the growl of “got you” that tore itself from his throat- late at night when she was alone and her fingers crept past her waistband.

Touching herself to the thought of him had been unintentional, but the memory of his body against her haunted her skin.

Stormcloud: I’m muting this chat.

Yamada: COWARD

The phone continued to buzz, but this time Sunny slipped it into one of the pockets of the bag with no intention of pulling it back out. Juniper huffed again, frustrated with the light jostling her aunt had subjected her to.

“Okay,” Sunny said, smoothing back the tiny curls on Juniper’s head. “Real life first.”

The hospital stood still in the foreground, catching the morning light on the wall of windows that made up the central building. By the time she crossed the last street between her and responsibility, the warmth of the group chat and the lingering ghost of Aizawa’s hands had been shoved down, down, down with all of the other things she didn’t have time to want.

Yagi would probably be at the hospital by now, and she had no intention of keeping him waiting.

The walk to his preferred examination room was familiar to Sunny now.

The nurse manning the station shot her a curious look. She was older than Sunny by a few decades, but always had this encompassing, almost youthful, warmth.

She didn’t know that Sunny had Juniper at home.

And Sunny- she really didn’t want to get into that conversation right now.

So, instead, she smiled politely, bowed her head in greeting, and carried on through the harsh fluorescents and thick antiseptics.

Sunny paused at the door, the thick embossed wood offering a warped reflection underneath the blinding lights. She’d let so few people into this part of her life that it almost felt… terrifying, to introduce Yagi to Juniper.

But he was kind. And warm. And always asked if she’d eaten (she hadn’t) or was well rested (she wasn’t).

She took a breath, then knocked gently on the exhale.

“Come in,” Yagi’s voice grumbled through the door. It was low, rough, but undeniably

She slid in with her shoulder to the door.

Yagi was standing, his civilian clothes loose against his current body mass. Even with the limited healing sessions, he looked noticeably better. His skin had taken on more color, the rise and fall of his chest was more even, and the neutral expression he wore looked less like a grimace.

His gaze landed on her, and a smile tugged at his mouth.

Then he saw the baby.

And it got even wider.

Sunny could almost feel the way he softened, like the sharp edges of his exterior sanded away at the sight of Juniper.

“Oh,” he breathed, as if scared to startle her. “Is this…”

“Juniper,” Sunny confirmed gently, shifting her weight from one foot to the other awkwardly. “I’m sorry to spring this on you. Her babysitter had an appointment and I don’t-“

“It’s more than okay,” Yagi interrupted slowly. Softly. Something like awe smoothed the lines of his face, making him look heart-clenchingly gentle. “I was hoping for a chance to meet her.”

Such a simple admission, and yet he spoke with trepidation, as if he were not allowed to want something for himself.

He stepped closer- slow, deliberate, cautious.

In an effort to let him actually meet her, Sunny unclipped the straps with unpracticed hands, triumphantly freeing the baby to instead rest her on her hip. With her newfound freedom, Juniper looked up at Yagi.

She blinked. Then again. Her pacifier bobbed and her leg kicked, yet her eyes remained fixated on the tall man with a timid expression.

“She’s… very small.”

Sunny laughed, adjusting Juniper to a little bit more of a comfortable position. Before her niece, she’d held a baby maybe one time. Whoever said maternal instincts were normal, automatic functions lied.

“My spine disagrees,” Sunny joked.

He flicked his gaze to her, amused, and then looked back down at Juniper.

“May I…”

He didn’t finish talking, instead just vaguely gestured to Juniper’s place, but Sunny understood. Her fingers tightened, just a fraction, before she forced herself to relax.

“Yeah,” she nodded slowly. “Just, um, she’s grabby… and you need to support her head a little.”

Yagi listened, as if the words she spoke were state secrets, then held out two shaking hands towards Juniper.

The pass off was easier than expected. She went willingly, tiny fingers briefly snagging the fabric of Sunny’s collar before locking in on Yagi’s shirt. His hands were comically large in comparison to Juniper, but he held them close, almost like he was afraid she might wiggle away.

Juniper looked up at him with wide eyes, her pacifier slowing, before falling altogether as she gave him a wide, gummy smile.

“Hi there,” Yagi murmured.

A voice that boomed across battlefields, reduced to a whisper.

This was All Might.

He’d carried entire cities on his back and the hope of a nation with every leap.

And yet…

He was undone by barely ten pounds of warm, blinking curiosity.

Juniper, as if she had something very important to say to him, squawked with both hands gesturing, then kicked her feet rigorously.

“Sorry,” Sunny soothed a hand over her cheek, her eyes softening at her niece’s joy. “She’s very opinionated and wants everyone to know.”

“I would never presume anything less.”

The two shared a smile, before Yagi turned his attention back to the baby.

He bounced her gently, finding an instinctive rhythm that Sunny still occasionally fumbled. The sight caught her breath. Yagi’s entire body had been rewritten by violence, and yet, he held her entire world like she was sacred.

“You okay?” She asked, unable to help herself. “Your side, I mean. She’s a little wiggle worm most days, and we haven’t quite learned boundaries yet.”

“I’ve dealt with worse,” Yagi assured her, not even a little concerned as Juniper moved about.

Something beneath Sunny’s ribs twisted. It was ridiculous, the swell of emotions stemming from watching her niece clutch onto Yagi’s shirt. Grief and gratitude sat together in her chest for a moment, making the moment bigger than it should’ve been.

She cleared her throat.

“She likes you,” Sunny noted. “She’d let you know if she didn’t.”

“I’m honored,” he said- and the glassy reflection of his eyes told her he meant it.

They stood for a moment longer in the silence- Yagi in the awe of such a small life, and Sunny in the intersection of her two worlds.

“Am I able to keep holding her while you work?” He asked, easing down onto the same stiff armchair he’d been on since the first session.

“I can work around her,” Sunny said, sliding her own chair closer.

She took a quick peek at his files, noting the lack of any updated information outside of her own notes.

“They didn’t get you in for CT scans?”

It was unusual, especially with this complicated of an injury.

Yagi had a distinctly sheepish look on his face, and if he weren’t currently balancing Juniper in his arms, she had a feeling he’d be rubbing a hand along the back of his neck as he would usually do at the mention of something uncomfortable.

For him, “something uncomfortable” usually meant acting in direct opposition to what was recommended for recovery.

“Yagi,” she said slowly, narrowing her eyes. “Please tell me you just didn’t… not go?”

He had the decency to look guilty, at least.

“I rescheduled it!” He defended himself.

“How many times?”

Yagi averted his eyes, instead looking at a gurgling Juniper.

“… three times.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t tell me that and instead remind you of the importance of maintaining your health.”

He sighed, a noise low and somehow still ashamed. “I’ll make the appointment.”

Juniper chose that moment to kick her legs and shout with, presumably, glee. The smile on Yagi’s lips was decidedly fond as he looked at her.

“Good,” Sunny declared, helping Yagi position the baby higher and further to the side so she might still access his wound. “How have you been feeling?”

He watched her work for a moment, the way she mentally prepared herself for the pain that flooded as soon as her quirk connected with his body.

“Better,” he admitted softly with something like regret in his eyes.

She wasn’t sure if it was regret for the crater in his side that threatened to end his life and career in equal measure or regret that trying to thread it back to stabilization was another physical weight on her shoulders.

She suspected both.

“The bleeding, has it gone down?”

Her hands were pressed lightly to the scarred tissue.

A breath in, and then the world shifted.

Golden light flooded from her hands and eyes, and the wound became more than jagged skin- it became a landscape.

Thick, roped bands of collagen- broken down then remade over years- strangling the healthier tissue below. Blood vessels kinked around the initial injury like so many detours. Old adhesions held lung to pleura, stomach to diaphragm- tethered together with survival in mind, and little thought to the years following.

“Some,” he said, shushing Juniper when the baby cooed a curious sound at the jump of light.

She followed the route she’d become familiar with in the past sessions, fibrotic plate giving easier through her weeks of healing. Capillaries that had been flat were now rounded, life flowing through them once more.

Good. It’s still cooperating.

She chose a fibrous band, one at the edge of his diaphragm, and let her power wash over it.

Gentle. Warm. Light.

Not the flood of power an emergency situation would call for.

Just a small nudge- one that wouldn’t startle his body or collapse the careful ecosystem that’d been built around the wound.

Pain slammed into her, the way it always did.

A hot, crushing bolt under her ribs that choked the end of her inhale and radiated up her shoulder. Her fingers twitched against him.

Yagi’s jaw tightened, and he whispered, “Easy.”

He murmured it to Juniper, but Sunny suspected it was meant for her too.

She settled, moving to another fiber. The pain lessened- a stab to an ache- and she continued the dance.

The rigid fibers would loosen, relaxing their crushing grip on his organs a fraction.

No heroics. No magical, sudden cure. Just a few strands at a time.

She reached a little further, smoothing the edge of an adhesion that was particularly stubborn along the lung. It wasn’t enough to tear anything free. That would be catastrophic.

Just enough to release the tension, to allow him to breathe a little easier. If she laid the blueprint, his body would remodel to allow for more freedom.

“The scar density is down,” she told him, her voice strained but even. “Your diaphragm is moving a bit freer. Your alveoli need more time to adjust before we move deeper into the lung field.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he commented quietly.

She let the light fade slowly, disentangling the strands of her power from the wound with practiced ease. The world narrowed- pain fleeing, but leaving a nausea that would probably follow her late into the night.

The potentially fake plant, the leather armchair, the soft lights- it bled into her awareness, like a camera focusing.

Yagi watched her closely, a frown tugging the edges of his mouth, like he might need to catch her if she stood too quickly.

Which was probably a fair assessment.

Juniper cooed from her perch against Yagi, something that might be concern, but could also be hunger.

Sunny rolled her shoulders, then stretched out her fingers slowly, letting herself settle back into herself.

“You look tired,” Yagi noted.

Sunny snorted, leaning back a little to loosen the tension plaguing her spine.

“Junie-Bug hasn’t quite figured out the concept of circadian rhythm,” she affirmed, tickling Junie’s outstretched leg until the baby in question squirmed away.

Yagi hummed, fidgeted, then gestured with his free hand to the corner of the room.

There, as unassuming as a paper bag could be, was, presumably, some form of takeout. Sunny hadn’t noticed it when she first walked in, and the scent of antiseptic hadn’t left much of an opportunity to smell it.

“I ordered too much,” Yagi claimed, a little too fast. “I can’t possibly eat it all.”

There was no universe where Yagi- sweet, human string bean- ordered two full bento sets expecting to be able to eat it.

Sunny’s eyes narrowed. “Yagi…”

“Sunny,” he countered, with a calm that was only betrayed by the tiny fist pressing against his chin. “Your hands are shaking.”

Her gaze dropped to where her hands were resting. Annoyingly enough, they were- small tremors twitching against her legs.

Yagi shifted Juniper to a more comfortable position. She yawned with her whole face, then stuck her fingers into her mouth and stared up at him like he’d done something particularly fascinating.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” he said. “You eat.”

Sunny peeked back at the food, and her stomach chose that exact moment to remind her how hungry she was. Yagi gave her a very pointed look, one that had her moving towards the bag with defeated steps.

By the time she settled back into her seat- with steaming rice and veggies this time- Juniper’s eyes had started drooping, and she looked suspiciously close to falling asleep.

“You’re not going to eat too?” She asked after her first bite.

“I will. After.”

She didn’t bother chastising him for it. It was a bit hypocritical how much she harped on him for his health when she wasn’t as strict with herself. Part of the job description, she supposed.

Her shoulders dropped a fraction at the warm food, post-healing nausea receding slightly at the onslaught of carbs.

Her phone buzzed from the diaper bag. Once. Twice. A few more times. A rhythm that pointed to one thing: the group chat was alive again.

“If that’s important you can check it,” Yagi told her gently, like he didn’t want to disturb the baby in his arms.

“It’s not,” she assured him. “Just… new friends.”

“Ah,” he nodded, expression softening in something that might be construed as pride.

“There’s this café I study at,” she continued, her eyes on her food. “They’re… nice.”

The word felt lame, even to her. She wasn’t about to explain how they made her feel normal, or that she felt… light, when she saw them. Like she was living, not just surviving- even for a little bit.

That was... too much.

The phone buzzed again. She winced.

“Enthusiastic, too.” Yagi commented lightly.

She laughed, a little too loud.

“You could say that,” she agreed. “They, um, want me to go out with them this weekend.”

“I hope you have some fun,” he answered.

Instinctively, Sunny’s eyes dropped to Juniper. She was still, her eyes firmly shut and her tiny hands reaching out for Yagi. The image pressed against her chest, that same guilt she’d felt leaving for school, or stopping at the café, or thinking a little too long about the tired, dark eyes of Aizawa.

“I don’t think I’m going to go,” she admitted quietly.

Yagi watched her, his gaze open and curious.

“Why not?”

She shrugged, avoiding looking at him for fear that the guilt and rage and sadness- all of it, everything she kept bottled inside- would be visible.

“I have Juniper and rotations and exams to study for and-“

A humorless laugh.

“Going out for a drink doesn’t fit into all of that.”

“You’re allowed to have a life, Sunny,” he told her slowly.

She poked at the rice with her chopsticks, letting the words sit on her shoulders. They somehow felt heavier than anything else.

Because if there wasn’t school and rotations and Juniper and a million other responsibilities she could barely keep up with- then it was just her.

Her and her thoughts and that rage that threatened to burst out of her chest and the hollowness in the pit of her stomach and realization that this was it.

That Maya and Marcus were gone.

That she-

“When I was younger,” Yagi interrupted her spiral, his voice low and serious- utterly at odds with the way he cradled Juniper carefully against his chest. “I thought being a hero meant giving up everything- every hour, every piece of myself, every ounce of strength.”

Juniper’s light, breathy snores were all that sat in the silence between them.

“I was wrong.” Sunny looked to him, struck by the solemness of his tone.

Despite his injuries, he’d been nothing but steady and indomitable since she’d met him. And yet…

He’d never looked more fragile than he did in that moment.

“If you give everything, there’s nothing left to offer the people who love you. Not your strength. Not your time. Not even your smile.”

The words lodged somewhere behind her sternum, warm and painful and right. She swallowed the feeling, grasping for a reply.

“It doesn’t have to be now, but I think Juniper would be well served by a guardian who remembers what it feels like to enjoy the world she’s growing into.”

Her answering chuckle was brittle, sad.

“Maybe,” she said, quietly.

She didn’t specify whether it was to his comment about Juniper or if it was about her going out this weekend. She wasn’t quite sure of the answer herself right now.

“Thank you.”

The words didn’t feel like enough.

But still.

She could feel it- a gentle nudge, an invisible tweak, like something inside her was being coaxed into alignment one millimeter at a time.

Not balance. Not ease.

Shota was not the kind of man to re-read text messages. Nor was he the kind of man who waited, impatiently, for another one.

He told himself that no less than seven times before homeroom. It didn’t help.

His phone sat face-down on his desk- a small, dangerous piece of technology that was planting bad ideas in his head. It teased him from his peripheral vision. Every cough, scrape, or shift caused his eyes to land on the phone, watching it like something might happen.

Sunbeam hadn’t texted back.

It didn’t matter. The last messages were enough to light a fire in his chest.

I’m on lunch soon- are you free??

gratitude food.

not a date!!!

obviously not a date. just clarifying.

not that you’re un-dateable or anything.

you’re very dateable. objectively

His brain had caught on the word “dateable” and refused to let go.

Dateable.

Objectively.

It felt… odd. He wanted to take it as a compliment, but it sounded almost clinical. “Late 20s, male, chronic insomnia, questionable diet, objectively dateable.”

Did she view him like that? Clinically?

Or had she been trying to insinuate something from her words?

He rubbed at one of his eyes, ignoring how dry they were from yesterday’s patrol while schooling his face back into the familiar bored neutrality he’d defaulted to as a first-year stammered their way through an answer about basic capture tactics.

This was ridiculous.

He didn’t care if she thought he was dateable. He didn’t date. Dating required energy and patience and a willingness to let people see past the surface. He didn’t have the time, or the desire to do so. He never had.

He was not built for that.

But the part of his brain that apparently hated him replayed the texts anyway, layering them over her voice in his memory. Sunny in the café, cheeks tinged pink, stumbling over the word charming. Sunny, eyes bright despite the shadows under them, smiling at him like he was… worth something.

His pen hovered uselessly above a stack of quizzes. He realized he’d been staring at the same half-legible answer for the last three minutes.

Sunbeam was apparently the death of productivity as much as she was the death of his higher functioning processes.

Focus.

He forced his attention back to the class. He hadn’t been following anything the students were saying, but they were able to carry on without his hovering, so he took a sip of his coffee and listened. One of the students in the front row eyed his mug suspiciously, but didn’t dare question it.

His neighbor had left it for him as a sort of apology for the baby that kept him up more often than not. He wasn’t going to bring it with him- it was bright and cheerful, he had a reputation to maintain- but the poorly drawn sun and the scrawled English reminded him of Sunbeam.

Ridiculous.

Even his dishware was being affected.

The students were preparing for their next class anyways. They didn’t need much oversight at this point. And it was damn near impossible while his mind was blocks away in a soba restaurant he’d never actually been to.

He was not nervous.

Nervousness implied something significant. He and Sunny were… acquaintances. Almost-friends. Two overworked, exhausted adults who shared coffee and the occasional anecdote. Lunch was just gratitude. A return of property. She wanted her notebook back. He needed to eat something that contained actual nutrition.

That was it.

It didn’t matter that he’d left it intentionally vague when he texted back. That he refused to label it at all.

You don’t owe me anything, but I’ll let you buy lunch if it makes you feel better.

He’d stared at the screen for a full twenty seconds before adding the last line.

And don’t stare. I’m not your hero. I just kidnapped your notebook.

He tried not to think about the way his chest constricted when she didn’t reply. How it felt like he should text her again, just to check in. Just to see her reply.

Her relief had not been about him. It had been about the notebook. About the weeks of work inside it.

Still, the warmth lingered.

He pushed the thought away, and forced himself to focus on his class. The rest of the morning blurred into a quick succession of classes and paperwork. His students filtered out. Sometime later, he heard Hizashi yelling from somewhere down the hall. Nemuri popped her head in at some point to ask him if he’d actually eaten anything in the past 24 hours.

“Busy,” he’d grunted, which was technically true. He’d been busy imagining all the ways he could act normal at lunch.

All the ways it was very much not a date.

By the time the lunch period rolled around, he’d convinced himself of three things:

One, he was not nervous.

Two, this was not a date.

Three, he absolutely was not leaving early.

He stared at the clock.

11:53.

The papers he still hadn’t graded were perched on his desk, awaiting his attention. He could stay, work through them like a responsible, employed adult, and then make his way to the restaurant closer to the agreed upon time. That would be reasonable. Mature. Professional.

He picked up his pen again, then-

Put it back down.

The classroom felt uncomfortably small, despite being empty. The walls were too close, the hum of the fluorescent lights too loud. He stood, restless.

Then sat back down, reaching for the pen.

Only to stand again, abandoning the idea altogether.

Objectively dateable.

Objectively.

What did she mean by that?

He steadfastly ignored the clock that stared accusingly at him as he pocketed his phone, and shrunk into his capture weapon. Air.

He needed air.

Like the air he’d get on the walk to the soba restaurant.

Yes. That air.

He was leaving for no other reason. None.

He’d never left for lunch before. Not like this. It was usually a miracle if he even ate lunch, and almost always after being prompted- forced, actually- by Nemuri or Hizashi. And at a restaurant? He tried to avoid them on principle- loud, crowded, uncomfortable.

He only ever went out when Nemuri and Hizashi managed to drag him.

So, imagine Hizashi’s surprise when he turned into Shota’s classroom with a fist full of takeout menus only to find him already on his way out.

The shock on his face was almost comical.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Hizashi skidded to a stop, his entire body doing a dramatic pause. “Sho, my man, are you… departing the premises? Voluntarily? During daylight hours?”

Shota stepped around him, not wanting to get caught in this conversation. “Move.”

“No,” Hizashi said cheerfully, immediately falling into step beside him, like his glare alone wasn’t enough to ward off most people. “Not until you explain to me what the momentous occasion is. This is historic. Uncharted territory.”

“There is no occasion,” Shota denied dryly. “I’m going to lunch.”

“Lies. Deceit. Betrayal!” Hizashi argued, clutching his chest as if genuinely offended. “You don’t get lunch, Sho. You glare at it until I shove food into your hands. Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Wow, riveting detail.” Hizashi drawled sarcastically. “Care to elaborate, or am I going to have to start an investigation?”

Shota tried to get around Hizashi, to slip into the hallway and lose him in the twists and turns of the building, but the man latched onto his back and gasped.

“Is this because of Sunny?”

Shota’s shoulders tightened before he could stop them. 

Hizashi felt it. Of course he did.

“That’s a yes,” Hizashi crowed. “You’re leaving campus for a girl. Our little Shota is growing up.”

“Stop talking.”

“What time,” Hizashi persisted, utterly immune to both threats and glares, “are you meeting her?”

“12:30,” Shota said before he caught himself. He immediately regretted it.

Hizashi checked his watch. “It is 11:58.”

“I plan to be on time,” Shota replied, evenly. Carefully.

If there was even a sliver of a chance of making it through this encounter with his dignity intact, he needed to choose his words cautiously.

“You’re going to be early,” Hizashi corrected. “Which is a horrible idea. You’ll sit there and be all mopey, and then ruin the whole thing in your head before she even gets there.”

“That’s not true,” Shota muttered.

“You’ve been staring at the clock like it’s going to text you back,” Hizashi pointed out, clapping him on the shoulder. “Okay. Listen. As your friend with a thriving romantic life-”

“That’s debatable.”

Hizashi ignored him.

“-I feel ethically obligated to offer advice.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Too bad.” Hizashi beamed. “You have to smile at her. Ladies love a man who smiles.”

Shota scowled. “No.”

His mask of neutrality had an annoying habit of slipping around her anyways.

“And if she offers to pay, let her pay. But if she doesn’t, then you pay. Chivalry and all that.”

“She invited me because I have something that belongs to her,” Shota said evenly. “I’m not letting a full-time med student pay for my food.”

Hizashi paused, frowned. “Okay, fine, that’s actually fair, my economically responsible king. Make sure you sit really close to her. Closer is better for flirting.”

“Not flirting,” Shota said immediately. The word sparked something in his chest he refused to name. Dateable. “This isn’t-”

“A date, I know,” Hizashi sing-songed. “She only said that half a dozen times.”

Heat pricked the back of Shota’s neck. “You read my messages?”

“No, but I absolutely imagined them,” Hizashi claimed with a shit-eating grin. “And tell me I’m wrong.”

Shota said nothing.

He could imagine Sunbeam, thumbs moving faster than her mind. He’d seen her do the same thing with her words. The idea that she’d done it over his messages…

Hizashi’s grin stretched wider, victorious. “Last tip. Very important.”

“I’m not listening.”

“I can cover for you,” Hizashi said, as if what he said made perfect sense. 

“Cover for me?” Shota echoed, not quite understanding what he was referring to.

“After lunch,” Hizashi shrugged, his eyes the picture of innocence. “Take your time, I’ll tell Nezu you’re stuck in a meeting. It’s a win-win. You’ll be less grumpy after you get laid.”

Shota’s heart did a traitorous, furious thump against his ribs. His brain, unhelpfully, supplied an image: Sunbeam beneath him, hair mussed, a breathless laugh caught in her chest as he-

Nope.

No.

Absolutely not.

“We’re not-“ His voice was frustratingly rougher than he meant it to be.

“Sho,” Hizashi groaned, like he was the one being cockblocked. “You want to bang her though, right?”

Shota’s mind, once again, contributed pictures: her knee brushing his under the café table, the pink on her cheeks when she said “charming”, the look she’d given him when he told her to text him when she walked home late.

He wanted-

Heat and skin and connection, yes. Sure. But also the sound of her laugh against his chest, the brush of her hand against his fingertips, the press of her smile against his lips.

Oh no.

Oh no.

“I’m leaving.” He said abruptly.

Shota shoved past his friend, not bothering to engage anymore as Hizashi yelled something about positions and chicks dig it.

He wouldn’t even let himself imagine it. Which was, much, much more difficult than he cared to admit.

The air outside was crisp, cooling the worst of his thoughts. He turned toward the main street, the route to Kato’s already mapped in his head from the quick search he’d done between classes. Hizashi didn’t follow. He just cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted:

“Text me how it goes, lover boy!”

Shota pretended he didn’t hear him.

Kato’s Soba was smaller than he’d expected.

But it was, surprisingly, homey. The walls were a deep mahogany, with colorful paintings of frogs cluttering the space. The air was thick with the scent of broth and grilled pork and something spicy he couldn’t quite place. It was warm, comfortably so, and surprisingly quiet- or as quiet as a lunch spot in the middle of an afternoon rush could be.

It was 12:12 when he stepped inside.

Shota picked a table near the window, if only because he knew Sunbeam liked to look outside. His back was to the wall, a perfect line of sight to the door- a habit he’d learned in his time as a hero. And- quieter- a chance to see her come in before she saw him.

A few men in suits were hunched over bowls at the counter, their conversations low enough Shota would have to strain his ears to hear it. There was an elderly couple a table over, sharing goofy smiles above a plate of tempura.

He set Sunny’s notebook on the table beside him, fingers tapping once on the cover.

He could leave it at the hostess stand and be gone before she arrived. He could text her: Duty called, sorry. Maybe another time.

His phone stayed in his pocket.

The server appeared- polite, but tired. “Table for one?”

“Two,” Shota corrected, and the word itself felt foreign in his mouth. “I’m… waiting for someone.”

The young man nodded, and moved along, leaving him to his own devices for the moment.

He focused on the occasional scrape of chopsticks on ceramic, the sizzle of meat on the grill. Anything but the thoughts in his head.

Objectively dateable.

He was older than her by a few years. Tired in a way that seeped into his bones. His life was full of patrols, paperwork, and the constant dread of teenagers with more power than sense. The furthest thing he could be from an eligible bachelor.

And she…

She was… sunlight in human form. Chaotic, clumsy, but so alive it made his pulse soar when he looked at her for too long.

He rubbed his thumb along the spine of the notebook.

She wasn’t flirting. She couldn’t be. Girls like her didn’t notice guys like him. Not in any way that meant something. That would be… reckless on her part. 

He was still trying to convince himself that this meant nothing when the door chimed.

For a moment, his brain went blissfully, mortifyingly blank. He was convinced, for just a second, that his quirk had activated. (Like a teenager incapable of controlling his facilities.)

She stepped inside, hair slightly mussed from the wind.

She wore dark jeans tucked into ankle boots with a soft sweater the color of early morning sunlight. Her hair was half up, half down- some attempt at order losing a battle against the autumn wind. A thin chain glinted at her throat where the neckline of her sweater dipped, the same one he’d seen her fidget with when she was particularly anxious.

She smiled at the hostess, bowed slightly, then offered a warm greeting. When an older man behind her shuffled in with a cane, she stepped aside immediately, holding the door without thinking about it.

Shota’s fingers curled around the edge of the table.

His first coherent thought was oh.

His second was oh, no.

He saw the exact moment her eyes found him. Her shoulders dropped a fraction, a smile lighting up her face as she raised her hand in a small, sheepish wave.

It hit him in two places at once- somewhere behind his sternum and somewhere low in his gut. He did not examine either.

She hurried over, already apologizing before she even reached the table. “I am so sorry,” she blurted, “I had to finish my notes or I’d forget everything from today’s rotation and then I got stuck behind this guy who, apparently, has never walked a day in his-”

“You’re on time,’ Shota interrupted, desperately maintaining his disinterested expression. 

“And you have my notebook!” She breathed out a happy sigh, pulling it to her chest. “Oh my god, I could kiss you.”

He went very, very still. His eyes dropped marginally- to her lips. He forced them back up.

She seemed to register what she’d said a half second later. 

Her hands flailed, abandoning the notebook back on the table. “I mean- not actually, unless you want me to- no, that’s not what I meant, it’s just-  it’s very important, and you saved it, and I am going to shut up now.”

He cleared his throat.

Tried.

Stopped.

Ignored the thrumming in his veins, the way the very mention of a kiss had stumbled into the chambers of his heart and pushed painfully.

Then tried again.

“You left it on the table,” he said, because if there was one thing Shota could rely on, it was facts.

“Thank you. Seriously.”

Her fingers brushed the cover, relief written in the furrow of her brow.

He watched the way her shoulders dropped as the tension melted. She looked so… peaceful. Real. The person he only saw in glimpses between the strain of her studies and whatever made her sprint away.

The waiter appeared, mercifully interrupting whatever was happening in his chest.

They ordered. She fumbled over the menu in Japanese, slipping into English for a second to mutter about exhaustion and translation hell before switching back with an apologetic grin.

When the waiter left, she blew out a breath, shoulders slumping.

Shota cleared his throat, eyeing a distraction- something, anything- that could take his mind off of how aggressively not-a-date this was. His gaze fell on her notebook, on the name scribbled in the corner. The same one he’d traced in katakana.

The words were out of his mouth before he caught them.

“How did you learn Japanese?”

She looked startled for a brief moment. “What?”

“Your Japanese,” he clarified. “It’s… good.” He paused, then added, because he couldn’t quite help but tease her. “Your accent isn’t as terrible as it should be.”

“Should be?” She echoed with a twitch of her lips. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

His deadpan look was enough to make her laugh. He ignored the way his heart quickened at the sound.

She hummed, tapping her fingers against the cover of the notebook. “I started in middle school,” she admitted, her tone light. “We had to pick between Spanish, French, and Japanese.”

“Of course you’d pick the most difficult one.”

He didn’t think his joke was particularly good, or even very harsh. But, her cheeks tinged with pink the second he said it.

“Hypothetically,” she drawled, “there was a boy in middle school whose dad was stationed in Japan, so he took the class.”

“Hypothetically,” Shota repeated.

“And pre-teen me thought he was really cute,” she claimed earnestly, like she needed him to understand that it wasn’t irrational. (It was.) “He had the flippy hair and the braces, Aizawa. It was the only way to impress him.”

His lips twitched, and he tried really, really hard not to smile. That was, objectively, ridiculous.

Sweet, warm Sunbeam- trying to impress some oblivious boy with flashcards and twice-copied notes.

“Did it work?”

He couldn’t ever imagine the woman in front of him having “boy problems”. She seemed too… her.

“Not even a little,” she laughed in spite of herself, “He didn’t even finish the semester. But by that point I was committed: either to not admitting I made a mistake or to furthering my educational prospects- your choice.”

Shota huffed something close to a laugh. “Your stubbornness is almost impressive.”

“Yeah, well,” Sunbeam shrugged, her gaze caught somewhere between reminiscing and something that hurt. “Maya always said I was trouble when I set my mind to something.”

Her voice wavered on the name.

“Maya?”

When he thought about it, he realized there was a lot about her he didn’t know. Despite all of her talking, she didn’t actually reveal much. She rambled, adorably. But it was all impulsive thoughts and musings that slipped away from her.

Not anything meaningful.

He wanted to know more, to know all of her. Not just the exhausted, overwhelmed version.

“My… sister.”

The words seemed to fight her to come out. There was something in her expression he couldn’t quite read.

“You’ve never talked about your family,” Shota tested gently. Far more gently than he’d ever admit to.

“There’s not much to say,” she waved her hand vaguely like the words didn’t bother her, despite the faraway look in her eye. “Maya was all I had growing up. She made the shitty places… not shitty.”

“Places?” He intoned, like maybe she’d made a translation error. What did that mean?

Homes? Plural?

Was she from a super rich family?

She didn’t look or act like the esteemed families he’d had the unfortunate experience of interacting with previously.

“We… bounced around a little bit. Until we found a group home that stuck.”

Group home?

He blinked.

When he pictured Sunbeam’s life in America, he assumed it was like those silly ads he’d seen: some big, loud American family across the ocean, doting parents who called too much, siblings who sent stupid memes. 

Not… this

“It was… okay. They let us stay together, and the group home manager let me cook most days.”

“They tried to separate you?”

Shota wasn’t exactly sure what the system was like in America. Or what it was like anywhere, really. But the idea that they’d pry siblings away from one another-

“Sometimes,” she shrugged, like it didn’t mean anything. He could see the weight behind it though. “They thought I was quirkless and Maya was feral. It kept them uninterested.”

The thought of a younger Sunny- smaller, sadder, grabbing desperately onto her sister while adults made decisions for them- made his jaw tighten.

“So you hid your quirk?” He forced his voice low, so as not to let her see the hot, irrational anger he felt.

Not at her. At the situation. This stupidly bright, warm woman before him- she did not deserve it. Nobody did.

“I didn’t have much to hide for a long time,” she said with a humorless smile. “I didn’t realize that my quirk could be used for healing until high school. Before that I thought it was a glorified CT scan.”

It made sense now, why her initial explanation of her quirk had felt dishonest. She was downplaying it, a habit from her childhood.

“Maya-”

“Is not something I want to get into right now.”

Her smile vanished- like a light switch flicked down. Any trace of warmth evacuated with the name.

He nodded slowly, carefully, like he was afraid of raising her ire. “Okay.”

No push, no demand- just an acceptance. He let her digest it, slow and quiet. She stared at her hands, not him.

“Sorry,” she apologized, a brief flicker of devastation, before she continued, “I didn’t mean to… make it weird.”

“It’s not weird,” he reassured her softly.

He wanted to know what caused that look. To understand the thoughts that were just beyond his comprehension, behind the pretty eyes and warm smile she defaulted to.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

She looked up at him then, and something in his chest pulled tight. Trust, raw and hesitant, sat in her gaze unashamedly.

“When I first got my license I accidentally drove over a turtle and cried on the side of the road for three hours,” she blurted out.

He blinked. “... What?”

“Like, full ugly sobbing.” She shook her head, eyes glistening in amusement instead of the despair from her story. “Snot, hiccuping- all of it. I called Maya and she thought I’d killed someone. I couldn’t even get the words out properly, just kept trying to yell ‘turtle’ like if I said it enough she’d understand.”

His eyebrows twitched up despite himself.

“And when I was seventeen,” she barreled on with… whatever this was. “I was determined to get a boyfriend in time for prom, so I practiced flirting on the cashier at the gas station down the road. I panicked and told him he was ‘aggressively approachable’ and then cried on the counter because I was hopeless.”

His mouth betrayed him with the faintest upward tug. “Aggressively approachable?”

“The first time I had sex,” she added, committed to whatever point she was trying to make, “my super Christian boyfriend started sobbing about how he was going to hell, and then ran out of the room with my clothes. So I had to sit naked on the floor of his bedroom until my roommate could rescue me with her ex’s tattered hoodie that had no less than six unidentified stains.”

Shota stared, still not grasping the point. “Why are you telling me this?”

“My point is,” she finished, shyly looking at her hands, raising her shoulders. “I trust you enough to tell you things. Just… not her. Not yet.”

Something sharp twisted under his ribs.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Their eyes met. Her smile wobbled, the smallest tremble at the edges. “I know. I wanted to.” She blew out a breath, “And if you want to interrupt at any point before I keep embarrassing myself I would appreciate it.”

He stared at her.

She stared back.

“Come on, Aizawa. Give me something,” she practically pleaded, leaning forward with her lower lip jutting out. Was it too date-like for him to take that between his teeth and-

Nope.

“Just one story,” she needled, poking his hand where it sat on the table. “Help a girl out.”

“No.”

“Please,” she practically whined.

And that pitch. Voice breathy, tone high. Would she say his name-

He was going to kill Hizashi for even putting the idea of sex and Sunbeam in the same sentence. His imagination did not need the ammunition.

He rolled his eyes, but the way she was looking at him- bright, expectant, like she genuinely wanted to know- unsettled something in him. He wasn’t used to being… asked for, like that.

“Fine,” he conceded, if only to get her to put her lips back where they should be. Before he did something stupid.

She immediately settled in, as if he were about to recite to her an epic fairytale and not some forgotten anecdote from his teen years.

“There was a fair when we were first-years,” Shota explained boredly. “Nemuri signed me up for a booth.”

“Oh no,” she breathed, delighted. She was far too invested in this.

He sighed.

“It was a photo booth, for charity. Kids could take a picture with a future hero.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, a shoddy attempt at covering her smile.

“Hizashi shoved me into a hoodie with cat ears and spent three hours yelling into a microphone for kids to take a picture with-”

He paused, heat crawling up the back of his neck. She was biting her lip, stopping an all-out laugh from letting loose.

“With?”

“Captain Catastrophe.”

She at least tried to strangle her laugh.

“Nemuri took pictures,” he finished darkly.

And then, any attempt at maintaining her composure was lost.

Her laughter was loud, breathless, full of joy. Her shoulders shook, tears threatened to fall from her eyes. He just watched her, warmth blossoming in his chest again. 

He should’ve been annoyed. Or humiliated. Or any number of negative things he’d normally feel.

Instead he felt… pleasant.

“I will give Nemuri anything for those pictures,” she vowed, wiping the last of her laugh-induced tears from her cheeks.

“You won’t.”

“I will,” she promised, a few, errant chuckles finding their way out. “Thank you. For sharing.”

He made a grunting noise, then looked away.

“That’s enough,” he cleared his throat. “I don’t know why you find it so entertaining.”

“Because,” she said simply, “I like hearing what makes you, you.”

His heart thumped painfully in his chest.

She was just so… endearing.

He reached for his water, eager for something to hide behind. “Nemuri’s been signing me up for things since we were teenagers,” he muttered. “Teaching included.”

Her head snapped up. “Wait- she signed you up to be a teacher? And you just decided to do it for the rest of your life?”

He grimaced. “She sent an application in for me and didn’t tell me until after Nezu called.”

“Oh my god,” she laughed, genuinely delighted at the information. “And you just… went with it?”

“I had spare time,” he shrugged, like that was a good enough reason. “It just stuck.”

“Because you’re a softie,” she declared, grinning.

“I am not-”

“You are!” She insisted excitedly, pointing at him with her chopsticks. “You act all tall, dark, and mysterious with your grumpy exterior, but you’re just a massive softie. Admit it.”

He scowled, refusing to acknowledge the flare of warmth behind his ribs at how triumphant she looked.

“Better than objectively dateable.”

He muttered it before he could stop himself.

She heard it anyway. Her face went scarlet at the words.

She groaned, dropping her head into her hands.

“Can we pretend I never typed that?” She practically begged. “I was sleep deprived and texting too fast and trying to keep the translation in-”

“Do you prefer my hero?” He asked, deadpan.

“Look,” she argued, voice muffled beneath the weight of her palms. “We are not analyzing my use of adjectives.”

“Adjective usage,” Shota jested, because teasing her had become addicting. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

She peeked at him between her fingers, eyes narrowed in a glare, looking suspiciously like she might stick her tongue out at him. It was too soft to be effective. “Don’t you have quizzes to grade or something?”

“So now you’re trying to get rid of me.”

Her hands moved back to the table calmly. “It’s not a line,” she stated, rushing the words before she could stop herself. “I promise I’m not, like, trying to be weird. I just… I think you’re-”

She waved a hand vaguely in his direction, all calm gone at the sudden stream of words. “Appealing? Shit. Not appealing. Not not appealing. Just- like a ‘you glare but only because you’re actually a softie and it’s cute’ kind of way.”

The world narrowed for a beat.

He stared at her.

She stared back, horrified by her own words.

“You should stop talking,” he whispered.

Her words were dangerous. Maybe not on the outside, but in his chest, where they were wreaking a sort of havoc he didn’t think possible.

She groaned again, pressing her fingers into her eye sockets. “I’m going to go walk into traffic now.”

He liked the way her mouth ran ahead of her, saying things she’d never let herself say if she thought about it.

His maybe-date. 

His definitely not a date, he reminded himself, because she would never-

Like he’d heard the awkward, stumbling dialogue, the server returned with two steaming bowls, depositing one in front of each of them.

Sunny latched onto the distraction.

“Oh, this is good,” she mumbled. “Like, wicked good. I might actually cry. If I disappear, it’s because I married the soba chef and ran away.”

There it is, the insecure, irrational part of him muttered. Of course she’ll marry someone. 

Just not-

“How many future husbands do you have lined up?” he asked before he could stop himself, tone dry enough to pass as a joke. “The soba chef, the middle school boy with flippy hair…”

She choked on an inhale, coughed, and then laughed gently. “Please, middle school me had no chance. Hell, me now probably doesn’t either.”

He waited, a bit awkwardly.

But he wanted to know.

He had to know. Because girls like her, they weren’t just single. There was no way that no one had seen her and decided to hold on with both hands.

Better to get his disappointment over with now.

“The current line-up is… zero,” she said breezily, waving her chopsticks like she hadn’t opened a whole new world for him. “I barely have time to sleep, let alone convince someone I’m worth waking up to every day.”

Zero. That couldn’t be right…

And convince someone she’s worth waking up to?

It hit harder than it should. He told himself it didn’t matter, that he shouldn’t feel relief at something that wasn’t his business.

She went on, oblivious: “I mean, I have… people,” she added, making a vague circle in the air. “Responsibilities. Rotations. Study groups.”

She paused, thoughtfully, unaware of the fire she’d lit in him.

“Speaking of, I actually need to tell Ethan I have to reschedule tonight.”

And there was the wave to douse it out.

Ethan?

Tall. Well-dressed. Dimples. The one who always lingered too close to her. Who laughed with his whole body when she said anything. Who swapped medical terminology and inside jokes just as easily.

“Ethan?” he repeated, his tone neutral with a great deal of effort. “The guy from the café?”

“He’s one of my friends from school,” she nodded, none the wiser to the way his grip tightened around his chopsticks. “The program assigned him to show me around campus last year since we were both from the States. He’s the only reason I haven’t flunked out the past few months.”

Her eyes widened. 

His twitched.

“Don’t tell him I said that,” she said seriously. “He’s just- helped a lot. And made me an apple pie. So, that’s like a kidney’s worth of kindness.”

Of course he bakes, Shota thought sourly. Of course he showers her in good things. Kind things. Things that make her smile.

“He sounds… enthusiastic,” he managed, voice tighter than normal.

“He is,” she smiled, fond and utterly unaware of the knife she was twisting in his gut. “He’s been a really good friend. Especially with-”

A pause. A clenched jaw.

“With everything else going on.”

His heart sank a fraction. Did Ethan know all the things she couldn’t tell him? Did he text her in the late hours of the night? Did he wake up to her voice?

Of course she had someone. He’d expected as much. She was brilliant and kind and far too good for someone as jaded and cold as him.

Of course.

He took a slow, controlled breath.

“You’re not easy to keep up with,” he said, aiming for dry and landing somewhere closer to earnest.

Her smile tilted- sad, somehow. “I’m a lot… I know.”

There was the ghost of something in her expression. He hadn’t meant to make her sad.

Shit.

The check arrived before he could dwell on it.

The waiter set it down between them with a polite nod. Sunny reached for it, hand instinctively going for her wallet.

He moved before she could.

“Aizawa,” she protested, not above manhandling him to get it back.

And the picture that produced was not one that should ever be thought of in a public space.

“You’re a student,” he said, not bothering to hide the flatness in his tone. “I have a salary.”

“I invited you,” she argued, trying to push her way over to his side. She was easy to dodge, but her proximity did dangerous things to his blood pressure. “It was gratitude food, I can’t let you pay. That beats the entire-”

“Too late,” he said, already slipping his card into the little leather folder.

He handed it off as soon as the server came back with more satisfaction than he should’ve.

She huffed, then slumped back in her chair with a withering, dramatic sigh. “Fine. But I’m paying you back.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“I’m going to,” she insisted, jabbing a finger at him, dangerously close to his chest. “A home cooked meal. God knows you need one.”

The image rose unbidden: his apartment, the smell of something warm, her standing barefoot in his kitchen in an oversized shirt that looked suspiciously like one of his, stirring a pot and talking with her hands while he leaned against the counter and pretended like he was listening and not just watching her.

Domestic. Dangerous.

He swallowed.

“I’m not sure if I trust your cooking.”

“I cook,” she argued, a bit put out despite the smile on her face.

“Mm.” He tried not to sound as affected as he felt. “We’ll see.”

Her eyes narrowed, like he’d just presented her with a challenge. “That sounded like doubt, Aizawa.”

“It was,” he teased.

“Oh, now I have to prove you wrong.” She sat forward, determination lighting her features. “I’m going to make you regret ever doubting me.”

He wanted that. 

Wanted it in a way that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with her in his space, choosing to spend time with him, filling his home with warmth and comfort.

“I’ll brace myself,” he murmured, already doing exactly that.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t dim. It rarely did.

By the time they stood, some of the tension he’d been holding had loosened. 

“Hospital?” he asked, because he wasn’t quite ready for his time with her to end.

She raised a brow.

“You really don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” he said, too quickly. “I could use the air.”

And, if he was honest with himself, a few more minutes of her.

Her smile softened. “Then… yeah. I’d like that.”

He fell into step beside her.

It’d grown even colder outside, the sun losing its battle to the autumn wind. He eyed her in his peripheral vision, noting she didn’t have a jacket. She was shoving her hands into the small pockets of her jeans, like they might keep her warm.

The thought that made him frown.

She was none the wiser, instead filling the silence between them with chatter. Normally, he hated when his peace was disturbed, when someone felt like they couldn’t exist in the quiet and had to throw words out just for the sake of speaking.

But she wasn’t speaking in hurried, mindless chatter. She was telling him tidbits of her day, little things that might make him smile. He let her.

They were a half of a block away from the hospital when the sidewalk distorted.

Tree roots had grown too much, forcing one slab of concrete a little bit sideways. He noticed. Years of running rooftops and chasing villains through streets had made him all too aware of the changes around him.

She did not.

Her foot caught, mid-ramble, pitching her straight down towards the curb.

Shota moved instinctively.

One hand splayed wide on her back, the other wrapped firmly around her waist. He pivoted, redirecting her momentum so she collided with his chest, knocking an “oof” from her, and a grunt from him.

For a beat, the only noise was the rush of blood in his ears.

Her breath was hot on his collarbone, even through the cloth of his shirt.

Time stretched.

She was pressed against him, warm and soft and real.

And fuck, did he feel it all.

Her hips pressed into him, her thighs brushing the inside of his legs, her hands curled instinctively in his capture weapon, dragging him a fraction closer. 

You’ll be less grumpy after you get laid.

For one insane, traitorous heartbeat, he could picture it: her beneath him, her breath labored, her head thrown back, fingers clawing at his back while he pushed-

His grip on her tightened.

“Got you,” he said- low, rough.

A small noise slipped out from her- soft and involuntary, somewhere between a gasp and a whine. It vibrated against his sternum and shot straight down his spine.

Every rational thought blanked.

Oh, he realized distantly. I’m in trouble.

She stayed slotted against him, like her body was always meant to fit that way. Her fingers flexed, then flattened against his chest, directly over his pounding heart.

He did not let go.

“You okay?” He asked, if only to stop himself from saying something like please stay right here.

She hummed noncommittally, half into his shirt.

Then, so quietly, like she didn’t even realize she was saying it, she mumbled, “When did you get so… stupidly built?”

Heat frayed along his nerves.

His arm flexed, pressing her the tiniest bit closer. The hand on her back dipped lower, his thumb unconsciously rubbing circles along the slope of her spine.

“I train,” he replied carefully. Evenly. Dryly. Definitely not hoarse.

“That’s not-” She started to say, a hand moving from his chest, along his shoulder, down the line of his arm.

The trail left a blaze against his skin.

Then, as if she didn’t even realize what she was doing, she experimentally wrapped her fingers along his bicep and squeezed as if to confirm her initial assessment.

A tiny, shocked sound escaped her- one that was unmistakably a moan- soft, bitten-off, like she tried to smother it and failed.

His vision wavered.

“Sunny,” he warned. Or asked. Pleaded. Begged.

He couldn’t tell anymore. The last of his restraint was holding on by a thread.

Then, as if it all snapped in her mind exactly what she was doing, she dropped her head against his chest with a thunk.

“Oh my god,” she groaned. He could see the heat climbing up the back of her neck. “No. No, we are not- I didn’t- You have to pretend you didn’t hear that. Or feel it. Or-”

She pulled back just enough to gesture dramatically at his arms. “Those.”

He meant to step back. To put some distance between them and let rationality cool the thoughts in his mind.

You want to bang her though, right?

He let his hand slide, slow and deliberate, to the small of her back, then up along her side as he righted her stance. The heel of his palm skimmed high on her ribs, the thumb brushing the barest hint of skin where denim began and sweater ended.

She sucked a breath in, her eyes wide.

For a second, they stared at one another.

“Sorry,” she blurted out, her eyes dropping to his lips for a fraction of a second before she forced them somewhere that wasn’t directly into his gaze. “That was- I didn’t mean to, uh. Grope you- your- I-”

She paused.

“Fuck.”

That was an English word he definitely knew. And the sound of it- low, breathy, wrecked- sent heat and blood rushing downwards so fast it made him lightheaded.

His palm twitched against her, against the curve of her waist, mapping a body he wanted to see, to feel without layers between them, to taste. His thumb was still pressed to her warm, soft skin.

Her head was tipped up, pupils blown wide as she gazed at him. Her mouth was open, like she was going to say something but the thought ran from her. Her lashes fluttered, then stilled, like even they were afraid to break the moment. 

And her lips…

If he leaned down-

If he just bent his head towards her-

He’d know what she tasted like.

His fingers flexed, holding her still. She was close. So close. Each rise of her chest brushed his front. 

He wanted.

It hit him like a dizzy, physical force. Not the vague, inconvenient awareness he’d been trying to ignore since he first met her. Not the distant appreciation and recognition that she was cute. And warm. And soft.

Want.

The sharp, immediate, terrifyingly clear kind. The kind that led to hands tangled in hair and mouths on skin. The kind that let him imagine the weight of her thighs around him, the sounds she’d make for him. He could almost hear it, almost taste her.

He wanted to press her against the nearest wall, to tilt her chin up, and feel as her hands slid into his hair. To lean down towards her, and know, with absolute certainty, that she chose him.

Mine.

A reckless, abandoned part of him thought louder now. Now that she was this close. Now that he could feel the ghost of her breath along his mouth.

Just his.

Her gaze flickered down to his mouth, lingering. 

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was almost certain- sure- that she had leaned up towards him, that she had shifted herself closer, that some small, desperate part of her wanted this too.

This was it. 

Weeks of denying whatever attraction he had for her, of pretending not to notice the way her smile warmed his chest, of the way her laugh resonated down to his fingertips.

And now he was going to kiss her.

And he couldn’t deny the rush of wild, stupid excitement at the thought. It hummed in his veins, like the last step before a free fall.

He dipped his head down, helplessly drawn to her, as if he couldn’t possibly stop it now.

Stop now.

His self-restraint screamed.

He ignored it.

Leaned closer.

And-

She blinked.

Once. Then twice. Then a third time, slower, as if waking from some dream she’d fallen into and realizing she shouldn’t be there.

The dazed, soft expression disappeared, shoved aside for a crushing, devastating horror at the realization of their positions. Her eyes darted wildly- to his face, to his hands still cradling her, to the fingers clenching his capture weapon, to the hospital looming behind them.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, no.”

He was frozen, terrified to move an inch and prove his worst thoughts right: that she wasn’t interested in him.

She let out a laugh- thin, frayed, humorless.

And she tried to step away.

For one horrifying second, his hands tightened, like he couldn’t bear the thought of her any further from him. Like he wasn’t going to let her go.

And then he did.

“Okay,” she said, voice shaky as she took a single step back. “That was-”

She shook her head, pausing for a second, like the events of the past few minutes required a full reset. Her hands hesitated, then slowly moved off of his chest. He dropped his hold on her entirely. The loss of heat was both immediate and ridiculous. Cold air permeated where she had been not a minute ago, needling at his skin, like it knew what he was missing and wanted to make sure he did too.

He wanted to drag her back to him. To hold her close. To press his thumb back to the smooth expanse of her skin. To…

He didn’t.

He just stood there and watched. Waited. Wondering what her next move would be, what part of her she’d let him have.

“Sorry,” she rushed out, red blossoming across her cheeks. “I swear I’m not, like, trying to throw myself at you or anything. I just- the sidewalk- and then-” Her hands were moving wildly now. “Gravity- and-”

“Sunny-”

She kept going. Because of course she did.

“You saved me. Which is great. Very pro-hero. Thank you. That was nice. But then- you- I- your arms- and I- you were really close- and I just- Adrenaline, ya know?”

She took another step back, out of his immediate reach.

The air got even colder. His fingers twitched by his sides, some insane desire to feel her again- solid, real.

“I’m going to shut up now,” she muttered.

“Sunny,” he tried again, softer this time.

It took visible effort, but she raised her eyes to him. That open, hazy look from moments ago was gone. She’d retreated from him, emotionally and physically.

Then, she smiled.

Bright and warm and soft- but the smile didn’t spread past the curve of her lips the way it normally did. It didn’t crinkle the corner of her eyes, the way he was growing fond of.

“Thank you,” she said again, like it was easier to focus on almost falling than it was anything else. “For the save.”

“I wasn’t going to let you get hurt.”

His voice didn’t even sound like his own. It felt quieter, gentler- like it belonged to a man who didn’t spend his nights fighting brutality with his fists.

“Yeah, well.” She rocked back on her heels, tucking stray hair behind an ear. “I’m lucky you’re around, then.”

It was such a simple statement. Just a nice, friendly response.

Because she was nice. Friendly. Kind.

But it ping-ponged around his mind until it meant something.

I’m lucky you’re around.

Not fear. Not disgust. Not rejection.

Just… lucky.

She glanced at him, then to the hospital.

“I really do have to go,” she prompted lightly. “I’m already going to get pimped to death for being late earlier this week. I can’t afford another day of that.”

He nodded his head slowly, like the action might be enough to physically dislodge the image of her in his arms.

It wasn’t.

“Right,” he said.

There was a brief pause, where they just stood facing one another, nothing but the wind and unfinished actions between them. He didn’t know what was going on in that brilliant, pretty head of hers. Did she miss the feel of him even a little? Or was she relieved to be away from him?

“I-” She stopped and bit her lip, thinking. “Text me… when you get back to work safe?”

It came out as a question. A shy one, like she wasn’t sure if that was crossing some unspoken boundary.

“Someone needs to look out for you too.”

Text her.

The thought wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed. He just stood there, staring after her, as she turned away with one last wobbly smile and disappeared behind the doors of the hospital.

She didn’t look back.

He exhaled slowly.

His palms were tingling from where her skin had been. His shirt smelled faintly of vanilla. His body was pulled taut- from restraint, maybe. Or disappointment.

She wasn’t his to hold. He shoved his hands in his pockets, turning away from the hospital. Away from her. Away from what they’d almost done.

She wasn’t his, and whatever had almost happened, only existed in that brief flicker of space where they’d been pressed together- where, for a few, stuttered breaths, the universe had let him imagine something more.

It didn’t matter that his heart wanted to leap out of his chest at the thought of kissing her. It didn’t matter that, for one stupid, suspended second, he’d imagined she wanted to kiss him too.

She had pulled away.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Then again. And again. It was Hizashi- it had to be. Probably wanting an update. Definitely being too nosey.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to answer any questions about the lunch, so he left it tucked away.

His steps were slow, methodical. And, somewhere on the walk back, in the cold of autumn, he finally admitted what he’d been denying since she first smiled at him over a cup of warm coffee: he liked her.