he blinks as you shove the flower into his hands. then you're plucking more flowers from nearby buckets, your hands moving like fluttering little birds. you gather more and more, until he can barely see you behind the greenery and the blooms. he recognizes some: proud, leggy irises; fluffy ball peonies, as white as driven snow; crimson tulips so dark they're almost black.

"c'mon," you say, heading towards your worktable. he follows, feeling a little ridiculous carrying a single bloom versus your meadow-like armful. you lay your wares out on the table and beckon him closer. he holds out the ranunculus. you flick off the end of the stem with your knife. he hovers, unsure.

"well?" you say. "are you gonna sit?"

he eyes you. you meet his gaze steadily, a hint of a smile pulling at your lips.

"feel bad for me?" he sneers. "that why you're being so nice?"

you hum.

"is putting you to work nice?" you ask, already on to the next flower. he watches the way you hold the knife, how it shines silver in the sunlight, how easily it slides through the thick stem. those hands of yours move with careful surety. he wonders if you do origami; he could see you creasing a thick piece of ornamental paper perfectly.

"i wouldn't call this work."

"no? then you shouldn't mind doing it."

he shoves his hands into his pockets. the misters turn on over the flower buckets; some of the spray settles against his skin, as if he's by the sea.

"fine," he says. "show me."

at the end of the day, you insist on paying him, despite the fact that he's cut a few of the stems too short—one of your bouquets is a little lopsided, but you have it displayed with all the others—and ruined a few blooms. there are petals stuck to his fingertips.

he goes home smelling of wet loam and your faint perfume. rei blinks her big doe eyes at his sudden appearance at the family dinner table, but she makes space for him all the same.

he goes back to your shop the next day. you smile at him, soft and pretty and a little bit sharp with knowing, and he ducks further into his hoodie so you can't see his scars.

"show me more," he tells you.

you tilt your head.

"alright," you say. "let's go."

and just like that, he has a job.

he makes it three weeks before he thinks about kissing you.

it's your hands, he thinks. they're careful and quick and fearless, despite getting pierced by thorns and clippers alike. you touch everything with a certain type of care.

including him.

he never had a chance against you. he thinks about your hands, about your lips, about the way you're so careful with him. not like he's breakable. he'd have left if you touched him like that.

no, you touch him the same way you touch your flowers: like he means something.

it's too much.

he stops going to your shop.

but he watches you, sometimes. you move like a dream, floating between the aisles, petals caught on your fingertips. you laugh with your customers; you chat with them as you roll their bouquets up tight in paper, tied off with a perfect bow. you smile at a man, as bright as the sun, and his hands tighten into fists. it pulls the scars tight enough to hurt, but he doesn't care.

he barges into the shop, shouldering the man aside as he tries to exit. ignores the disgruntled call from behind him. by the time he makes it to the register, you're watching him coolly.

he realizes he doesn't know what to say.

you reach out. he lets you slide that careful hand into the hood of his hoodie; lets you cup his cheek. your eyes don't widen at the rough texture of his scars against your skin. you simply smile at him.

“If I did, you’d already know, wouldn’t you? Don’t ask dumb questions.”

He picks up the knife, slicing away just like before. It’s a smooth movement—muscle memory and well practiced second nature. Something like the way he steps back a little to meet you half way when you wrap your arms around him from behind.

“I think there’s something you’re not admitting,” you try again, hand trailing under his shirt and rubbing along the hard muscle of his abs. He forces back a shiver. “Don’t lie to me.”

You grin in satisfaction when he twitches in agitation. “You’re callin’ me a liar now?” His head turns to glare at you over his shoulder.

You stifle a giggle. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his eyes instantly roll.

“Tired of your damn games, you shitty woman.”

“I’m sure there’s something you’ve never told me, Katsuki,” you hum, slowly dragging your palm up and down his bare skin under his shirt, raking your nails gently along the dips and contours as he finally caves and shivers at your touch. “Tell me a secret.”

“I don’t have fuckin’ secrets.” He grunts. “I tell you all my shit.”

The vegetables hit the pan, the sizzle breaking the silence as you bury your face into his shoulder. You bite gently, he gives you an annoyed hiss, and when your hand slides to gently trace over the scars across his skin, he leans into you more.

This time, the laugh isn’t one you can stifle. You laugh into the fabric of his tank top, pinching his skin lightly while he barks out a warning to quit it before he shoves you off.

But he’s just saying that—he always does. And when unstoppable force (your desire to bother your boyfriend) meets immovable object (his inability to stay mad at you), you’re stuck in a standstill.

You don’t mind being stuck with Katsuki, though.

“You wanna hear a secret from me, then?” You hum. He glances at you tiredly.

“I already know them all.”

“That’s not true,” you gasp, “if I told you everything now, we’d be bored for the rest of our lives. I have to tell you them slowly.”

“That’s bullshit,” he scoffs, nose wrinkling, “I’m never boring.”

“That’s true,” you chuckle, “you’re…pretty unique.”

“Oi,” he glares, turning to squeeze your cheeks together as your lips spread into a wide grin, “don’t say it like an insult.”

He turns the stove off, dinner forgotten as he turns to press you against the counter and cage you with his arms, eyebrows smoothing just slightly from their perpetual crinkle as your arms instantly wrap around his neck.

“Well, don’t you want to know my secret?” You press.

He ponders for a moment, weighing his options before a small sigh of resignation falls from his lips. “Kay. Let’s hear this stupid secret of yours. Better not be wasting my time.”

“Come closer,” you gesture at him with your finger. He raises a brow. You look at him with all seriousness. With a tired groan, he leans his ear against your lips as he mumbles something about your stupid shitty games.

“Spit it out, woman.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” you whisper against his ear, fingers tracing along the nape of his neck as he shivers at the tickle of your breath, “but I love you, Katsuki.”

He stills. A small, hitch in his breath as you smile against the shell of his ear and press a quick, delicate little peck against it. It’s silent for a moment like he’s registering your words.

And then, with a quick movement, he’s back to attending to dinner on the stove. He tosses the vegetables in the pan with ease, a smug look on his face as his eyes twinkle in hot direction.

“That’s not a secret, idiot,” he shoots you a shit-eating grin, “anyone with eyes knows you do. Fuckin’ lovesick it’s almost embarrassing.”

You gasp, offended as you give his shoulder a shove while he cackles at the irritated look on your face—and it’s when you realize it. He’s good at bothering you too. Maybe even better, actually.

“You asshole,” you scowl, “have you ever tried to be romantic in your life—”

You’re cut off with a kiss. Soft. Warm. Slightly chapped. Lingering longer than it has to. When he pulls away, his attention is back to the stove as he continues with dinner.

The sizzles are louder.

“I love you too, you shitty woman. It’s not a fuckin’ secret or you’re just dumb.”

It’s not a secret.

He cuts your strawberries and pumps gas in your car. (You’re too last minute about it for his liking.) He wipes your makeup when you’re tired and folds your laundry that you say you’ll get to. (You don’t ever get to it.) He stands so the sun isn’t in your face and keeps a spare jacket for you in case you’re cold. (Apparently jackets don’t ruin outfits if they’re boyfriend jackets.)

And you’re not dumb. You know he loves you too. You just needed to say it in the way you know best—by getting under that thick, stubborn skin of his.

“Yeah, you’re right,” you bite your lip to keep from smiling. It’s a bit of a useless effort. “You’re pretty embarrassing when you have a crush.”

Unstoppable force meets immovable object. You give Katsuki a headache. He loves you for it.

It's nearly sunset when you finally arrive. The air hangs humid and heady around, carrying the scent of jasmine and wisteria and pine; the crickets sing, the frogs trill, an owl calls out nearby. You're immediately transported back to days gone by, your childhood summers flashing before your eyes as you look out across the lake. 

It's the closest thing to an ocean you've ever seen in person, and you know it doesn't compare, but it still makes you feel so small. The water laps gently up to shore while families with small children build sandcastles and eat hot dogs and drink lemonade. You smile fondly, remembering the summer your dad bought a kite and spent a good hour trying to catch enough breeze to fly it for you while you sat, bottom planted in the sand, clapping your little hands to cheer him on.

You learned to swim here. Your parents encouraged you, always made certain you were safe and grew confident in the water. As a result, your passion for competitive swimming was nurtured over the years. At home, you joined the swim team in both junior high and high school, going on to win several first place trophies and a full ride scholarship to university. Swimming to you was as important as breathing. Nowhere in the world did you feel as peaceful as you did when you were one with the water. At home, you were limited to the Olympic sized pool at the local athletic center, but here, you had the entire lake at your disposal. 

You help your parents unload the van and get your room set up, then grab a towel and your sandals and make the short trek down to the boat dock. 

“It's dark, honey,” your mother protests. “There won't be anyone else down there at this hour.”

“That's the point,” you say with a little smirk. She begins to say something else, but stops herself and waves you on instead. “Enjoy. You deserve some quiet time after being holed up with your dad and I for ten hours.”

The surface of the lake shimmers with yellow and gold light from the nearby cabins. Moonlight dances there as well, striking blue and white on placid waves. The water otherwise is dark and fathomless. The grass crunches with your steps until you hit the coarse sand of the little beach and you kick off your sandals and drop your towel, eager to touch the earth with the soles of your feet.

This time of year, the water is warm and inviting. As soon as the tide kisses your toes, you're almost tearful with relief. Welcome home, the water seems to say. It's been a long year without you. 

I missed you, too, you think, toes curling into the wet sand as you step out into the lake. It's a warm embrace, a comforting and familiar reprieve. You wade further until you're waist deep, then push off and swim out a little further. 

It's a leisurely dance, one you've executed a thousand times or more. The water flows through your fingertips, around your arms and legs, and you're weightless as you turn over onto your back, eyes trained toward the sky. Out here, it's a vast indigo blanket studded with diamond stars above. There's no one but you and the water and the sky. Tomorrow, you'll cook out with your parents and sunbathe on the deck of your cabin, maybe play a few rounds of gin rummy and catch a few fish for dinner. It's a peaceful, easy existence here– a welcome (and much needed) slow down from the hustle and bustle of your work and school schedule. 

Time is irrelevant when you're in the water. You pay no mind to how late it becomes until your fingers prune and most of the lights in the homes have been extinguished for the night. You propel yourself back to shore, properly tired out and satiated, not expecting to see anyone else. 

You're rightfully startled when you notice a fresh set of footprints in the sand, a few feet from your own. They disappear into the water and you squint into the darkness to make out the shape of another person, cutting through the water with long, graceful strokes. Your mother's worry about you going alone rings in your ear, so you hurry to shuffle your sandals back on your feet, wrap your towel around your waist, and get the hell out of there.

Though you're startled, you're not frightened. Anyone who comes out for a swim at this time of night must have the same desire as you– to be in the water undisturbed, to swim without the risk of sunburn and screaming children and fishermen casting their lines. And though you know you ought to just turn and walk back, something compels you to stay. So you hang near a majestic old maple tree, hoping to catch a glimpse of the stranger in the water. Sure, it's a little creepy, but– well, you don't really have any way to justify it.

The person swims a little longer, and your patient curiosity is rewarded when he wades to shore. Under the brilliant full moon, he cuts a striking figure. His skin seems to shimmer as he pushes his hair back, rivulets of water tracing down his neck and chest. You suck in a breath and try not to stare, but you're drawn to him. The ripple of muscle in his thighs as he walks, the beautiful profile of his face, the ease with which he carries himself on the uneven sand.

A midnight breeze rustles through the trees and drops a friendly little spider on your arm. You barely contain a squeak of surprise and flick the little guy away. The swimming stranger stops and peers in your general direction; he can't quite see you, but he knows you're there.

“You're still here,” he says quietly.

You don't know what to say. He caught you. But you caught him, too. As if it was a crime to swim under the stars. “It's– I– dark. I'm– It's dark out here.” Duh.

He steps a little closer to you and you take a couple of steps back, retreating further into the safety of the thicket of trees that surround you. Your parents cabin is just a few yards up the hill. “I enjoy swimming at night more than any other time of the day,” he says. His voice is low and calm, soothing in a way that's disarming to you. It's then that you realize you've been holding your breath, so you let it out in a long exhale, your shoulders relaxing significantly. “You're new here.”

That makes you smile a little. “We just got here tonight. I come every summer, actually.”

“We used to. Before my mom got sick.” His voice takes on a different timbre; more somber, a little far away and softer. “This is the first time in a while that we've made the trip.”

Your interest is piqued even more, and you peer at him a little closer. Here in the shadows, it's hard to make out his features. There are several families you've gotten to know over the years who frequent this location and you remember most of them. Though your time spent at the lake is usually brief compared to some of the other visitors, you've managed to make some good friends over the years. 

“I remember you,” he says. A few more steps, and he's visible in the moonlight. You could never forget that scar on his face. 

“Shouto?” You whisper. The last time you'd seen him was the summer after you'd both turned ten. He'd been so small then. Quiet and awkward and seemingly shy, he'd latched onto you and followed you around while his older siblings had their own fun. Two older brothers and a sister. The oldest had a mean streak and had a habit of getting into trouble. Shouto always seemed to mind his own business and could often be found swimming or lounging under a shade tree with a book. You had passing, polite conversation with him but never it never really amounted to much more than that. He was nice enough, but you usually spent your time with your parents or another group of girls you looked forward to seeing every summer. 

“It's nice to see you again,” you say with a smile, fiddling with the frayed edge of your towel. 

You think he returns your smile, but you can't be sure. His expressions have always carried an undertone of melancholy, and it's a little bittersweet to see that it hasn't changed after so many years. His face is less round, more angular and masculine, his hair a little longer, his shoulders more broad. “How long will you be staying?” he asks.

Your stomach flips, a hopeful little feeling. “Just a week.”

“That’s hardly enough time,” he says, turning his gaze toward the water.

“It’s never enough.” 

He nods in agreement, then turns his attention back to you. “Were you leaving just now? I can walk you back to your cabin if you like.”

You trip over your words again, feeling like an utter fool. “Yeah, no, I– sure, I mean. That's– that'd be fine. Great, actually.” Heat rises up your neck and onto your cheeks. You puff them out and blow out a breath as Shouto walks next to you.

“It's just me and my sister this time,” he says. “We are also leaving at the end of this week.”

Questions begin to form in your mind, but you don't ask them because you don't want to be invasive. Though you were young the last time you saw his family, you could tell that his family's dynamic was a little unconventional. His mother always seemed quiet and sweet– perhaps a little bit too nice– and his father scared you. Large and loud and intimidating, he wasn't someone you'd want to upset. And as a kid who was taught to respect authority, you made sure to always be on your best behavior around him.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” you ask.

Shouto gives you a little smirk and studies you out of the corner of his eye. “I'm on vacation.”

You huff out a nervous laugh. “Well, duh. But like…what are you doing tomorrow? Do you have any concrete plans?”

By now, you're close enough to your cabin that the soft yellow glow of the porch light illuminates his face, and it takes your breath away when you dare a glance at him. He's breathtakingly beautiful. Your heart climbs to your throat and you swallow around it.

“I'm catching up with an old friend,” he says simply. Nervous as you are, you're disappointed at first and he reads your face immediately. It isn't until he steps a little closer and lays a hand on your shoulder that you realize he meant you. You're the old friend.

You nod and laugh a little. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Meet me down by the boat dock at sunrise.” It isn't a question, but there's an air of hope in his words, in the way his eyes don't leave your face.

“Yeah, okay. Sunrise.” Nevermind the fact that sunrise is less than six hours from now and one of your favorite things to do on vacation is sleep late.

He lets his hand slip off your shoulder. His smile is more easily noticeable now. “Goodnight.” 

“Night, Shouto.”

Your parents are awake, having coffee on the deck overlooking the lake when you leave in the morning. 

“Where are you headed so early this morning?” your dad asks, grinning at you. “It's not like you to be up with the chickens.”

You giggle at the old idiom. “I'm going down to watch the sunrise. I found an old friend last night and I think we're going to catch up today.” You hope he can't discern the spike in your heart rate when you think about Shouto.

“Oh! Was it that sweet Ashido girl? She always seemed like so much fun!” Your mother smiles fondly and reaches for your dad's hand. He threads his fingers through hers and gives her a squeeze, then sips his coffee with a little affirmative grunt.

For a few summers, you and Mina had been inseparable from the moment you arrived at the lake. You hadn't seen her yet this time; hers was one of the lucky families who spent a good chunk of time there each summer, and you kept in touch with her periodically throughout the years. 

“No. Do you remember the Todoroki's?” 

Your dad bristles. Your mother looks out over the lake and doesn't say a word.

“It's Shouto,” you murmur.

Your dad nods once. He doesn't look happy, but his shoulders have relaxed considerably. “Just be careful,” he says. 

“Of course, dad.”

You hug them both and fast walk down the path to the boat dock, where Shouto waits for you. He's sitting on the little wooden platform, bare feet tickling the surface of the water. The lake is calm this morning; you see the occasional bubble of fish feeding at the surface, and birdsong fills the air. The first rays of sunlight begin to filter through the trees, and Shouto regales you with a smile that rivals its brilliance.

“You came.”

“Of course I came.” You sit next to him and lean back on your hands, head tilted toward the canopy of trees at the other side of the lake. A boat is tied to the dock. It's small, but it looks expensive. “Are we going out for a ride?” You nod toward the boat, and he hums in response. 

“The best view of sunrise is just around those trees,” he says. “When I was little, my mother and I would wake up and watch the sky before the rest of our family got out of bed.” 

You smile, watching his face as he must recall the feeling of that time with his mother. You get the impression that he must have enjoyed spending time with her more than any other member of his family. “Let's go.”

It takes you a moment to find your footing. The boat rocks side to side as you step in, and Shouto reaches out a hand for you to take to steady yourself. You accept with a smile and lower yourself comfortably, though even after you're sat, your hands remain together. There's a beat of something that passes between you, then you pull back first with a nervous, short laugh. Shouto, however, just looks at you. It's both intense and nonchalant all at once.

It takes a few cranks of the engine to get the boat running, but once it roars to life, you're on your way. With each passing second, the sunlight shimmers more and more brightly on the surface of the water. You have to raise your voice a little to talk over the sound of the motor, so you find that it's just easier to sit back and enjoy the ride and the view. 

The sky is brilliant. Orange and red and pink and intense, you're mesmerized by the colors so much that you barely register that you've stopped coursing through the lake. Shouto shuts the engine off and glances at you for a moment, then turns his attention to the sky. An old rhyme your father taught you comes to mind as you watch the colors begin to fade as the sun climbs– red sky at morning, sailors take warning. 

“We'll have a storm today,” Shouto says quietly as if he's read your thoughts, his eyes tracking the clouds. He seems disappointed at that. 

You shrug. “‘s not such a bad thing. The grass is crunchy. We could use the rain.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. You wish there was something else to say, to fill the silence. It makes you a little uncomfortable to sit and not speak, but Shouto doesn't seem bothered by it at all. He's in his own thoughts, mesmerized by the scenery. You tap your fingers on your thighs and sigh, watching heavy clouds move as a heady breeze picks up into a more intense wind.

“Are you bored? We can go back, if you'd like.”

You gasp, as if to protest, then offer him a smile. He relaxes a little. “No, it's beautiful out here! I just– well, I don't know what to talk about.”

“We don't have to talk. We can just listen,” he says. 

But you want to talk to him. You don't know much about him beyond the quiet boy you knew when you were both kids. You want to ask him what he's studying at school. You want to ask what happened to his mother. You want to ask why just he and his sister made the journey here this summer and not the rest of his family. The rational part of you says there will be time for that later. It's early enough in the day that you have hours to spend with him (if, indeed, he plans to spend the day with you, and you certainly hope he does) and you know there's no need to rush. It goes against every instinct you have, but you sit and remain silent, trying desperately to not feel uncomfortable in the silence. 

Shouto seems at ease, despite your internal struggle. He squints into the morning light, one hand shielding his eyes from the most offensive rays. Your eyes are drawn to the scar across the left side of his face, and before you can overthink, you blurt out, “How did you get that scar?”

“It was an accident.” He doesn't change his posture, doesn't seem annoyed by your question or otherwise bothered. You nod, accepting that he isn't going to elaborate. “Do you want to swim here, or head back now?”

If he's upset by your question, he doesn't show it. He calmly waits for your answer, and you're so disarmed by his demeanor that you don't know what to do. “I didn't mean to pry,” you offer.

“It's just not something I like to talk about, that's all.” He lets his hand graze the water as if he's checking the temperature. “We should probably swim now, in case there's a storm later.”

Before you can suggest anything else, he's shirtless and diving into the water. The boat rocks precariously in his wake, and he surfaces a few feet away. “It's cooler out here than it is closer to the shore,” he says. “You should see for yourself.”

He treads the water for a moment, watching you. Your eyes flit from him to the sky and the tops of the trees, then back again. You shrug and strip down to your bathing suit. “Here goes nothing,” you mutter to yourself before taking to the water. 

“I learned to swim when my brother would throw me in,” Shouto says, floating on his back, his eyes trained on the sky. “Our father used to say that there's no better way to figure it out.”

You're alarmed at the mental image of a little Shouto flailing through the water while his brother stood by and watched. You imagine it was the oldest, the one who had a devious glint in his eye and always seemed to find trouble in the most peaceful places. “That's awful.”

“Not as bad as you'd think. I learned quickly.” He kicks his legs and pushes through, a little closer to you. “What about you? When did you learn?”

You smile fondly at the memory of your parents, always encouraging, always standing by, proud and supportive. “I learned here, when I was really small. My parents were really good at being helpful without being overbearing.” 

Shouto seems to consider this for a few minutes. He rights himself and cocks his head at you. “I wish I knew what that was like.” 

It's such a sad thing for him to say. You've always tried not to take your relationship with your parents for granted, but to come face to face with someone who very obviously didn't have the same childhood experience as you is humbling in the strangest way. “I'm sorry,” you offer.

There's a slight downturn of Shouto's mouth. “Why?”

“I–” Why are you sorry? It isn't as if you're the one who has caused his experience to be such a difficult one. Not that you know for a fact that it was. You only know small details, things you remember from years ago and the few tidbits he's provided in your stilted conversation up to this point. You're assuming things that may or may not be true, and–

“You think too much. Look up.” You're distracted from your derailing train of thought when Shouto taps your forehead and points to the horizon. You gasp and watch as the sun climbs to her full glory, casting rays of golden yellow and orange to ignite the sky. Out here, you're closer to the majesty of nature, surrounded only by the basic tenets of earth. The sun gives life to all of it, even you and your unlikely companion. 

You realize in that moment that you need to worry less and listen more to what's going on around you, not inside you.

You find in the next several hours that Shouto is nothing if not endlessly patient. The more time you spend with him, the more you come to know of his life and his experiences, you find that his view of the world is quite simple. And what he lacks in common sense, he makes up for in a profound sense of purpose. In the wake of his mother's illness– the details of which he is vague about– he grew up fast. He's still the baby of the family, but with a delinquent brother and an absent father, he's taken on the important role of peacemaker. He has an air of gentleness around him, a kindness in his eyes that softens his sometimes deadpan stare when you stutter over your words and feel foolish in the presence of his mature calm. 

You spend the day with him hiking through trails in the woods, taking shelter under broad tree limbs when it rains, talking about school and friendships, about future plans and past mistakes. All the while, you grow more fond of him and his deadpan sense of humor. He's witty and intelligent, and the more you get comfortable with making eye contact, the more handsome you see he really is. Your mind begins to wander when evening settles in and you're walking back to your respective cabins. He's quiet and contemplative as you meet his stride; his pinky brushes yours, and you think (you hope) it's intentional. You decide to test your theory and “accidentally” brush against him again, and your heart skips a beat when he hooks his finger around yours.

“There you are!” His sister jogs to greet the two of you as you make your way up the hill. Her smile is laced with laughter, her eyes reflecting relief. “I was just about to send out a search party!” Her tone is teasing when she adds, “Glad you found some company. Who's your friend, Sho?”

When her eyes flit to where your hands are touching, Shouto lets go and introduces you by name. “This is Fuyumi, my sister,” he says.

“Well, are you hungry? I just made dinner if you want to stay.” Her smile is warm, and her eyes gleam as she looks to Shouto and then to you.

You tell her that you'd love to, but that your parents are expecting you. Shouto frowns a little. “Will you come down to the lake tonight?”

“Haven't you been in the water enough today?” Fuyumi asks. 

“We didn't swim all day. Just this morning.” Shouto turns his full attention to you. “Will you?”

You nod. “I'd love to.”

Shouto's smile is as brilliant as the sunrise. “I'll bring a jar to catch fireflies.”

Fuyumi laughs. “Twenty-two years old and still a kid at heart.” 

You think it's sweet, and maybe even a little bit romantic. The thought of catching fireflies with the most handsome guy at the resort makes your heart race. “Growing up is overrated,” you say with a shrug. Shouto nods, Fuyumi winks. 

You have a quick dinner with your parents, whose adventures of the day consisted of a mid-afternoon lap around the lake and a nap on the sun porch. They're a little disappointed that you don't plan on staying home after you eat, and your mother begins to give you a little guilt trip.

“We've hardly seen you,” she says, worrying her brow. Your dad reaches for her hand and gives her a look, shaking his head to keep her from saying anything further. She sighs and presses her lips together. “But go. Enjoy yourself. And be careful. That Todoroki boy–”

“Don't,” your dad interrupts. 

“You're right,” she says with a nod. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Mom.”

She laughs lightly and pours herself a second glass of wine while your dad gives you a wink. You wave and take off before they can protest any further.

Shouto is in the water already when you get back down to the lake. You toe off your sandals and leave them in a pile with your shorts on the shore. It's dark, but still early enough that there are still lights on in most of the homes up the hill. 

He surfaces and pushes his hair away from his face, then swims toward you with practiced strokes while you wait patiently for him.

“What happened to catching fireflies?” you call. Your voice echoes out over the water in delicate ripples. 

“Couldn't find a jar. Besides, you like swimming at night, so don't complain.” 

You gasp and splash at him a little. “Hey! I am not complaining!” you laugh.

He recoils slightly, then shakes the water from his face like a dog would before splashing you back with more vigor. “We have tomorrow, too.”

You sputter and blink the drops away from your eyes, shocked that he'd return the gesture. When you look at him, his eyes glimmer with moonlight and mischief. “Don't you want to hang out with your sister?”

He treads closer to you, and you maintain your position. “I see her all the time. I haven't seen you in twelve years.”

“Has it been that long?” you wonder aloud.

Shouto nods. “At least that long. Maybe more.” He lowers his voice to a more intimate volume now that you're face to face. “I thought about you every summer I didn't get to come here.”

“You did?”

“I did. You were the only kid who ever wanted to talk to me.”

He's closer now, and it's hard to breathe. “Oh.”

“I never felt lonely when you were here. All summer, I'd wait for your family to come so I could see you.” He reaches out to thumb away a droplet of water from the end of your nose, and you flinch at first. His eyes widen slightly and he gasps, then lays a cool hand against your cheek. Your eyes haven't left his face, and you're impossibly close to him now. You wish you were close enough to shore to find your footing, because you feel like you might drown if he's about to do what you think he's about to do.

“I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again,” he says. You're both still weightless in the water, but you realize in a moment of clarity that he's guiding you closer to the sandbar. Your toes graze something solid, and suddenly you're aware of Shouto's arm around your waist.

You scoff playfully, hoping to soften the mood. “You're the one who stopped coming.”

“Not by choice.” 

“I'm sorry.”

He's so close now that he whispers, and his lips bump yours. It's electric. “‘s okay.”

His kiss is tentative, soft, all things tender. You don't really kiss him back at first. You allow him to take the lead– applying pressure, tilting his head a little to the left, curling his fingers just under your chin to guide you where he wants you. You sigh into him, eyes fluttering shut, arms weightless in the water as your feet sink into the sand. You're barely cognizant of anything besides the plush silk of his mouth on yours and the gentle ripple of water against your skin.

He draws back with a muted, wet sound of his lips disengaging with yours. “You're not kissing back,” he says, eyes trained on your mouth. “Did I do something wrong?”

You can't speak. All you can do is shake your head slowly, mouth slightly agape; you thread your arms around his shoulders and kiss him back, nearly knocking him under the water with how eager you are. Shouto laughs into your mouth and the vibration on your tongue makes you giggle. You wrap your legs around his waist and allow him to wade up to where the water is barely above his knees. He nearly stumbles once or twice, but you hang on for dear life until he's steady. When you stand on your own, he still doesn't let go of you.

“Did you really think about me?” you question, watching the way his eyes seem to reflect his smile.

“All the time.”

“We should have stayed in touch.” 

Shouto brushes his thumb over your cupid's bow. “We were young.”

You giggle. “My friend Mina had a crush on you.”

“Did you, too?” he asks, hopeful.

“Not back then. I was too busy swimming.”

He pouts. But there's a playfulness to it, and you flick his forehead lightly before kissing the expression clean off his pretty face.

“What about now?” he asks.

“Hmmm, maybe a little,” you tease.

“Only a little?” His lips graze your jaw, then feather over the side of your neck. 

You suck in a shaky breath. “Maybe more than a little.”

You kiss and kiss and kiss him, trying to convey just how much you like him in hopes that he can feel it through your actions. He responds in kind, his hands wandering down your spine, around the curve of your waist, hot against the cool, damp fabric of your bathing suit. He overwhelms you in the best way.

There's no doubt in your mind that he feels much the same when he pulls away from you and studies your face. He's flushed and intense, eyes scanning yours, one hand resting on the side of your neck. “Do you want to stop here?” he asks. 

No. Yes. I don't know. Take me here. Take me now. I want you. We should stop before– “Do you?”

“We have a few more days here,” he whispers, kissing the apple of your cheek, your temple, your forehead. It's as if he's trying to cool himself down, talk himself out of doing something irrational. 

“What about after?” you ask. 

He stiffens a little, and you wish you'd kept your mouth shut. You've always wanted to be the kind of person who lives in the moment, and here you are, pushing ahead. Searching for answers before you've allowed yourself to enjoy what's happening right before your eyes. You feel bad for taking his beauty for granted.

He grins and blushes a deeper shade of red. “I'd like to think we'll have plenty of time.”

You're grateful you seem to see him less and less these days. It makes sense. Class-1A is nothing if not prolific and every single one of them have internships and career opportunities lined up. Katsuki has only started to train harder to keep up with the demand. He hasn't told you what exactly he's going to do with his life, but you're sure it'll be just as cool as him.

For now, he spends a lot of time training with Endeavor. Despite the public fall-out of his career, his hero days don't seem to be behind. Some things never change, for better or for worse.

You're not expecting to see him as you tinker away on your final project. Your graduation capstone - a set of arm braces that could lessen the strain of certain emitter type quirks, with some complicated structuring and materials. Cost-effective, efficient, profitable. You've been tweaking on it for weeks and trying to get it perfect.

You're nearly there though. You're soddering away some new pieces when a very beat-up looking Katsuki leans against the door of your work space.

When you finally notice him, you jump in your skin. Katsuki gives you a slight smirk as you put everything down and pull the mask away from your face.

"Yo," He greets, short and gruff. "Still workin' on those braces, dweeb?"

"Huh?" You say, not processing the words until minutes later. "Oh, yeah I am."

"Made any progress?" He asks. He welcomes himself into your space with relative ease. You smile a little.

"I have. Getting close to the final product. Just a few more touches and it'll be perfect."

"Think you're gonna get that sponsorship?" He asks, with a little more sincerity. You can't help but feel touched. It must show on your face since Katsuki looks a little disgusted by you.

"Fuck yeah."

You see him grin wildly. "Do your best dweeb. Someone's gotta make my shit in the future. Can't have you losing out before you even start."

"Pfft," You laugh easily, wiping the sweat off of your brow bone as you lean back and stretch your arms "As if anyone knows your gear better than me. I'm gonna get the sponsorship and you'll have to grovel to get on my client list."

"Fuck off." He replies with a snort. You laugh in turn, passing your gaze unto him.

He just got back from training. He's got that horribly distracting and crazy tight compression shirt. And ridiculous grey sweats, though he probably has on leggings underneath. It's distracting. You try not to ogle at him, but you can tell your failing.

When your eyes meet he gives you a little smug smile that makes you want to punch his teeth in. Him being attractive is such a blow toi the face You force yourself to tear your eyes away and go back to fixing your workspace.

"What brings you here, anyway? Endeavor is up your ass right now as is, isn't he?"

You aren't looking, but you can hear him grumble behind you. Your mouth quirks up at the sound. "Fuck that old man. I uh," He pauses, tone turning soft. "Got news."

There's something in the air after that. "And you came to tell me?"

"You're the first to know," He replies. You try not to think too much of that, but find you can't help it. "Other than Izuku since that nerd is coming with."

You brighten at that. "You're getting along quite nicely these days."

Katuski snorts. "Shitty fucking dweeb. Anyway uh," He swallows a little. "We got an offer for an internship program. It's a lot of traveling overseas 'n shit. But it'll be long. And annoying. Shitty Izuku is coming with."

"So it's confirmed you're going," You say evenly. "Sounds like it'll be crazy good for your career."

"It will be. Based on some of the stuff we saw, we're gonna be working with some real fuckin' pros." He says, excitement in his voice so obvious you can't help but smile. He can be a hero weeb like Izuku can at times. "Uh, anyway. Yeah."

"I'm kinda surprised you told me. Not unhappy of course but uh," You laugh a little. "Definitely surprised, though."

You're never gonna tell him about your crush. You try not to take stock in any of this. You're never gonna tell him. Ever. Not even if you died. Not even if you got held at gun point. You are not going to even entertain the idea of this meaning something.

"Duh, I'd fucking tell you," And then, a little softer. "Who the hell else would I want to tell?"

Your smile warbles. Getting to your emotions is fucking cheap, the bastard.

"You already know what I'm doing for the future,"

Katsuki nods. It's tense. "Uh. Yeah. You'll be here, right?"

You nod. He looks away from you.

"I'll be back. It'll be two years so," He skirts around something.

"Keep me updated, okay?"

He pauses before blurting out. His face is turning a familiar shade of pink, full of embarrassment. "I'm gonna be fucking back here. So don't... go anywhere. We've got shit to do but," He groans and grits and looks like he wants to tear his hair out. Your heart is beating so fast you think you might throw up. "Fucking. Wait, alright. It's two years, but until then."

Maybe you're being presumptuous. Maybe this is a bad idea. You say it anyway. "I'll wait for you, Katsuki. I'm pretty good at being patient, unlike someone."

He looks at you, pausing. The grin on his face is so helpless and his whole body goes loose form the release of tension. You find you are blushing rather profusely. He laughs to himself, wiping a a hand on his face.

"Fuck you. You little shit." Then adds. "Fuck patience but. I don't go back on my word."

You laugh. Fine, you think. I'll tell you in two years.

"Two years," You say, testing the words out.

"Yeah," He replies, a little soft. "Just two,"

his son scrunches up his face a little, like he's thinking quite hard about it. "there's mother's day, 'n father's day. when's babe's day?"

osamu feels his heart squeeze in his chest, in affection as much as it is bittersweet. he's not altogether surprised by the question, considering father's day had just passed, but he's not sure he knows how to answer it either. he lifts his hand and adjusts his onigiri miya cap as he considers how to tackle the surprisingly complex question his four year old had put to him.

"well... there isn't a babe's day, buddy," samu starts, and immediately his son looks at him in abject horror at this shocking bit of news.

"but why?"

samu sucks a bit of air through his teeth. "well, not everyone has a babe. remember? we've talked about this."

osamu's son pouts a little. "but that's not fair."

"what's not fair?" samu leans against the counter on his elbows and cocks his head to the side.

"babe deserves a day too because we love her."

that pang in osamu's chest threatens to cleave him in two.

"yer right, buddy. we do love her, huh?"

samu's son bobs his little head in a somewhat sad nod.

samu reaches clear over the counter and plucks his son up from his seat, bringing him over to his side and resting him against his hip. the little boy grips his father's t-shirt as he clings to him, resting his head on osamu's shoulder.

"tell ya what," he whispers down to his son, bouncing him lightly, "how 'bout we make our own day fer babe?"

the little boy stares up at him with stars in his eyes. "really?"

"really," samu answers with a laugh. "you finish that picture fer her, 'n i'll get her some flowers, and then we'll make her breakfast in bed and take her out to do all her favourite things that day."

"when?" his son asks, wiggling excitedly in his grip. "when?"

samu racks his brain as he tries to recall what your schedule looks like in the coming weeks.

and then, in just the way you always seem to, you walk in right when they need you most. the bell above the shop door chimes signalling your entrance, and both of the miyas eyes go right to you—you smile brightly when you see them both.

"hi boys!" you call to them, waving as you approach.

"babe!" the littlest miya cheers, returning your wave excitedly.

samu leans down to whisper in his ear, quietly slipping onigiri godzilla off the countertop and tucking it away out of sight. "babe's day's gotta be a secret okay? don't spill it!"

his son nods determinedly, but truthfully osamu knows the secret is more than likely to be revealed before the big day. he smiles anyway, pressing a little kiss to his son's forehead.

little miya immediately reaches for you on the other side of the counter once you reach them, and you take him from his father's arms into your own—squishing him tightly before returning him to his seat and taking the one beside it (the one that now everyone has started calling yours.)

you fall into easy conversation with the two of them—samu stopping to chat whenever he can between customers—talking about your day and asking about theirs as samu serves you both your favourite onigiri.

"hey, babe," samu says as he sets a plate down in front of you, and you look up from the picture you and his son are making together with a smile and a hum. "you busy on saturday?"

he and his son share a secretive little look that's less than subtle. it makes you laugh.

"never too busy for you two," you answer easily, and beside you little miya grins.

"great," samu replies. "keep it free fer us."

a customer approaches the other side of the counter and osamu has to step away, but he can still overhear bits and pieces of your conversation with his son even as he goes about preparing a new order.

"...a surprise? for me?"

"mmmhmmm! cause we love babe lots and lots!"

samu laughs to himself as he tucks a small stack of napkins into the takeout bag, because his son couldn't be more right about that. he hands the takeout bag to the waiting customer with a smile, and turns to watch you and his little boy colouring away at your picture together as the afternoon light streams in through the shop windows behind you—nearly identical looks of concentration on your faces (though you don't have any stray rice stuck to yours.)