૮₍ ˶•⤙•˶ ₎ა ./づ~ 🍓

The evening was fine, in the beginning. Just fine.

Your two adopted teenagers, Megumi and Yuji, could be heard moving around the house as they prepared themselves for bed, taking hot showers and switching into random pairs of shorts and t-shirts. Your biological twin babies, Kaia and Kenji, along with your young daughter, Maya, were fast asleep.

Everything was going fine. Just fine.

Satoru Gojo’s blue eyes flickered up at you as you emerged from the master bathroom, a swirl of steam flooding the bedroom once the door opened.

A robe clung around your body. There was a smile, albeit a tired one, but a smile nevertheless, gracing your clay mask-covered face, and you approached Satoru — who relaxed on the enormous bed — with the little jar of that gray concoction in your hand.

“You know the drill, honey, come here.” You said, sitting on the side of the bed.

He leaned forward with a little smile.

“Will this stuff make me even prettier?” Satoru grinned.

“I don’t think you can get any prettier,” you joked, and a small giggle escaped you, one that made Satoru’s smile brighten as his heart skipped a beat.

Dipping the applicator into the clay mask, you then brought it to Satoru’s face and smeared it across his cheek.

“So, what do you rank that movie? Scale of one to ten.” Your husband’s words sounded rather funny, seeing as he was trying his hardest not to move his face too much amidst your little spa session.

“Hmm . . . I give it a . . . I give it an eight. The ending was a little predictable, but I enjoyed it,” you paused, dragging the application across his chin. “It’s hard finding films that everyone might enjoy. Yuji kinda likes everything, but Megumi likes movies that aren’t appropriate for Maya. And I think you just like bad movies.”

Satoru laughed then — he couldn’t help it.

“Says the woman who has seen Titanic, what, fifteen times in the last year or so and still gets upset when the ship hits the iceberg.” Satoru paused. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but the movie isn’t gonna change.”

“It could, you never know!” You laughed and continued to apply the face mask to his skin. “And you’re exaggerating. I haven’t seen it that much. It just seems that way to you because you roll your eyes whenever I watch it. Don’t tell me you’re jealous of 90’s Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“Jealous? Honey, didn’t you just say I couldn’t get any prettier?” Satoru playfully rolled his eyes at you. “Besides, I just don’t like it ‘cause it’s too depressing.”

“That’s kinda the whole point.”

“Yeah, but those tragic romance movies are always even more depressing to watch when you’re in love with someone. I can’t help but imagine what it would be like if I were stuck in that same situation with you. Ya know, if I weren’t as brilliant as I am in real life. And I can’t stand the idea of one of us dying on the other.”

Your smile faded then. There was a shimmer of something within your gaze — a gaze that now failed to lock with Satoru’s.

“What’s wrong?” The corners of his lips fell into a frown.

“Nothing,” you mumbled, putting the jar that held your clay down. Then, suddenly, you smiled and poked his chest. “Leave it to you to make the conversation sappy and depressing all of a sudden. Anyway, don’t forget to wash off that mask in fifteen to twenty minutes.”

—

Water dripped off of his face and splattered the sink as Satoru washed off the last of the gray product on his skin.

“Don’t forget to moisturize!” You rushed into the bathroom as he patted his face dry with a towel.

As soon as he turned his head in your direction, white cream was suddenly smeared across his face. You rubbed it into his skin, all while he groaned in protest.

“Is this moisturizer or sour cream? Why is it so cold?”

“Oh hush, you big baby.” The last bit of moisturizer had seeped into his skin, and you closed your container and set it on the bathroom counter. “The world's strongest sorcerer can’t handle a little cold moisturizer, huh?”

“Oh? I’m the one who can’t handle things?” Satoru’s hands found your waist, and he pulled you against him, right before his fingers started to gently dig into your flesh, tickling you. “Look at you, you can’t even handle being tickled.”

“Stop it, I’m not one of the kids,” you laughed, trying to push his hand away, but they found your hips, and held you close.

“I’ll stop once you-”

Satoru was interrupted by you suddenly breaking out into a fit of coughs.

He stepped away then, still grinning. He assumed that your coughing was the result of laughing too much.

But you weren’t stopping.

Your coughs grew louder. More forceful. You frowned in panic.

“Baby?” Satoru approached you, placing a hand on your back as you leaned against one of the bathroom sinks, covering your mouth with your hand.

“‘Toru-” you couldn’t speak. You could only cough.

Satoru leaned down, attempting to look at your face, and he saw it then.

The blood seeping from between your fingers.

“Oh my god,” His eyes widened. “Baby, you’re . . . that’s fucking blood.”

—

He didn’t drive you to the hospital.

He didn’t call for an ambulance.

Satoru Gojo carried you in his arms, warping the distance between your home and the nearest emergency room, and teleported right outside of their see-through doors.

He rushed inside.

Medical staff noticed you, the coughing woman with blood spraying out of your mouth, decorating the front of your robe, and the shirt of the man who carried you.

“My wife . . . she-she won’t stop coughing,” Satoru’s eyes were wide with panic. “She’s coughing up blood.”

He passed your body to the doctor in front of him, who then laid you on a gurney that a handful of nurses rushed over with.

“Will she be alright? Will she . . . what’s wrong with her? What’s wrong with her?”

“Sir,” the doctor placed a hand on Satoru’s shoulder. “I need you to calm down so we can get some information from you. I promise you we’ll do everything we can to help her.”

—

It was around two hours before midnight when Yuji slowly opened the door to Megumi’s dark bedroom. The light from the hallway filtered into his room, and Yuji could slightly see the lumpy figure that was his body hidden underneath his covers.

“Psst . . . psst . . . Megumi,” Yuji loudly whispered.

“I’m asleep,” Megumi mumbled back.

“No, you’re not.” Yuji stepped into his room then. “Megumi, c’mon, this is serious! I heard someone come through the front door! I think we’re getting robbed!”

“You’re a sorcerer who can punch through walls. You can handle it,” Megumi yawned. “Please don’t bother me unless they’re trying to take our coffee maker.”

Yuji heard footsteps.

He dashed into Megumi’s room and shut the door behind him.

“Yuji,” Megumi said, sitting up. He looked at the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Yuji, you are seventeen years old. Seventeen. You’ve eaten the fingers of the king of curses, killed plenty of curses yourself, and you possess some weird superhuman strength. If you don’t get out of my room by the count of three, I will summon every shikigami of mine to drag you out of here.”

“You don’t get it. Mom and Dad are missing!”

Before Megumi could respond, someone knocked at his bedroom door.

“Megumi? It’s Kento. There’s . . . been an emergency. I’m here to drive you and your siblings to the hospital.”

—

“Dad? What’s going on?”

Yuji rushed over to the slumped-over white-haired man with great urgency. Maya rushed over as well, wrapping a blanket around herself even tighter as she crawled into the open seat next to her dad, and let her eyes close.

Kento and Megumi held the two sleeping twins in their arms.

The waiting room was a spacious brown and white area that smelled of coffee and Clorox wipes. A television hung upon the wall played reruns of a home-improvement show.

“Dad?” Yuji called out yet again. “What’s wrong with Mom? What happened?”

“I don’t-I don’t know,” Satoru looked at the ground. He ran his large hand across his face, utterly exhausted. “The doctors don’t know. No one knows. I was just . . . we were just in the bathroom, messing around when she started . . . coughing up blood.”

Megumi’s eyes widened.

“She just started coughing up blood,” Satoru repeated softly.

—

Two hours had passed.

Two.

The waiting room was slowly filling with people who cared about you, despite the time of night. Maya was wide awake by now, excited to see so many familiar faces, but brokenhearted once someone told her you weren’t feeling well. Therefore, the young girl occupied herself by lying across the waiting room floor and creating a card for you with paper and crayons.

Everyone sat around, waiting for news, and after what felt like forever, a few medical staff members started to gather outside the waiting room.

Satoru and Kento rushed over to meet them.

Yuji couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he saw it.

He saw the look on Kento’s face. The pale skin. The wide, surprised eyes.

The blonde-haired man stepped back into the waiting room, but Satoru didn’t move.

Yuji and Megumi rushed up to Kento. He couldn’t look them in the eye as he spoke.

“She might go in two hours.”

There was a part of Yuji that wanted to laugh. Part of him thought that, surely, his dear Uncle Kento was joking.

Yuji smiled as a tear rolled down his cheek. “No . . . No, this isn’t true. You’re joking, right? This-This is just some kinda sick prank?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry to all of you.”

“Go where?” Maya, who walked over with the Get Well Soon! card she made for you in hand, darted her eyes between Kento and Yuji. “Where is mommy going?”

Megumi’s stomach churned then. A wave of nausea washed over him, droplets of sweat decorating his pale forehead, but Kento’s words had paralyzed him. He knew he needed to make a break for the bathroom, but his limbs were made of stone.

“She’s going to die. Another person I care for is going to leave me. She’s . . . My mom is going to die.”

It started to come up; the tiny bouts of soup he forced down thirty minutes prior to this nightmare.

Suddenly, Toge, who had arrived an hour ago, pressed a tiny garbage can filled with tear-covered tissue and snack wrappers against Megumi’s chest.

It caught the vomit just in time. He had felt hands on his back and arm as someone guided him to a nearby seat, his head slung over the garbage can within his grip now, and he stayed that way, puking up his insides even well after there was nothing left.

Yuji couldn’t recall when he found his way to the floor. But there he was. His back was pressed against a wall or a door — he didn’t fucking know or care. And his legs were bent upwards as if he wanted to pull his knees to his chest, but lost the desire to do so completely.

Nobara got down on her knees beside him. Her hand touched his shoulder, her face frowned with both enormous sympathy and a great deal of her own grief.

“I was talking to her the other day, Yuji. When she was talking about you, she went on and on about how proud she was . . . is. She was planning something special for you and-”

“Stop it. You’re not helping.” Though he spoke through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth, his words held no anger.

He only sounded broken.

It was something Nobara hadn’t heard before, and that terrified her, made her eyes go wide as the tears finally started to fall.

Kento didn’t mean to let Satoru leave his line of sight.

After he delivered the news, after he was burdened with telling your family that you only had two hours left to live, his worried eyes went to a vomiting Megumi, a collapsing Yuji, and a confused Maya, tugging on his clothes as she asked questions and didn’t quite understand the answers.

But Toge was helping Megumi, Nobara was doing her best to comfort Yuji, and two other people held your unknowledgeable babies while Maya’s cousin distracted her until . . . until someone could properly tell her that she would never see her mommy alive again.

That left Satoru. Who was comforting the husband? Surely everyone in the crowded waiting room had rushed out to be by his side, but as Kento darted his eyes across hugging figures and crying faces, he didn’t see him.

“Where’s Satoru?” Kento asked.

“He went down the hall,” a croaking voice that belonged to a relative with eyes like yours replied before dotting said eyes with a piece of tissue.

And no one went after him? Kento thought. Shit . . . damn it.

You were coming closer and closer to crossing the line between life and death with every second Kento spent searching for Satoru.

He asked several staff members if they had seen a white-haired man walk by, and finally — finally — someone pointed him in the direction of an empty hospital room.

Kento released a shaky breath, adjusting his tie as he gripped the door handle.

He turned it, opening the door slowly.

And there he was.

The hospital room, void of patients or anyone aside from Satoru himself, was dark. Clean.

Satoru was pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He didn’t halt his footsteps when Kento walked in — the blonde-haired man had no clue if Satoru even knew of his presence — as Satoru only faced the ground as he continued to walk.

“Satoru,” Kento called out, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him.

“Get out.”

“Satoru-”

“Get out.” His unsteady voice was barely above a whisper. But then, Satoru suddenly stopped walking, glared at Kento with bloodshot eyes and a face full of tears, and shouted at him. “Get the hell out!”

“No.” Kento approached the trembling man. “I’m not leaving you alone right now, Satoru.”

Satoru’s hands were lost in his messy hair. He gripped the white strands, darting his blue eyes around at every corner of the room as if he were searching for something.

“Get out. Please, please get out. I can’t do this. I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this. I’m not the- I’m not the fucking strongest. I’m not strong enough for this. I can’t fucking do this. I can’t lose her. Not her.” He was crying. Sinking to the floor. He would have fallen if Kento hadn’t caught him, sat on the hospital bed, and held the other man against him as best as he could. And Satoru continued to sob harder than he ever had throughout his entire life. “Oh god, I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her, I can’t, I can’t lose her.”

“Satoru, you need to go see your wife, right now. You need to be there.”

Satoru couldn’t speak. The next, brewing sob was stuck in his chest. It took his breath away — he couldn’t fucking breathe — it took everything away until there was nothing, nothing except for silent, dead air as he trembled, his eyes squeezed shut, and then, there it was.

That ear-piercing sob. That screaming cry.

Staff members gathered at the nurses’ station down the hallway could hear it, and even the nurses who had witnessed people grieve every single day for decades couldn’t help but let a tear fall.

Kento held him even tighter. His ears rang, and he couldn’t help but flinch, but his large hand was wrapped around Satoru’s head, fingers softly gripping his messy white hair, and he held him against his chest. Kento’s own tears splattered against Satoru’s head. From where he held Satoru against him, he couldn’t help but wonder if the sobbing man could hear his own heart breaking as well.

Satoru clenched his teeth, his breathing erratic. It came out in waves of hisses, gasps, wheezing . . . noises that sounded almost inhuman. Then, the sobs returned. He was sobbing, sobbing, and sobbing, soaking Kento’s shirt.

His body trembled violently, forcing Kento to adjust his grip on him as meaningless comforts spilled from between his lips: “It’s okay . . . It’ll be okay . . .”

That was when Satoru clenched his shaking fist. His nails dug into the flesh of his palm until a line of cuts formed, and blood seeped out and spilled onto the marble floor.

“You need to see her, Satoru. You need to see her before she goes.”

He wasn’t listening, and Kento couldn’t exactly blame him for that. But he knew Satoru would never forgive himself if he missed his chance to say goodbye.

“I can’t lose her . . . I can’t lose her . . . I can’t lose her . . . I can’t lose her . . .”

—

There were an endless number of cords, tubes, and wires running along the floor, being tended to by busy doctors and nurses, who were quiet out of respect — out of knowing — hooked both to the several machines that surrounded you, and hooked to your unconscious body as well.

Yuji was sitting on the side of your bed. His body was across yours, his shoulders rising and falling as he cried.

“It’s not fair,” his muffled voice filled the room. “Please don’t die, Momma. Please don’t die. I’m begging you . . . I’m begging!”

Maya crawled onto your bed then. The wires scared her a bit, and her fear led to her being mindful enough to avoid them as she made her way to your side.

Yuji pulled away from you at the sight of her.

“Maya . . .” his brown eyes were wide with tears, but the young girl ignored him.

She put her hand on your shoulder, her little face twisting into a frown when her touch did nothing.

“Mommy?” She called out, shaking you. “Wake up, mommy.”

Megumi couldn’t take it any longer.

He was standing by your side, holding your hand — which no longer felt like your hand, but something cold and swollen from the IV needles within your veins — but he let it go, rushing out of your hospital room, ignoring the calls of his name from people he didn’t bother looking up at. Not that he could. Not when his tears blurred his vision until everything before him was a mesh of disoriented shapes and colors.

There was a wheelchair being rolled down the eerie hospital hallway that squeaked every half-second. Megumi didn’t notice the person being pushed as he made his way to the nearest exit, and that person didn’t notice him.

The wheelchair was loud. Uncomfortably loud. Especially because, now, Satoru’s ear-piercing sobs had vanished, and silent shock came next.

He couldn’t speak. He didn’t blink. He could barely move.

That was the reason Kento put him in a wheelchair, and wheeled him into your hospital room.

It was crowded in there. Crowded with presents, cards, flowers, balloons, and snacks. Crowded with your relatives, friends, Satoru’s students, your sons, and your daughters.

Shoko was the first to notice Satoru being wheeled through the door. Kenji was resting in her arms, leaning against her shoulder, while Yuta held Kaia. He was the next to notice Satoru. The student’s face betrayed how he felt on the inside as tears quietly streamed down his reddened cheeks, and he held on to his teacher’s baby just a bit tighter.

With every push of his wheelchair, with every step made in the direction of your hospital bed, everyone stepped out of the way, almost one by one, clearing a path.

When Yuji turned around and saw his father, he got off your bed then.

Oh, Yuji was struggling, struggling to keep his sobs as quiet as possible, struggling to keep his shaking to a minimum, and once he stepped away from your hospital bed so Satoru could have his chance to say goodbye before it was too late, several pairs of arms wrapped around Yuji. He didn’t know who it was — he couldn’t see thanks to the tears — but he hugged back one of the people who hugged him while rubbing his back soothingly.

He could tell based on the softness of their body that it was a woman. It could have been his girlfriend, Yuko. Maybe Maki. Perhaps, Aunt Jane. Or his grandma. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

When your unconscious body came into Satoru’s line of sight, his body started to shake more violently, but . . . but he used the little strength he had to pull himself out of that wheelchair and sit by your side.

His hand graced your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin like he had done a thousand times before, and the thought of this being the last time made him wish he were dying with you.

Satoru leaned down.

Sometimes, Satoru would wander into the master bedroom and notice that you were fast asleep. A mischievous smirk would appear on his face at the sight of his cute wife and her gentle snores, and he’d sneakily approach your bedside, lean down, and kiss your lips.

Now, he pressed his lips against yours, and much like during your slumber, your lips didn’t move against his. However, during those times, they were still plump. Still warm with life.

But now? Now, it felt like he was kissing a corpse.

Your body jolted.

For a moment, Maya thought she was witnessing one of her favorite fairytales come to life! The prince kisses the sleeping princess, she awakens, and they live happily ever after!

But though you were moving, your eyes were still closed.

Your body rapidly jerked, the nearby machines started beeping with great urgency, and she was being pulled off the bed by Uncle Kento, meanwhile, her father was calling for you as he too was pulled away.

Maya was being rushed out of the room, but she saw the strange people in those blue clothes surround you, and heard a word being repeated over and over again: seizure.

—

Two hours had passed.

You hadn’t yet passed on. Not yet. That surprised no one, as you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t fighting like hell to stay alive.

But there was no suffering worse than the waiting.

Two hours turned to three, then four. During which, people filtered in and out of both your hospital room and the waiting room.

Satoru, however, didn’t leave your side. His head didn’t so much as flinch in a different direction. His hand never let go of yours.

“I couldn’t convince him to come back inside. I’m sorry.”

That voice belonged to Maki.

She had been outside for the last fifteen minutes, trying her hardest to convince Megumi to return to your hospital room.

Yuji, who was sitting on the edge of your bed, turned his head to the side to glance at Satoru. His father was in his own world, though.

“I’ll try,” Yuji mumbled weakly.

“Yuji, are you sure?” Kento, who had now taken off his jacket and had one of the twins in his arms, raised his eyebrows. Everyone knew what his four worlds really meant. Are you sure you want to risk not being by her side when she goes?

“I won’t be long.” Yuji was on his feet.

He reached out, touching Satoru’s shoulder.

The man didn’t react to his touch. That world of his was all-consuming.

And with that, Yuji sought out the nearest exit and stepped into the fading darkness.

Megumi was sitting on a bench right outside the hospital doors. The distant streetlights did little to illuminate him or the path Yuji took to the bench. The teenager sat down beside his brother, and for a moment, they were silent.

“You need to be there,” Yuji said softly. “She’d want you to be there.”

“You’re wrong. She’d want us as far away as possible so we don’t have to see her this way.” Megumi’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You forget, I’ve known her since I was seven.”

“Don’t do this now, Megumi.”

“Do what? Tell you that I was right? That something bad was bound to happen soon enough?”

“Hey,” Yuji’s jaw trembled. “She’s still alive. She could still-”

“She won’t. You’re thinking like a goddamn child.” “You’re just like Maya. You think she’ll magically wake up. You’re the one who needs to wake up, Yuji. Nothing good ever lasts long. I told you that. Repeatedly. If you had listened to me, then you would’ve been prepared for . . . prepared for this.”

Megumi leaned over, his elbow pressing into his knee. There was some sort of odd noise that escaped him. Yuji couldn’t quite tell if it was a cry or if he was on the verge of puking again.

“Satoru won’t recover from this. He won’t. None of you will. But me? I’ll be . . . just fine. I knew better than to think that our happy family would . . . that our . . .”

Yuji was quite certain now that he was crying. As his shoulders trembled, his nails dug into the skin of his hands.

Yuji leaned forward and wrapped an arm around his brother. Yuji was, once again, crying as well; it surprised him, as he was certain that, by now, he would have run out of tears.

“Come back inside, okay? You need us and we need you. You might be right about her not wanting us to witness this, I don’t know. But we both know that, deep down, she needs us.”

—

Night turned to day.

As time drifted on and became one, long, miserable existence, Satoru could hear voices around him, speaking to you, speaking to him, speaking to others.

“Momma? It’s Yuji, again. The day I met you was one of the best days of my life. We had only known each other for forty minutes, and already, I knew what it felt like to be loved by a mother, ya know? Thank you for adopting me. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for . . . for everything. I love you, Momma.”

“I’m here too, Mom. I’m sorry I left earlier, but I’m here now. I just wanted to say that . . . I regret not letting you hug me more often. I regret taking so long to acknowledge you as my mother. I hope you know I appreciate everything you’ve ever done for me. I hope it’s not too late for me to finally tell you that I love you. But I’ll always regret not saying it sooner. I’m sorry.”

“Mrs. Gojo, it’s Nobara. Thank you for everything. All of the meals, shopping sprees, fixing holes in my uniform so I didn’t have to buy a new one . . . you’re an amazing woman. I wish you were my mom too, if I’m being honest here.”

“It’s Kento. Thank you for almost fifteen years of friendship. Thank you for making me a member of your family. I promise I’ll watch over them.”

The goodbyes were endless. Satoru heard every single one as he sat by your side, his eyes studying your face, his hand stroking your cheek.

Then, people started speaking to him.

“Satoru, you should try to eat something.”

“I’m going to set this water down right here, Mr. Gojo. We can bring food from the cafeteria up to your family.”

“Satoru, do you need to stretch, or use the bathroom?”

“Satoru?”

—

Day turned to night.

There was this dangerous amount of hope trying to sneak its way into the hearts of everyone waiting for what might have been the inevitable end.

After all, it had been almost twenty-four hours since the doctor inaccurately predicted your impending demise, and you were still hanging on. Still breathing. Still fighting.

The doctor informed everyone that there had been a slight improvement in your overall health, but he chose his words carefully — the last thing he wanted was to spread misplaced optimism. But he was confident that you weren’t going to cross the line from this world and into the afterlife tonight.

A lot of people went home then to tend to their needs. To shower, to sleep, to eat. The twins and Maya were taken to your house, being watched over by their aunt, but Yuji, Megumi, and Satoru refused to leave your side for longer than five minutes.

“Here,” Kento passed the two boys sitting in the chairs of your hospital room two sandwiches wrapped in foil.

They didn’t take it at first.

“Please, try to eat,” Kento said urgently, yet gently. “You need to eat something. You need to try.”

They took the sandwiches with great hesitation then.

Kento then approached Satoru.

“Satoru, you need to let us help you. You haven’t moved in a long, long time.”

There was a noise so quiet, Satoru wasn’t certain if it was a machine beeping or Satoru saying, “No.”

“Satoru-”

“No.” His voice was raspy. “Told her I’ll be right here. I’m not moving.”

“You can stay right here and still eat or drink something.”

“My wife is dying, Kento. I don’t give a damn about myself right now. I’m not doing anything. I don’t fucking care about what I might need.” Satoru took hold of your hand.

Kento sighed. He couldn’t help it. But even so, he stepped away. If it came down to it, he’d force some broth down Satoru’s throat later on, somehow, someway.

“Baby,” he croaked out. “I’m right here . . . I’m right here, baby. You’re not alone. I know you’re tired, sweetheart . . . I know. If-If you need to rest, it’s okay. I won’t . . . I . . . I love you so much, sweetheart. I’m not leaving your side.”

Aside from saying that he loved you, aside from promising to never leave your side, there was not one part of Satoru’s soul that believed what he was saying. He didn’t want you to leave him. He didn’t want to say goodbye. But, he also didn’t want you to die with the guilt and burden of knowing he was begging you to stay, and you couldn’t.

“I always say that . . . that we’re soulmates in every lifetime, remember?” His tears splattered onto your oxygen tube. “Wait for me. You’ll wait for me, won’t you, sweetheart?”

Satoru had been sitting still without any substantial food, water to quench his thirst, or decent amounts of sleep for quite some time. Therefore, he was certain he was hallucinating when he felt you squeeze his hand.

Your dry lips parted.

“‘Toru . . . ‘Toru . . . Sa . . . ‘Toru . . . eat.”

“Oh my god,” Satoru brought his ear to your lips, trembling as his tears started to slide sideways across his face. He was right. He was right! You were trying to speak. “Oh my god. Baby, can you hear me? Can you? Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“No, no, no. What’s wrong? What happened?” Yuji asked, his nibbled sandwich hitting the floor and spewing lettuce across it, and he rushed over with Megumi.

The boys feared the worst.

Naturally.

But when they made their way to your bedside as nurses started to flood in, they saw it.

The slight flutter of your eyelids.

They heard it.

The barely audible mumbles.

“Eat, ‘Toru . . . eat.”

—

The recovery of your mind, body, and soul was a miracle.

There was no other word to describe the event in which a person walks away from death itself.

When your eyes opened fully, Satoru fainted. Your two boys sobbed — this time, it was tears of joy — and they watched as the excited, albeit confused, medical staff tended to your needs.

Two hours later, Satoru had been unhooked from the IV the nurses had to force into his veins due to his severe dehydration and shock, and you had started to regain the ability to fully talk, open your eyes, and grasp the situation before you.

You blinked away your blurry vision as a nurse raised your bed a bit. Right before you was Satoru’s tear-soaked face.

“You’re alive,” he smiled tearfully, cupping your face. He smashed his wet lips against yours. They were warm with life yet again. “You’re alive. You lived. My baby fucking lived. I love you so much, do you understand me? I can’t believe it. I can’t.”

“Did . . . did you eat . . . did you eat something?” You asked weakly, your sunken eyes filled with concern.

Satoru shook his head in disbelief. “Sweetheart, please worry about yourself for once. I almost lost you, baby. I . . . oh my god. I almost lost you.”

Yuji and Megumi couldn’t wait any longer.

Yuji slung himself across you, rougher than he intended to, hugging you tight with his shaking limbs.

“Momma . . . thank goodness,” he cried.

“Be careful with her, Yuji,” Kento warned, but he couldn't help but let a couple of tears fall. “I’m going to call everyone and let them know.”

Megumi had to practically grip Yuji’s shoulders and pull him off of you, but not necessarily because he was practically crushing your weak body, but because Megumi needed to do something he hated himself for not doing enough. He needed to hug you.

Seeing that crying teenager take over Yuji’s spot, lean forward, and wrap his arms around you truly helped you grasp the reality of your situation.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I love you, Mom. I do. I swear I do.”

“I wasn’t done hugging her, Megumi!” Yuji tried to pull his brother away, but the dark-haired boy fought to keep his spot, ignoring him.

“‘m sorry for . . . scaring . . . scaring all of . . . you,” you mumbled, gently rubbing Megumi’s back. “Where’s . . . my little girl? . . . My babies?”

“They’re on the way,” Kento walked over, his phone in hand. He gave you a warm smile. “You are truly a fighter, Mrs. Gojo.”

Satoru had suddenly kissed you again, taking you by surprise, so much so that your oxygen tube almost fell out of your nose, and his tears started to wet your cheeks as well. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours and pressed a quick kiss against your cheek. “I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

—

You had to be transferred to a bigger hospital room with an enormous hospital bed. It was all because your sons, your husband, and Maya all wanted to cling to your side and never let you go, and your relatives, friends, and Satoru’s students practically camped out in your room over the next several days.

Kaia was lying on your chest, babbling as she placed her hand on your cheek. Meanwhile, Kenji was gripping your hair, falling against you as he tried to bite it.

“Mrs. Gojo?” Yuta called out, approaching your bedside with Toge by his side.

“Hm?” You gave them a tired smile.

“The other students and I were wondering if, well, whenever you had the energy, if we could-”

“If we could treat you and Satoru to the best dinner of your lives!” Nobara interrupted, practically bouncing with excitement as she reached for your hand.

“No, no, you guys don’t have to do that.”

“You almost died. We’re not taking no for an answer,” Maki said, standing near the foot of your bed. “Let us do something nice for you for once.”

You gave them a little nod, and the students cheered, though in truth, they had much more than a dinner planned. A dinner was part of it, yes, but they would also buy you tickets to a play you’ve been wanting to see according to Satoru, along with whatever else they could brainstorm and afford after adding up their money.

—

There was a party that began early in the day and lasted well into the night once you returned home.

There was more food than your refrigerator could hold, more gifts than you had room for despite the massive size of your home, and more love and affection than your heart could handle.

After everyone left, urging you to rest, you found yourself tucking Maya into her bed.

“Teeth brushed?” You asked.

“Uh-huh!”

“All clean?”

“Yep!”

“Tummy full?”

“Yep! Yep!”

“Stuffed animals kissed?”

“Uh-huh!”

“Ready to sleep?”

“No, nuh-uh,” the young girl shook her head. “I wanna stay up some more.”

“No, it’s well past your bedtime, honey.” You planted a kiss on her forehead. “Good night.”

“Night night, mommy. I love you very, very, very much.”

“I love you very, very, very, very much as well.”

You rose to your feet and left her room, but you didn’t make it far. Your two boys were standing in the hallway. Yuji approached first, wrapping his arms around you.

“Goodnight, momma. Love you,” he smiled softly.

“Goodnight, I love you more.”

It was Megumi’s turn then. His hug was more gentle than Yuji’s, but it lasted just as long.

“Goodnight Megumi. I love you,” you rubbed his back.

“I love you too, Mom,” Megumi mumbled. Pulling away, he said, “Goodnight.”

Your boys started to head to their rooms. Suddenly, Yuji paused.

“Oh! Uh, Dad asked for you to meet him in the living room,” Yuji said with a small smile.

—

You noticed the dancing flames across the walls before you fully stepped into the living room and noticed all of the candles.

The couches had been moved, and softly, gentle romance music played from a speaker — loud enough for you to hear it, but low enough for it not to disturb the children.

Satoru extended his hand to you, a gentle smile upon his face. “If you aren’t too tired, I’d love to dance with you.”

“Lucky for you, I feel just fine.” You placed your hand into his, your smile matching his own.

Your husband pulled you close, and slowly, you both began to spin and sway around the living room.

“Satoru?”

“Hm?”

“Be honest with me. Does a small part of you regret marrying someone who has done nothing except cause you grief and make you worry?” You looked into his eyes, searching his blue ones for answers to the question you asked with great hesitance. “I survived, but . . .”

“And that’s all that matters. You survived. You mean everything to me, so yeah, I get worried sick when something happens to you, but I think it’s an amazing privilege to love someone this much. It’s all too rare in this world.” Satoru kissed the top of your head. “There isn’t any part of me that regrets falling in love with you, marrying you, and having kids with you, and I never will.”

“I must admit, it’s kinda nice to be spoiled like this,” you said.

“Yeah? Well, I’ll even watch Titanic with you again. How does that sound?” Satoru made you twirl, and jokingly, he twirled as well, his heart skipping a beat at the sound of your laughter as he pulled you closer yet again.

“No thanks, we just went through our own tragic romance for a minute there,” gazing up at him, you continued, “I’ll settle for your awful movie picks for now.”

“What about my taste in music? Do you like this song?”

You listened to the beautiful melody for a moment. The song itself was rather familiar, and you smiled wholeheartedly as sweet memories of your wedding came flooding back to you.

“You know I do. It’s from our wedding.”

“I still can’t believe I actually married you sometimes. I love you more than you know.” Satoru grinned with satisfaction. He then captured your lips in a long, soft, and passionate kiss.

And as the song came to an end, you rested your head against your husband, and he held you, the love of his life, letting your warm body serve as a reminder that you were still alive.

You were still with him.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest. 

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent. 

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence. 

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time? 

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown. 

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care. 

He isn't a villain-in-training. 

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children. 

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents. 

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet. 

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it. 

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class? 

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes. 

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing. 

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now. 

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again. 

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good. 

Happy. 

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time. 

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto. 

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero. 

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good. 

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever." 

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk. 

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher. 

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember. 

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing. 

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle. 

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute. 

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all. 

He hangs back. 

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto. 

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was. 

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds. 

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back. 

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose. 

And the underdog in question can read a room. 

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions. 

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment. 

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell. 

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?" 

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy." 

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog." 

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya. 

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?" 

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath. 

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates. 

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful. 

Fuyumi's contribution. 

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back. 

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine. 

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables. 

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you. 

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A. 

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks. 

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass. 

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy. 

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him. 

Until this morning, that is. 

You smile into your drink. 

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot. 

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school. 

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so. 

It's adorable. 

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home. 

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it. 

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you. 

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss. 

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen. 

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you. 

It's sweet.

Really sweet. 

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit. 

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there. 

Your stomach does a flip. 

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure. 

Keep it together. 

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years. 

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment. 

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park. 

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly. 

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest. 

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now. 

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. 

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone. 

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful. 

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.  

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together. 

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. 

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did. 

It shows. 

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory. 

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined. 

And then you whimper. 

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching. 

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up. 

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him. 

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that? 

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect. 

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person. 

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face. 

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs. 

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend.