yi ^_^

you had signed them last night, your hand steady, your heart a curious, hollow thing. you had expected to feel something…relief, perhaps, or sadness. but there was only a strange emptiness, like a room cleared of furniture. 

it was the right thing to do in your head. the contract marriage your parents had arranged was for two years, and two years had passed. you both were still so young, only in your twenties. you couldn't keep him bound to a ghost of a marriage, a political arrangement that had served its purpose. the kingdoms were stable now, the alliances secure. there was no need for this performance any longer.

he deserved to find love, real love, with someone who could laugh with him, talk with him, share a life with him beyond the rigid performance you both put on for the court. you thought of the way he looked at other couples sometimes, at banquets and gatherings, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before it was smoothed away. you had always assumed it was contempt for their frivolity. now you wondered if it was something else entirely.

he was a good duke, everyone said so. not that you needed others to say it, even you could see it. he was strong, silent, fair. the servants respected him, the council listened to him, the people adored him from afar. and he was handsome, in a way that was easy to forget because you never really looked at him. not really. you looked at the duke. you never looked at kento. 

his blonde hair was always perfectly in place, his clothes impeccable, his bearing that of a man who had never doubted his place in the world. but sometimes, in the briefest moments before sleep claimed him, you had seen his face soften, the lines of responsibility easing, and he had looked almost young. almost vulnerable. you had always turned away then, feeling like an intruder.

your marriage had a specific contract, written and agreed upon by your parents, of course. you and Duke Nanami had agreed that you would sleep in the same bed every night, but even with that, absolutely no words were exchanged towards each other. for two years, you had gone to bed next to each other as an obligation, two figures on opposite sides of a vast mattress, the space between you a silent treaty. 

in public, you pretended to be a loving couple, your hand on his arm, his rare smiles directed at you, but it was only in public. you two barely spoke to each other not in the public's eyes, and if you spoke, it was only for political reasons. 

you had to dine together at least once a day, no words spoken, only utensils would be heard. you had memorized the sound of his knife against bread, the way he stirred his tea exactly three times, always to the left. these small, meaningless details had become the entire vocabulary of your marriage.

you waited until he had finished his first cup of tea. he was buttering a piece of toast with precise, economical movements, his focus entirely on the task. you took a breath, the sound seeming impossibly loud in the quiet room, a crack in the stillness.

you pushed the papers across the table. they slid over the polished wood, the edges whispering against the surface, coming to a stop just beside his plate.

he looked at them. his hand stilled on the butter knife.

this movement was not something very unusual for you two. you would often share documents that needed second opinions with each other, only because you were the duke and duchess. financial reports, invitations, diplomatic correspondence. you had passed papers back and forth like this a hundred times. a thousand. your hand knew exactly how far to reach.

for a long, terrible moment, he didn't move. then his eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned the top page. you watched his gaze travel across the words, and you saw the moment he understood. his jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the smooth skin of his cheek. his knuckles, still resting on the table, went white.

you had prepared a little speech. something about it being for the best, about freedom, about gratitude. you had rehearsed it in the mirror last night, your reflection calm and composed. but the words died in your throat as he looked up at you.

there was no relief in his eyes. no acceptance.

there was a raw, confusing anger. it burned there, fierce and uncontrolled, and it was the most emotion you had ever seen on his face. it transformed him. he was no longer the composed duke. he was a man on the edge of something.

"what is this?" his voice was a low rasp, a sound you hadn't heard in two years. it wasn't the cold, political tone he used at court functions. it was rough, broken, barely contained. this was different. this was him, this was kento.

"the terms are fulfilled," you said, your own voice quiet, matching the room's silence, though inside you were trembling. "the contract is complete. we can… we can end this. you can find a real wife you actually want to speak to."

his chair scraped back with a violent screech against the marble floor, a sound so harsh and sudden it made you flinch. he stood, looming over the table, his hands flat on its surface, leaning towards you. his breakfast was forgotten, the toast growing cold, the tea untouched.

"don't worry, i have compiled everything to make sure the divorce is smooth. rumors should die out in less than two months—" you continued, your voice mechanically reciting the practicalities you had so carefully arranged, but he interrupted.

"what did i do wrong?" he asked, the anger in his voice cracking, revealing something else beneath it. pain? desperation? "tell me. what have i done that you would want to leave?"

you were stunned. wrong? he had done nothing wrong. that was the entire point. "you did nothing," you said, trying to be gentle, though your heart was pounding now. "that's just it. we have no… connection. we have an arrangement. it's done. you're free."

"free?" he spat the word out like it was poison, like it burned his tongue. he stared at you for another agonizing second, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes searching your face for something you couldn't name. then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving his half-eaten meal and the signed papers on the table.

the silence he left behind was different. it was empty and sharp, like a blade. you sat there for a long time, staring at the empty chair, at the papers, at the cold toast. you didn't understand, you had given him exactly what he should have wanted.

that night, you were already in bed, your back to the center, as always. you had maintained this position for two years, a silent declaration of boundaries. you heard the door open and close. you felt the dip of the mattress as he climbed in on his side.

the space between you felt like a chasm, wider than it had ever been. you could feel his anger, a hot, tense energy radiating from him, filling the darkness. you turned your head on the pillow, and in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, you could see his face. 

his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, his expression carved from stone, but his jaw was tight with a fury he was barely containing. his hands, resting at his sides, were clenched into fists.

"why?" you whispered into the darkness. it felt weird speaking to him so late into the night. you slept next to each other every day for two years, but when was the last time you two spoke in this situation? you couldn't remember. perhaps never.

he didn't answer. he just closed his eyes with a long, slow sigh, the sound heavy with something that might have been exhaustion or despair. he turned slightly away from you, his back now a wall between you, shutting you out completely.

great.

the days that followed were a new kind of torture. the silence was no longer peaceful. it was hostile, charged. 

you tried to bring it up again at dinner. you opened your mouth to speak, and he stood immediately, his chair scraping back, and left without a word, his food untouched. 

you tried to catch him in the hallway. he walked past you as if you weren't there, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his jaw set. his aide looked back towards you in confusion, perhaps thinking you two had your first marital spat but didn't dare question. 

but given everything, every night, without fail, he was in that bed. angry, present, unmoving. you could feel the heat of his rage even in sleep, could hear the tension in his breathing. it was maddening.

finally, one evening, you had had enough. the silence had become unbearable, a weight pressing down on you. you couldn't live like this, in this limbo of unanswered questions and unspoken accusations.

you found him in his study, a room you rarely entered. it was his sanctuary, his domain. he was standing by the fireplace, a glass of wine in his hand, staring into the flames. the firelight played across his features, carving deep shadows under his eyes, making him look older, wearier. you closed the door behind you with a firm click, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

"i deserve an answer, your grace," you said, using his title as a shield, as a reminder of the distance between you. "why are you so against this? we are strangers."

he didn't turn around. his shoulders were rigid, the fine fabric of his coat straining across his back. "you think i am a stranger to you?" his voice was low, controlled, but there was a tremor beneath it.

"we have not spoken a single personal word to each other in two years," you said, your voice rising slightly, the frustration of all those silent days finally spilling out. "we share a bed, we share meals, and we share nothing. i know the sound of your breathing at night better than i know your thoughts. i know how you take your tea, but i don't know if you're happy. i don't know if you've ever been happy. i am offering you an out. i am offering you freedom."

he finally turned. his face was a mask of pain, so raw and open it made your breath catch in your throat. his eyes were bright, too bright, and he set the glass down with a sharp clink that seemed to shatter the last of his composure.

"you think this is a loveless marriage?" his voice was rough, broken, barely a whisper. he took a step towards you, then stopped, as if afraid to come closer, as if you might shatter if he touched you. "you think i did this because i felt nothing?"

you just stared at him, utterly confused. your mind, which had been so certain, so prepared, was suddenly blank.

"i was distant because i had to be," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if a dam had finally broken. "my first duty was to make this duchy strong. not for me. for you." he breathed out, a shaky, uneven sound. his eyes showed a mix of anger and… guilt? self-recrimination? "i have spent every waking hour for two years strengthening our position, securing alliances, building our coffers. i trained with the sword until my hands bled, until i couldn't hold a pen, so that if anyone ever threatened you, i could stand between you and them and they would not get past me. i made money, enough money, so you could have anything you wanted, anything at all, without ever having to ask or worry, without ever having to feel the limitations of this duchy." his voice broke completely on the last words. "i did it all for you."

tears were pricking at your own eyes now, hot and unwelcome. this couldn't be true. it couldn't.

"what do you mean you did this all for me? no offense, your grace, you have given nothing to go off of! to my knowledge, we didn't even know of each other's presence before the marriage ceremony itself." your voice was shaking now, the careful composure you had maintained for two years crumbling.

he took a shaky breath, the anger gone, replaced by a desperate vulnerability that made him look younger, softer. "you want me to sign these papers? you want me to let you go?" he looked away, his gaze lost in the flames again, as if he couldn't bear to see your reaction. "i saw you during the imperial ball when we were both sixteen. you wore the most beautiful gown, pale gold, like the first light of morning. it perfectly complemented you. the jewels in your hair sparkled against the chandelier's light, but they were nothing compared to your eyes. you were standing by the window, looking out at the garden, and you didn't know anyone was watching. you had this small, secret smile on your face, like you knew a wonderful secret that the rest of the world was too busy to notice." his voice dropped even lower. "i have been yours ever since that moment. every breath, every thought, every action. all of it has been for you."

the world tilted. you remembered that ball. that was technically your first social debut into high society. you had been terrified, overwhelmed by the noise and the people and the expectations. you had escaped to the window for a moment of peace, and you had been looking at a rose bush in the garden below. you had smiled because a little bird had landed on it, a tiny flash of life in the formal, manicured space. and he had been watching.

"i… i didn't know," you whispered, the words feeling wholly inadequate, a pathetic response to the revelation that had just shattered everything. "you never said…"

"i… i apologize for that." he finally met your eyes again, and the pain there was almost unbearable to witness. "i thought the silence was what you wanted. you were always so composed, so regal, so untouchable. i thought you needed a partner who was strong and steady, not one who would burden you with foolish feelings, with weakness. i thought if i could just make everything perfect, if i could build a world where you wanted for nothing, then one day you might look at me and see someone worthy. i was trying to be what you needed."

he finally crossed the room, stopping right in front of you. he was so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him, could smell the faint scent of woodsmoke and wine. he didn't touch you, but his dark eyes held yours, pleading, desperate. "the duchy was in the best shape when i first inherited it after our marriage, but it wasn't good enough. not for you. knights were missing a captain, the staff was full of spying rats from rival houses, our treasury didn't even have enough to buy a gown worthy of being taken to an imperial ball." he admitted, finally looking away, shame coloring his features. "i spent all my time during the marriage working to strengthen us, to strengthen things for you. you are a princess…" he hesitated, then slowly reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of your hair with a tenderness that made your heart clench. he held it, watching it shine in the fire's light. "i couldn't let you be treated as anything less. i couldn't let you regret marrying me. but i see now… i see i have neglected you in the process. i was so focused on building a fortress that i forgot to live in it with you."

"don't go," he whispered, the words barely audible, a broken plea. "please. give me a chance to show you. not the duke. not the title. just me. kento. let me try to make you feel even a fraction of what i have felt for you every single day for the past six years."

you were lost. completely, utterly lost. the foundation of your entire marriage, your entire understanding of your life for the past two years, had crumbled to dust at your feet. he wasn't a cold, distant duke who tolerated your presence. he was a man who had been silently, desperately, impossibly in love with you since before you even knew his name.

you shook your head, not in refusal, but in sheer overwhelm. your mind was a storm, a chaos of confusion and disbelief and a strange, terrifying warmth blooming in your chest. "i don't… i don't know how to feel. i convinced myself there was nothing here. i built my entire existence around that nothing. not that i had any reason to do otherwise."

"then let me help you find out," he said, a fragile hope flickering in his eyes, so tentative it might have been extinguished by a single harsh word. "just… stay. stay, and let me try. let me court you. let me show you who i am when i'm not trying to be the perfect duke." he swallowed hard. "and if, after that, you still do not want this marriage… i shall not hold you down. i will sign the papers. i will let you go, even if it destroys me. please. just let me try."

you didn't agree that night. you couldn't. your voice wouldn't work, your thoughts wouldn't settle. you just turned and walked out of the study, your footsteps echoing in the silent hallway. you went back to your shared room, your mind a storm of confusion and a strange, budding warmth that you didn't trust. he followed later, much later, and for the first time, he didn't stay on his side. he laid facing your back, just watching you in the darkness, a silent sentinel. you could feel his gaze on you, a gentle pressure, and for once, it didn't feel like an intrusion. it felt like a promise.

the next morning, he was not in bed. nothing out of the ordinary; he always woke up before you and left. the empty space beside you was familiar, expected.

what was odd was the single, perfect white rose from the garden in a small crystal vase on the bedside table. it hadn't been there when you fell asleep. a note in his elegant script was tucked beneath it, simply reading, 'for the smile.'

you stared at it for a long time, your fingers tracing the delicate petals. for the smile. the smile he had seen six years ago. the smile you had forgotten.

at lunch, he asked you a question. a real question. "what is your favorite color?"

it was so simple, so startling, you almost laughed. after being his wife and duchess nanami for two years, after sharing a bed and a table and a life, he would finally know your favorite color. "blue," you said. "like the sky at twilight. when the day is ending but the night hasn't quite taken over yet."

he nodded, a small, private smile on his lips that transformed his entire face. the lunch continued with small back and forth questions. he asked about your favorite food, your favorite season, your favorite memory of your childhood. and you found yourself answering, found yourself asking him the same questions. 

you learned that he loved autumn, the crisp air and the changing leaves. that his favorite food was a simple warm bread his mother used to make. that his favorite memory was of his father teaching him to ride a stallion. the meal lasted twice as long as any meal you had shared in two years.

that evening, he took you for a walk in the ducal gardens. you had no idea how he had made spare time without warning, but you weren't going to turn down his invitation. 

the gardens were beautiful in the fading light, the flowers casting long shadows, the air heavy with the scent of roses and lavender.

he didn't try to hold your hand, but he walked close enough that his sleeve brushed yours, a constant, gentle reminder of his presence. 

he told you about his favorite tree as a boy, a massive oak he used to climb to escape his tutors. about the first horse he ever owned, a stubborn little pony named pepper who had thrown him more times than he could count. about a silly bet he'd lost to a friend at military academy that had resulted in him having to wear a dress to dinner. 

he was funny, and warm, and real, something the public would never believe you if you told them. he laughed, a real laugh, and the sound of it was so surprising, so lovely, that you found yourself smiling without meaning to.

over the next weeks, he courted you. truly courted you, as if you were meeting for the first time. he left small gifts on your dressing table: a book of poetry he thought you'd like, with certain passages marked, a beautifully colored scarf the exact shade of twilight blue, a tiny painting of a bird, like the one you had smiled at all those years ago.

he would find excuses to be near you, not as the duke, but as himself. he would read aloud in the sitting room in the evenings, his deep voice a comforting rumble as he brought stories to life. he taught you how to play chess, and he let you win, though you suspected he was holding back. 

he listened. for the first time in two years, he listened to your opinions, your little stories about your day, your memories of your own kingdom. he asked questions, real questions, and he remembered the answers. he started leaving his tea cup on your side of the table after breakfast, a small, silly gesture that made your heart flutter.

you were never one to carelessly spend for yourself, even as a princess in your kingdom, everything you owned was gifts from others because you said it felt wrong to spend others' earnings on yourself. when you told kento this small fact, you woke up to a new gift every day.

he had long noticed you were never one to spend much, but he brushed it off as you being able to tell the duchy was still too poor for your liking and spent more time trying to get more money. now that he knows that is not the reason, why should he hold back in showering his wife, duchess nanami, with gifts when he knows you will not spend it on yourself?

one evening, you were in the library, he was showing you a map of his lands, his finger tracing the rivers and mountains, explaining the history of each region, the stories of the people who lived there. you found yourself watching his hand, the strength in it, the grace with which he moved. you looked up and found him watching you, his gaze having left the map entirely. his eyes were soft, full of a tenderness that made your heart ache, that made you feel seen in a way you never had before.

"you have been… trying very hard," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper in the quiet library.

his lips curved into a hesitant smile, almost shy. "i told you i would. i meant it. i will spend the rest of my life trying, if you let me, every day, every moment. i have four years of catching up to do."

you looked at the map, then back at him. you thought of the two years of silence, of the anger in his eyes when you'd offered him freedom. you thought of the rose, the scarf, the sound of his laugh as you'd accidentally knocked over a rook during your chess game. you thought of the way he looked at you now, as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

you thought of the boy at the ball, watching you smile at a bird, and falling in love.

you reached out and placed your hand over his on the map. his whole body went still, his breath catching. his eyes widened, searching your face.

"i think," you said, your voice quiet but sure, the words feeling right for the first time in two years, "i would like to stay."

the smile that broke across his face was like the sun coming out after a long, grey winter. it was radiant, relieved, and full of so much love it made your own eyes sting with tears. he turned his hand under yours, lacing his fingers with yours, holding on tight as if you might disappear.

"thank you," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. he brought your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, then another, then a third, each one slower, more deliberate than the last. it was the first time he had ever touched you like that, with such deliberate tenderness. it was warm, and soft, and it felt like a promise. it felt like the beginning of something.

that night, when he climbed into bed, he didn't stay on his side. he shifted closer, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you gently against him. you could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against your back, a rhythm that seemed to match your own. he pressed a kiss to your hair, his lips lingering.

"goodnight," he whispered into the darkness, his breath warm against your skin.

and for the first time in two years, the silence in the room felt like home. it was no longer empty, no longer a void between strangers. it was full, rich, comfortable. it was the silence of two people who no longer needed words, because for the first time, they understood each other completely.

choso was, in fact, the best neighbor you’d ever had. he’d offered you smoked paprika when you were missing some, his large, tattooed hands looking absurdly careful with the tiny jar.

he always, without fail, turned his music down the second he thought it might be intrusive, his face a mask of genuine regret. and buddy… buddy was just joy on four legs, his tail a perpetual metronome of friendliness.

you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed more than just his neighborly qualities. the way his black tank tops strained just so over defined shoulders when he took buddy out in the mornings. the quiet concentration on his face as he checked his mail. the surprising softness of his eyes, usually lined with a bit of dark makeup, when they landed on his dog.

a lowkey crush? but there is no way he is on the market.

you hadn't found much luck with dating as everyone you had an interest in was already taken, so you expected the same with him.

today, had been a beast. a double shift on your feet, three minor disasters, and a coffee spill down your front that had long since dried into a sticky patch. all you wanted was your couch, a blanket, and to forget the world existed. you trudged into the complex’s courtyard, the evening sky bruised purple and grey.

you heard the frantic skid of paws on pavement a second before the impact.

seventy pounds of enthusiastic golden retriever hit you square in the chest with the force of a furry cannonball. the air left your lungs in a whoosh as you flew backwards, landing with a spectacular, wet squelch directly in the large, muddy puddle left by yesterday’s rain.

for a moment, you just lay there, stunned, staring at the sky. buddy’s happy, panting face filled your vision, his tongue lapping at your cheek apologetically.

“buddy??? oh my god.”

choso’s voice, usually so low and steady, was pitched high with panic. he sprinted over, his combat boots splashing in the mud. he dropped to his knees beside you, his face pale beneath his aesthetic. his eyes, wide and horrified, scanned you from head to toe.

“are you—are you okay? please, say something. i’m so sorry, he just saw a squirrel and bolted, the leash slipped, i’m so, so sorry—”

if anyone passed by and heard him, it wouldve sounded like his dog killed you or something.

his words tumbled out, frantic. you pushed yourself up on your elbows, mud oozing unpleasantly down your back, soaking into your ruined work clothes. you were a mess, cold, wet, and aching.

“i’m… i’m okay,” you managed, sitting up fully. “just startled. really, it’s fine.”

but it wasn’t fine to choso. he looked utterly devastated. his bottom lip actually trembled. he looked from your muddy, stained outfit to your face, and his eyes grew suspiciously shiny. he looked like he was about to cry for you.

“it is not fine,” he said, voice thick. “this is… this is a catastrophe. your clothes… please. you have to let me make this right. tell me what i can do. laundry? dry cleaning? a new outfit? anything! just name it im so sorry.”

your big, alt, gym-rat neighbor was kneeling in the mud, begging for forgiveness because his sunshine dog had tackled you. it was so profoundly choso that your heart did a funny little squeeze, cutting through the misery of your day.

you were cold, muddy, and had been eating instant ramen for a week straight because grocery shopping felt like climbing a mountain after work. you looked at his earnest, worried face, at the sheer beefy breadth of him hunched in concern. the warm hum in your chest got louder.

so you figured you would kill two birds with one stone.

a good meal... and a slight hint towards a date. if you was taken, you could brush it off as a friendly meal or even just uber food to your apartment! but if he DID take up the offer of a date...

“okay,” you said, your voice softer. “if you really insist on compensation.”

“anything,” he repeated, deadly serious.

“take me out to dinner.”

the words hung in the damp air between you. choso blinked. the worry on his face froze, then slowly morphed into confusion, then a dawning, shocked understanding.

a faint, rosy blush crept up his neck, over his sharp cheekbones, contrasting beautifully with his dark aesthetic. his eyes darted from your muddy eyes to the hopeful, probably-crazy look on your face, then down to buddy, who sat beside you, tail thumping happily in the mud, looking supremely pleased with himself.

this definitely planned this... he looks a little too smug... or maybe the ramen diet for a week straight is getting to you.

“dinner?” choso repeated, the word quiet.

“i’m covered in mud, i’m starving, and i haven’t had a proper meal in days,” you said, a little braver now. “you want to make it right? feed me.”

the silence stretched for a beat, then two. then, a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. he nodded, once, firmly. “yes. okay. yes, of course. dinner. just… let me help you up first. and you should change. i’ll… i’ll wait... it's a date then..?”

he offered you a hand, his fingers long and surprisingly elegant despite their size and the knuckle tattoos. you took it, letting him pull you up with effortless strength. you stood there, dripping, facing him.

“thank you,” you said, meaning it for more than just the hand up. "and yes, it is a date"

you actually scored, he wasn't taken! and he took the hint and asked you out!

“no,” he murmured, still holding your hand for a moment too long before letting go. “thank you. for not… being angrier. i’ll be ready whenever you are.”

as you squelched your way towards your door, you glanced back. choso was still standing in the puddle, watching you go, that faint blush still on his cheeks. and at his side, buddy looked up at you, his mouth open in a doggy grin, his tail wagging so hard his whole body swayed.

you pointed a mock-stern finger at him. “you,” you whispered. “you get the biggest treat later.”

buddy’s tail thumped in agreement. he definitely knew what he did.

a cold little trickle of dread went down your spine. you peeked at kento again. he was frowning slightly at his menu, a small line between his brows.

of course, you thought. he’s sophisticated. he’s been to places you’ve only read about. maybe this was what real, adult romance tasted like...weird and expensive. you didn’t want him to think you were boring. you didn’t want this fragile, new thing between you to snap because you couldn’t appreciate art on a plate.

this place was viral online and had reservations backed for 2 weeks, maybe you have been living under a rock and tuna with nutella is the next best thing...!

“the bone marrow consommé sounds… profound,” you ventured, your voice thinner than you wanted.

kento set his menu down.

he didn’t just set it down; he placed it with a finality that made the silverware shiver. then he reached across the small space. his hand, warm and large, covered yours where it lay clutching the terrible menu. his thumb stroked once, slowly, over your knuckles.

“your nose,” he said quietly.

“what?”

“it scrunches. right here.” with his free hand, he pointed gently to the bridge of his own nose. “it’s been doing it since you read the words ‘fish eyes’. and again at ‘chocolate bitter sauce’.”

your breath caught. you hadn’t known he watched you that closely.

“i’ve been watching you for a long time,” he said, as if hearing your thought. “long before i asked you to dinner. i know the face you make when you truly enjoy your food. it is not this face.”

the directness of it, the sheer observation, left you exposed. “i just… the reservations were placed two weeks ago. you picked this place. i didn’t want to spoil your night.”

“you are not a spoiler. you are the point of the night.” his words were simple, solid, like stones placed carefully in a stream to cross. “i do not like pretense. in my work, or in my life. i like good things, simply made. i like seeing you happy. this,”

he nodded at the menu, “does not make you happy. it does not make me happy either. the idea of nutella with fish is an affront.”

a helpless laugh bubbled out of you. the tension broke like a popped soap bubble. “it’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“it is objectively terrible.” a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. it was a rare gift, that smile, and it warmed you more than the candle ever could. “we do not have to eat here to have a date.”

“but i don’t want to go home yet,” you said, lacing your fingers with his now, holding on. “the night still feels… special. i just want to be with you.”

his hand tightened around yours. “then we will change the venue. my apartment is ten minutes away. we can order the spicy ramen from the place near me. the one with the excellent pork broth. we can eat it at the coffee table. and you can subject me to another episode of that cooking show where 6 year old kids can cook better than us.”

the offer was so perfectly, wonderfully them—already a ‘them’—that your chest felt too full. it was better than any fancy menu. it was real. “you remembered the show?”

“i remember everything about you,” he said, simply. he signaled for the check, his other hand still holding yours, an anchor in the sea of odd food.

twenty minutes later, you were in his tidy living room, your heels kicked off by the door. the rich, savory smell of ramen filled the air, steam fogging up the paper containers. you sat close together on his large, comfortable sofa, your legs tucked up.

you found the show, with its dramatic music and collapsing cakes. as a contestant wept over a soufflé, you felt kento’s arm settle around your shoulders, drawing you in against his solid side. you fit there, perfectly. you turned your face into the soft wool of his sweater, breathing in his scent. clean cotton, faint cedar, and now, wonderfully, of pork broth and home.

“this,” you whispered, your heart full and quiet, “is the best date.”

you felt his lips press gently, once, against the crown of your head. “i know,” he murmured into your hair, and for the first time all night, you knew he was smiling without having to see it at all.

he went out to get some takeout for dinner. it was supposed to be as usual, out for no more than 30 minutes and coming home to you on the couch with a bright smile.

he ripped a strip from his own shirt, the fabric tearing like a gunshot in the sudden quiet. “c’mon, just keep your eyes on me.”

what went wrong? he made sure everything in the house was locked, as usual. who attacked you?

your gaze was hazy, drifting past his shoulder to the distant, indifferent sky. the color was draining from your face, leaving it ashen, a stark contrast to the dark pool spreading beneath you.

each of your breaths was a shallow, wet thing that scared him more than any special grade ever had. he could see the faint flutter of your pulse in your throat, a frantic, fading bird.

he hasn't made any new enemies recently. all his jobs went pretty well without a hitch for months.

“this is stupid,” he muttered, his hands—those lethal, precise instruments—shaking as he wadded the fabric and pressed it hard against the ruin of your side. the red bloomed through the dark material instantly, stubborn and relentless.

“you’re gonna be fine. it’s just a scratch.” a lie so blatant it tasted like ash. it was a killing blow meant for him, one you’d intercepted with a fool’s bravery that was now breaking him apart.

someone found out his one true weakness. how did this happen?

a weak smile touched your lips, a ghost of your usual expression. “liar.”

“shut up. don’t talk.” he fumbled for his phone with one bloody hand, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy. calling for help was an admission of failure, of his own inadequacy in this moment, but his pride was nothing, less than nothing, compared to the terrifying lightness he felt as your body began to go limp against him.

the idea of this vibrant, stubborn warmth being snuffed out because of him, for him, was an abyss he could not look into.

your hand lifted, trembling, and brushed against his jaw. the touch was cold, so cold. “toji…”

“no.” he caught your hand, holding it tightly between both of his, as if he could transfer his own vitality into you through sheer force of will.

his own heart was pounding a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs. “you don’t get to say my name like that. like it’s goodbye. you stay with me, you understand? you stay.”

he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours, his voice dropping to a raw whisper. “please.” the word was foreign on his tongue, a beggar’s plea he’d never uttered, not even in his darkest childhood moments. “please, just hold on. help is coming. you have to hold on. for me. do it for me.”

calling an ambulance was never an option he gave for himself. too risky, all it takes is a background check and he would be behind bars for sure.

but he would rather tattle himself to the police then let you die in front of him.

what was the point of living if you weren't there with him?

he kept talking, a stream of consciousness filled with promises and threats. he promised you the world, a quiet life by the sea, anything. he threatened to never forgive you if you left him. all the while, his eyes never left your face, watching the slow, terrifying drift of your consciousness.

the ambulance arrival was a chaotic blur. the sterile, efficient EMTs pried you from his grasp.

he stood there, covered in your blood, a statue of devastation as they loaded you in. the ride to the hospital was a silent scream. the waiting room was a purgatory of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell. he paced, a caged animal, every second an eternity.

the memory of your cold hand, the feeling of your blood slowing under his palms, played on a loop. he saw it every time he closed his eyes.

when a weary doctor finally emerged to say you were out of surgery, that you would survive, the relief was so violent it was physical.

he sagged against the wall, the strength leaving his legs. he didn’t cry—toji fushiguro didn’t cry—but his breath came in ragged, shuddering gulps as the unbearable tension finally, finally snapped.

the man who came to your hospital room the next day was different.

the casual arrogance was gone, sanded away by terror. his eyes, usually so lazily assessing, now held a constant, simmering vigilance. he was there when you woke, his large hand already wrapped around yours.

your recovery was slow. he moved you into his new apartment and transformed it.

there was no way you two would be staying that his old apartment, what if the attacker came back? he is not taking any chances.

the sharp edges of tables were padded. the best groceries appeared in the fridge. he learned to cook simple, nourishing meals, his brow furrowed in concentration over a recipe on his phone.

toji fushiguro, a man who barely cooks and would rather have takeout every day, started learning warm meals full of nutrition to help you heal.

he was a constant, solid presence, always touching you: a guiding hand on your back, his fingers checking the pulse at your wrist under the guise of holding your hand, his arm a heavy, reassuring weight over you in the deep of night.

he could never sleep before he made sure you were nestled into his arms, safe in his biceps with a gun within reach behind the bed.

even with you in his arms, he’d wake from dreams where the blood didn’t stop, where your eyes stayed closed, and his hand would immediately find the raised, healing scar on your side.

he’d map its edges with his fingertips in the dark, a tactile proof that you were here, whole, alive. his love was no longer an unspoken pact. it was a palpable force, a fortress of anxious care.

the sight of you in a pool of your own blood followed him everywhere, even in his dreams. he woke up in cold sweat, hugging you tighter.

one evening, weeks later, you were curled against his side on the couch, a movie playing unseen. you felt the steady thump of his heart under your ear. you traced the back of his scarred knuckles with your thumb.

“what are you thinking about?” you asked softly.

his arm tightened around you, pulling you infinitesimally closer, a possessive, protective gesture that had become his new language. “nothing.”

you knew it was a lie. you saw the truth in the way his eyes tracked you like a compass point, in the way he subtly positioned himself between you and any open door, in the low, quiet tone he used when asking if you were tired.

the man who had faced down the world without a flicker of fear now carried a single, all-consuming one: the echo of that alley, the scent of your blood, and the silent, screaming void of a future without you in it.

he would spend the rest of his days ensuring that future never came to pass, his devotion a silent, unwavering vow written in every worried glance and every gentle, anchoring touch.

when he eventually got enough convincing from you and he saw with his own two eyes that you fully healed, he started working again.

not taking jobs... but hunting down whoever this attacker was. no one gets to hurt the light of his life and gets away with it.

it took a long time, and a lot of gentle coaxing, before he slowly, hesitantly, uncurled his claws and extended his arm back towards you. his entire body was tense, every muscle locked as he watched your every move.

if you showed even a small flinch of pain, he would never forgive himself.

you gently placed your palm on the top of his, your hand barely covering the width of one of the really tough, dark scales. you did not try to grip it, you simply rested it there, a warm, steady weight.

"see?" you whispered. "no harm done."

he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for an age, a slow, smoky sigh. he did not move, allowing you to keep your hand there until the last sliver of sun vanished below the horizon.

it was a small victory, but it felt immense.

the first time you tried to hug him, the fear was even greater.

you stood before him, your arms open wide. "it is called a hug," you explained. "you put your arms around someone to hold them close. it means you care for them very much."

sylus looked at your open arms. a low, anxious rumble started in his throat. "no. it is not possible. my scales are hard. my body is too large. if i were to relax my muscles, even for a moment, the weight of me could… could crush you." the word 'crush' was spoken with such horror it was barely audible.

"you won't crush me," you said, your voice gentle but firm. "how about this...i will hug you. you don't have to do anything. just… let me."

he shook his massive head, a gesture of genuine distress. "it is too great a risk. i cannot. find a softer creature for this. a rabbit. a deer."

"i do not want to hug a rabbit," you said, taking a small step closer. "i want to hug you."

it took even more reassurance than the hand-holding. you had to promise you would be the one to control the embrace, that you would step away the moment you felt even the slightest discomfort.

finally, with the air of a dragon walking into a trap, he gave a stiff, reluctant nod.

you stepped forward and pressed yourself against the warm smoothness of his chest. you wrapped your arms as far as they would go and squeezed.

he was already warm before when you were simply in his vincinity but now hugging? it was like a nice fireplace with a heartbeat.

sylus went absolutely rigid. he stopped breathing. you could feel his great heart, a slow, powerful drum against your ear, suddenly hammering against his ribs in a frantic, panicked rhythm. a terrified whine escaped him.

"your bones… they are like little twigs," he whispered, his voice strained. "i can feel them. i am going to break you."

"you are not," you murmured, your voice muffled against his scales. "i am perfectly safe. see? i am breathing. my bones are fine."

you held the hug for a long moment, feeling the terrifying tension in his body. then, ever so carefully, he moved. it was the barest shift, the gentle lowering of his head until the heavy, smooth curve of his jaw came to rest with infinite care on the top of your head.

it was his version of a hug, a gesture of immense trust and vulnerability. he held himself there, perfectly still, until you finally stepped back.

one day, he'll let himself do a full hug, but for now, this is what you're going to have to settle for.

the first kiss was what truly undid him.

you had been weaving a crown of wildflowers, flowers he had picked out for you.

when you finished, you walked over to him. "for you," you said, and you stretched up on your toes to place the crown of blue and yellow blossoms right between his horns.

as you did, your lips brushed against his lips.

it was the lightest, quickest touch. like a dandelion seed floating on the breeze.

sylus jerked back as if scalded. the flower crown slipped, but he caught it with a frantic claw before it could hit the ground. he would be damned if he let a creation you carefully made fall to its demise.

his crimson eyes were wide, pools of molten gold swimming with pure, uncomprehending shock. he stared at you, his mouth slightly agape.

"what… what was that?" he breathed. the usual rumble was gone from his voice, replaced by something soft and awestruck.

"a kiss," you said, your own cheeks feeling warm. "it is the most special kind of touch. it means… i love you."

he was silent for a long time, processing this. he slowly, reverently, placed the flower crown back on his head. then he looked back at you, his gaze intense and full of a new, overwhelming wonder.

"do it again," he pleaded, his voice a hushed whisper. "let me feel this so called 'most special kind of touch' again."

you smiled and stepped close again. this time, you pressed a deliberate, soft kiss to the same spot on his lip. you felt him shudder, a full-body tremor that ran from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail.

a low, keening sound escaped him, a sound of pure, overwhelmed emotion. he was learning a new language, one made of softness and warmth.

one evening, as the fireflies began to blink in the twilight, you were sitting between his front legs, your back resting against his chest. his purr was a steady, comforting vibration against your spine. he had been quiet for a while, his head lowered beside you.

then, he moved. he ducked his head and very carefully, very slowly, ran the broad, smooth side of his tongue along the entire length of your arm.

it was not a rough, cat-like lick. it was surprisingly soft, and warm, and wet. it was a deliberate, thorough gesture.

it made you shiver.

you jumped slightly, startled. "sylus? what are you doing?"

he did not answer with words. instead, he did it again, this time across your shoulder and up your neck, nuzzling into your hair with a soft, rumbling sound deep in his chest. he was meticulous, covering every bit of exposed skin he could reach. it was a slow, purposeful anointing.

"you were showing me your human ways of affection..." he started, while examining where to place his tongue next, "now it is time for me to show you a dragon's way."

when he finally pulled back, his eyes were soft. "you are mine," he rumbled, his voice thick with a deep, primal satisfaction. "my scent was fading. it must be clear. it must be strong. so all will know you are under my protection. so all will know you are loved by a dragon."

you were a little confused. you spent nearly every day with him; you were sure you always smelled of pine needles and sun-warmed stone, his unique signature. but you understood this was important to him.

it was a dragon's love, expressed not just with a kiss, but with a claiming, a ritual as ancient as his kind. you sat still, letting him continue his work, a small, tender smile on your face as the mighty dragon, who once feared his own touch, carefully and lovingly re-scented his most treasured possession, ensuring the whole world would know you were his, and in his heart, forever.

the purring stopped abruptly. a low, guttural rumble started deep in his chest, a sound so different it made you freeze. you looked up. his head was lifted, his neck stretched taut. his nostrils flared wide, pulling in the air around you with sharp, audible sniffs. the warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by a sharp, possessive intensity.

"you smell different," he growled. the sound was not friendly. it was the grating of stone, a warning. "the forest air on you is tainted. you smell of smoke. of crowded streets. of… another human. a man."

you slowly put your watering can down, the wooden handle suddenly feeling unsteady in your grip, but not afraid.

sylus, for as long as you've known of his presence around, has never harmed you. there was no reason for you to be afraid

"sylus, it's nothing. i had to go to the town market today. you know i go sometimes. the streets were just very crowded, that's all."

"who." the word was not a question. it was a command, and the ground beneath your feet seemed to tremble in response. a wisp of dark smoke, smelling of ozone and heated rock, curled from one of his nostrils.

your mind raced, trying to place the source of his agitation. "it was no one important! just… the baker's son, i think. his name is leo. i was turning a corner and he was carrying a big sack of flour. we just bumped into each other, that's all. it was an accident. he was kind about it and helped me steady myself."

the moment the name—leo—left your lips, sylus went completely rigid.

the low rumble in his chest erupted into a full, snarling growl that echoed through the clearing, sending birds scattering from the trees. "leo," he repeated, the name a foul, venomous thing on his tongue. smoke now poured freely from his nostrils, clouding the air between you with the scent of his agitation. "a… baker." he said the word with utter contempt, as if describing something weak and worthless. his eyes burned with a fire you had never seen directed at you before. it was jealousy, raw and primal.

before you could say another word to soothe him, he moved. with a powerful surge of coiled muscle, he launched himself into the sky. the beat of his vast, leathery wings was a thunderclap that whipped your hair and clothes violently. you stood there, stunned, watching his dark form disappear above the dense green canopy.

he was back within minutes, a terrifyingly swift hunter.

with a heavy thud that shook the cottage, he landed in the clearing. clutched in his formidable claws was the carcass of a massive, silver-furred stag. it was a magnificent beast, one that would have taken a party of the kingdom's best hunters days to track and great courage to bring down. he dropped it at your feet with a definitive, heavy thump, his chest puffed out, his obsidian scales gleaming with pride.

"see?" he declared, his voice a deep, proud rumble. he nudged the massive kill towards you with his snout, his eyes fixed on yours. "the finest meat in the forest. fresh. strong. full of life. i caught it for you. does your… baker… bring you such sustenance? can he provide the heart of the wild for you? can his soft, flour-dusted hands hunt and provide? or does he only offer you… weak grains and baked air?"

you stared at the stag, then back at his fiercely proud and deeply worried face.

a slow, aching understanding dawned.

this wasn't just about a strange scent. this was about territory. about possession. in his draconic mind, he saw a rival, a challenger for your attention, and he was trying to prove his superiority in the only way he knew how.

"sylus," you began, your voice gentle but firm. you crossed your arms over your chest. "that is a very impressive catch. and it is sweet of you to think of me. but i cannot eat an entire stag by myself. and i cannot make a new dress from rabbit fur or stag hide."

he blinked his large, intelligent eyes, the fire in them dimming to a confused smolder.

"i have to go to town sometimes," you continued, stepping a little closer, though the heat from his agitated body was intense. "it is not a choice. i need to buy cloth and needles and thread. i need soap and salt and things you cannot easily find in the forest. i am a human, and i live in a human world part of the time. when i am there, i might bump into people. it does not mean anything. leo is just a man who sells bread. that is all he is. i think that was the first time ive ever seen him"

he was quiet for a long moment, processing your words. the proud, rigid set of his shoulders slumped slightly.

the aggressive puff of his chest deflated. he looked from your face to the massive stag, then back to you, and let out a low, chuffing sound. he nudged the stag again, almost petulantly.

"but… my meat is better," he mumbled, his deep voice now a soft, rumbling plea. "it is stronger. better for you."

so clearly... he was still having lingering jealousy coursing through his veins.

later, as the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, you were admiring the soft, ethereal glow of the moon-petal flowers.

sylus watched you for a long time, his massive head tilted. then, he turned and, with astonishing delicacy, used the very tip of his wing to sweep a pile of his treasure towards you.

it was not just gold and gems, though there were glittering coins and deep green emeralds. there were rare, beautiful objects he had clearly collected over centuries: a perfectly preserved fossil of a prehistoric fern, a geode split open to reveal a stunning galaxy of violet amethyst crystals, a necklace woven from what looked like strands of starlight and one of his own, smaller, discarded scales.

all items that a jewel collector or archaeologist would faint at the sight of

he nudged the geode towards you with his nose. "this one," he rumbled, his voice low and intent. "it holds the memory of the earth's first breath. it is ancient and powerful."

his gaze was unwavering, filled with a desperate earnestness. "these are not just things. they are pieces of my hoard. my… heart. can your baker offer you the secrets of the world? can he give you a piece of his soul? can he show you the history locked in stone?"

ah... still having a one-sided beef with the baker.

he lowered his great head until his warm, scaled forehead was gently pressing against your chest. the growl was gone, replaced by a deep, thrumming vibration that felt like a plea resonating deep within your own bones. the scent of smoke was gone, replaced by the clean, sharp scent of the forest at night.

"stay here, little one," he whispered, the sound so quiet it was almost carried away by the breeze. "with me. my forest is your forest. my treasure is your treasure. my protection is yours. i can keep you safe. i can give you wonders. choose my fire. please. do not… do not seek warmth from his feeble, mortal hearth."

and in that moment, you saw it all. the jealousy, the grand displays of hunting and wealth, the desperate hints. it wasn't the aggression of a monster.

it was the fear of a lonely, ancient creature who had finally found something precious, something he considered his, and was terrified to the core of losing it to another. he was trying to prove he was the better provider, the better protector, in the only language a dragon knew.

you reached up and wrapped your arms as far as you could around the thick base of his neck, burying your face in the warm, smooth scales. "silly dragon," you murmured, your voice muffled against him. "your meat is the best. your treasures are the most beautiful. and your fire is the warmest thing i have ever known. i come back to you, don't i? i always come back."

he let out a long, shuddering sigh, a hot breath that stirred your hair. he leaned into your touch, his massive body relaxing, the tension finally bleeding away. he might not fully understand your human world, but he understood your touch, your scent, and your promise to return.

"...i am also certain i am capable of creating better creations than that measly mortal human baker."

"have you ever even tried making bread, oh-mighty-dragon?"

"... no but if it shall make you happy, i shall learn. nothing a human can do i cannot."

attempt one: the extra lunch

it happens during the second week of your attempt at subtle courtship. you’d woken up a little early, made yourself a bento, then realized you had enough ingredients to make a second one. you decorated his a little. nothing crazy. just a little cute.

you sit across from him and set the bento down in front of him. “i made extra today. figured you might want some.”

he blinks a few times, like his brain is buffering. then he smiles, bright and grateful. “really? thank you! did i forget my lunch again?”

you point at the neatly packed box beside him. “you didn’t.”

he follows your finger. “oh. right.” he laughs at himself. “i guess you just made extra-extra then! thank you so much! this looks amazing!”

you watch as he digs in, humming at every bite, praising your cooking like you’re presenting to michelin judges. it’s cute. it’s sweet. it’s also devastating.

not once does he look at you like he’s connecting a single dot. not even half a dot.

your hope takes its first wound.

attempt two: post-training treatment

class training ends with everyone bruised, sweaty, and tired. izuku, as always, has managed to scrape his knuckles again. he’s talking with ochako when you approach, holding the little first-aid supplies you brought specifically for moments like this.

“izuku,” you say, “sit for a second.”

he does, obedient in that way that almost annoys you because he listens but never notices. he looks up at you with round, curious eyes. “is something wrong?”

you hold up the disinfectant. “your hands.”

he looks down like he didn’t even realize anything was bleeding. “oh. i… yeah. i can do that, you don’t have to—”

“i want to,” you repeat, a little firmer.

you take his rough, warm hand in yours. you clean the cuts gently. you wrap the bandage around him slowly, hoping he’ll feel your intention in the carefulness.

his face is red the entire time. he looks flustered, shy, nervous… then he beams at you.

“you’re like the mom-friend of the class! thank you so much for always taking care of us!”

your soul briefly ascends to the astral plane.

a mom-friend. a mom-friend?????

is this a new form of friendzoning? is this worse than friendzoning?? mom friend???

you force a smile and walk away before your disappointment becomes visible.

attempt three: cold hands

winter creeps up a little early that month. you’re waiting in the hallway, hugging your books to your chest, hands cold from the morning air. izuku walks up to you with that shy, excited smile like he’s always happy to see you.

you decide you’re done being subtle.

you gently place your freezing hands on his cheek.

izuku jolts, nearly jumping out of his shoes. “c-cold! wow— are you okay? are your hands okay? do you want my jacket? i can—”

“i want warmth,” you say.

he immediately takes your hands between his and rubs them quickly, so earnest it hurts. “here, here, warm up. tell me if they hurt, poor circulation can get really uncomfortable in colder months, and i was reading about ways to—”

you let him ramble. partially because it’s cute. mostly because you’re mourning the fact that he is absolutely not getting it.

still no spark of realization.

it’s almost impressive.

almost. it would be if it wasn't making you wonder why you like this guy. this might actually be emotional torture.

attempt four: complimenting his arms

after another training session, you walk beside him back into the building. his sleeves are pushed up, showing off toned arms from months of training. the sight is enough to launch you into your next attempt.

“your arms look really good when you train,” you say lightly. which is true, you always admire his muscles when he trains, very impressive.

he almost trips. “m-my what?”

“your arms.” you poke his bicep with your finger. “they’re strong. it suits you.”

his entire body goes red. he stammers, splutters, tries to respond between short breaths. “i… i’ve been working on upper strength! i didn’t realize it was, uh, noticeable! thank you for the feedback!”

feedback. is this google reviews? yelp? are you aizawa???? are you serious???

you want to drop to your knees and scream into the floor. you almost did. mina actually did, though, dying of laughter after watching the whole thing go down.

attempt five: study snacks

your next plan involves snacks. everyone likes snacks. everyone understands snacks. this will work.

you show up at his door with a bag full of his favorites. you even arranged them in order of what he usually reaches for first.

he opens the door, hair messy, shirt too big, eyes bright. “hey! ready to study?”

you hand him the bag. “brought these for you. all your favorites.”

he looks inside, gasps, then beams. “you remembered? that’s so kind! you’re such a thoughtful friend!”

friend.

you force yourself not to cry on the spot.

you sit together, but any time you lean slightly closer his whole body stiffens in panic and then he forces himself back into total academic focus like the quadratic formula is saving his life.

by the end of the session you’re lying on the floor emotionally defeated.

attempt six: the lingering touch

you try again during the next study session. this time you sit close enough that your legs touch. your arm brushes his. you lean in and let your hand rest on his forearm when you point at something in his notebook.

he freezes, blushes, stammers, then straightens up so fast he almost falls forward. “uh— yeah! that formula... yes— right— uh—”

you’re convinced he might actually explode. too bad explosion is not the same as realization.

after an hour of this, you give up. your patience, your hope, your mental stability. all gone.

attempt seven: the breaking point

two months of trying. two months of him missing every single signal like he’s legally obligated to ignore them. you’re exhausted. you feel ridiculous. and you’re done.

how has the whole class, whole school basically, known execpt for him?

monoma can't hold back the moment he spots a strand of your hair and immediately making fun of you,

aizawa sighs loudly when he spots you trying to check up on izuku after training while complimenting his efforts today and izuku hears everything but the compliments.

you swear you even saw tamaki throw you a pity expression as you tried to give izuku your notes.

which is what leads you to your dorm room today, sitting across from him at your desk, textbooks open, both of you pretending to study while your chest feels like it’s about to burst.

izuku is nervously tapping his pencil. you’ve been staring at him for a full minute. he doesn’t notice.

you finally speak.

“izuku.”

he looks up immediately. “yeah?”

“stand up.”

he blinks, confused, but he listens. “uh… okay?”

you stand too. step toward him. then another. he backs up instinctively until his back hits the wall. he looks at you like he’s seconds from short-circuiting.

“are you… mad at me?” he whispers.

“no,” you say, voice steady. “i just can’t keep doing this.”

“doing what?”

you place your hand on the wall beside his head, leaning in slightly. he inhales sharply, eyes wide.

“izuku,” you say quietly, “i like you.”

he blinks once. twice. “you… like me?”

“yes.”

his voice cracks. “like… like-like?”

you give a tiny, strained smile. “romantically. yes.”

his entire face goes red. bright, vibrant red, like someone poured hot watercolor over his skin. “i… i never thought… you would like me.”

your shoulders drop, tension dissolving into soft exhaustion. “i’ve been trying for months. i thought maybe you’d notice eventually.”

he looks at you like the weight of that hits him all at once. “i’m so sorry. i’m terrible at this. i didn’t mean to make you feel ignored.”

you shake your head. “you didn’t ignore me. you just… didn’t know.”

he swallows, eyes fixed on yours. “i do like you. i’ve liked you for a while. i just didn’t think you… you know… could ever feel the same. i didn’t want to assume.”

your heart stutters. “you… like me too?” there were lingering thoughts for a while that maybe he was ignoring your advances because maybe he genuienly just didn't like you... well there goes those.

he nods, blush deepening. “yes. i do. a lot.”

you step closer, slow and deliberate. “then tell me. clearly. so i don’t keep guessing.”

he takes a shaky breath. “i like you. i really really like you. i want to be with you.”

a smile spreads across your face, warm and relieved. “good,” you whisper. “because i’m done hinting.”

you lean in and kiss his cheek. soft. warm. lingering.

izuku makes a tiny noise that sounds like his soul leaving his body.

he presses a hand over the spot you kissed, eyes shining. “please keep telling me things directly,” he says, voice trembling. “i promise i’ll listen.”

you laugh, gentle and full. “i know.”

after two months of trying, finally—finally—he gets it. and he’s looking at you like he plans to make up for every missed hint.

the next morning, the carcasses were gone. not eaten. not cooked. only dragged away, discarded deep into the woods. the scent told him it was you who had moved them. his heart, built of scales and fire, ached. he had wanted you to feel safe, fed, cared for. instead, you seemed afraid.

he stopped for a few days, brooding atop the cliffs. the forest wind tugged at his horns as he wondered where he had gone wrong. perhaps his gifts had frightened you. perhaps he was foolish to think a human would understand dragon courtship.

but he could not stay away.

your pov

it had started weeks ago, maybe longer. every few mornings, you found something dreadful by the door. a hare, a pheasant, once even a deer with its throat cleanly slit. at first you had thought it was the work of some wild beast, but the kills were too neat, too purposeful. someone — or something — was leaving them for you.

you had buried the first few, uneasy. you didn’t like the idea of something hunting so close to your home. the villagers told stories about the woods, about creatures that could take human form, about dragons nesting in the mountain caves to the north. you tried not to listen.

then one afternoon, you saw him.

he appeared near the edge of the clearing, tall and broad, white hair swept back from curved horns that caught the sun. his crimson eyes glowed faintly gold, the color of molten metal. he wasn’t human. you knew that instantly. yet he didn’t look dangerous — just… different. his tail moved behind him slowly, a deliberate, careful sway.

he spoke softly, voice low like gravel shifting underfoot. “you should not walk alone so far from the village.”

you wanted to ask what he was, why he was here, but his tone wasn’t threatening. it almost sounded… protective. still, you kept your distance.

after that day, the strange gifts continued. meat. jewels. one morning, a silver bracelet carved with a dragon’s eye. you placed it on your shelf, too fine to wear. you assumed he was just trying to be kind, or that he was testing some human custom he didn’t quite understand.

sylus pov

he thought perhaps jewels would fare better. dragons prized beautiful things, and he had seen how humans adored the same. he found gemstones buried in old hoards, polished them until they gleamed like captured stars, and left them where you would find them — on the window sill, beside the well, near the path you walked each day.

you took them, yes, but you never wore them. he noticed. his eyes always found you when you stepped outside, his senses following every glint of sunlight off your hair, every breath you took. but no trace of his gifts touched you.

he wondered if you thought them cursed. he wondered if you simply did not care.

dragons did not handle rejection well, but he tried to understand. maybe he had come too soon, before you trusted him. maybe his gestures were too grand.

so he tried smaller things.

he carved a charm from bone, something simple, meant to guard you. he left it on your doorstep, bound with leather. when you found it, you smiled faintly and hung it by the door. that small act eased something inside him, like a hand pressed gently over a wound.

he wanted to do more. he wanted to speak to you again.

your pov

sometimes, you caught glimpses of him. he always appeared near the treeline, never closer unless you called out first. his presence was strange but comforting now. you didn’t feel fear anymore — only curiosity.

you had noticed his eyes, the way they softened when he looked at you, and you wondered what he was thinking.

you began to notice small things too. he left polished stones that matched the river pebbles you collected, baskets woven from reeds, herbs bound neatly by clawed hands that somehow never tore the stems.

it was… sweet, in an odd way.

but you still didn’t understand. dragons, if that’s what he truly was, had their own ways, and you were just a human living too close to their world. it didn’t occur to you that all these gestures meant something deeper.

one evening, after a storm, you found your roof repaired. you hadn’t done it, and no villager would trek this far through the rain. the thatch was patched neatly, almost perfectly. you looked toward the forest and thought of him again.

he was taking care of you...?

sylus pov

the night he fixed your roof, he almost let himself believe it would be enough — that maybe you would understand what he was saying without words. dragons didn’t confess love with speeches; they proved it through acts of protection, devotion, consistency.

but the next morning, when you passed by him in the forest and only offered a polite nod, his heart fell again.

he had done everything he knew — hunted for you, built for you, brought wealth and safety. and still you smiled like he was a stranger.

he began to wonder if you simply didn’t want him. perhaps you were kind, but uninterested. dragons could not force affection. he had promised himself never to be like those in old tales who took rather than earned.

so he decided to stop.

for days he stayed away from your clearing. no gifts, no visits, nothing. the forest grew quiet around your home, and his absence left a hollow ache he tried to ignore.

but he couldn’t.

your pov

you noticed right away when he stopped coming.

no more gifts, no glint of scales between trees. the air felt heavier somehow, emptier. you told yourself it was better this way — you didn’t really know him, after all — but that small ache in your chest said otherwise.

you missed him.

and that’s when it began to click.

you thought back to the meat he had left, to the jewels, the careful protection, the fixed roof. the pattern of it all. he hadn’t been threatening you or showing off. he’d been… courting you. in his own way.

the realization left you stunned. your hands trembled a little as you held the silver bracelet again, running your thumb over the carved dragon’s eye. it wasn’t just a gift. it was a promise.

you felt foolish. all this time, you had turned away what was meant to be affection.

so you decided to find him... how do you even find a dragon. do they answer callings? prayers?

sylus pov

he was perched on the ridge above the valley when he smelled you. rain-washed air carried your scent, familiar and soft. then your voice — faint, calling his name.

he almost didn’t believe it at first.

when he landed, the ground trembled slightly. you stood there, soaked from the mist, holding something small in your hands — the silver bracelet he’d given you.

“you stopped coming,” you said quietly. “i thought maybe i’d done something wrong.”

his throat tightened. “it was i who did wrong. my ways are not yours. i thought you knew… what i meant.”

“i didn’t,” you admitted. “but i think i do now.”

you stepped closer, enough that he could see the drops of water clinging to your lashes. “the animals. the gifts. even the roof. you were trying to… court me, weren’t you?”

he exhaled slowly, the heat of his breath curling faintly in the air. “yes.”

for a heartbeat, neither of you moved. the forest around you whispered with the wind. then you lifted the bracelet and slid it onto your wrist.

“then let me accept properly this time,” you said. “i was only afraid before. i didn’t understand. but i do now.”

something inside him broke open — relief, joy, disbelief all at once. he reached out, claws retracting to gentle fingers, and touched your cheek as if you might vanish.

“you would have me, then?”

you nodded, smiling. “if you’ll still have me.”

his touch was warm, almost burning, but soft. you could feel the careful restraint in every movement, as if he feared hurting you.

“i have watched over you for so long,” he murmured. “i wanted you to feel safe before anything else.”

“you did,” you said. “even when i didn’t realize it.”

he let out a sound that might have been laughter, low and rough, and pressed his forehead gently against yours. his horns curved around your head like a shelter.

for the first time, you saw the true depth of feeling behind his eyes — not just admiration, but devotion carved deep, unshakable. dragons loved rarely, but when they did, it was eternal.

and so you reached up, resting your hand over his heart, feeling it thunder beneath your palm.

“then stay,” you whispered. “no more misunderstandings.”

his wings shifted slightly, curling around you both like a cloak.

“no more,” he promised.

later, when the stars rose and the forest quieted, he stayed beside your cabin, guarding while you slept. he didn’t need to announce himself anymore. he was part of your world now.

and when he looked through the window and saw you still wearing the bracelet, glinting faintly in the moonlight, his heart finally eased.

you had accepted.

all his instincts quieted — the dragon and the man in him both at peace. he would hunt for you again tomorrow, but this time he would bring the meat dressed and cleaned, as he had seen humans prefer. he would still bring jewels, but he would offer them with his words, not silence.

he had learned, and so had you.

two worlds, bridged by patience and the slow unraveling of fear.

he smiled to himself, tail sweeping gently across the grass.

“mine,” he whispered softly to the night — not in possession, but in awe.

and from inside, even in your dreams, you seemed to hear him. your lips curved faintly as you slept.

in the morning, you woke to sunlight and the faint scent of wildflowers on the table — his newest gift, simple and human this time. you laughed softly, touched the petals, and whispered into the quiet, “i understand now.”

from the woods came the low hum of dragon wings, steady and sure, and you smiled, heart full.

his agency’s reasoning was flimsy. a recent, targeted spike in threats against top ten heroes, a couple of close calls with obsessed fans. but bakugo had handled it. he always handled it. this wasn’t about safety; it was about liability. about the agency covering its own ass.

"one meeting," his manager, a perpetually weary man named kenji, had pleaded over the phone. "just meet the candidate we have vetted. if it is truly an untenable working relationship, we will reassess."

reassess. corporate speak for ‘we will force you anyway, but we will pretend to listen first.’

so here he was, pacing in his office like a caged tiger, waiting for this unwanted, forced interloper. he had his speech ready. he would be cold, dismissive, intimidating. he would make it clear from the first second that this arrangement was doomed. he would find every flaw, pick apart every weakness, and send this bodyguard packing before they even got a taste of his coffee.

a sharp, precise knock at his door cut through his furious plotting.

"it is open," he barked, not bothering to hide his irritation. he planted his feet, crossed his arms over his chest, and fixed his most formidable scowl on the door.

it swung open.

and every single, meticulously planned, venomous word evaporated from his mind.

it was not that you were conventionally stunning, though you were certainly beautiful. it was the everything. the quiet confidence in your posture, the calm, assessing gaze that swept the room before settling on him. you were dressed in practical, dark tactical gear, but it did nothing to hide the lean strength of your form. your eyes were the exact color of a calm sky just before dawn, and they held a depth that made his breath catch.

but it was your presence. the air in the room did not just change; it stilled, becoming charged and significant. it was like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. all potential energy and silent, powerful promise.

katsuki bakugo, the man who never got flustered, who faced down cosmic level threats without a flicker of fear, felt his heart execute a perfect, traitorous somersault against his ribs.

what the fuck? his brain screamed, a distant, panicked echo.

"pro hero ground zero," you said, and your voice was calm, level, and utterly professional. it was a smooth, clear tone that went straight through his anger and wrapped around something primal and entirely unexpected in his chest. "i am (y/n) (l/n). i have been assigned as your personal bodyguard."

you stepped forward, your movements economical and graceful, and offered a hand. "it is an honor to work with you."

he stared at your hand. his own, usually so steady, felt strangely numb. he uncrossed his arms, the motion jerky, and took it. your grip was firm, cool, and competent. a spark, literal or metaphorical he could not tell, seemed to jump from your skin to his.

"katsuki bakugo," he managed, his voice gruffer than intended. he dropped your hand like it had burned him. which, in a way, it had.

this was a problem. a catastrophic, universe altering problem. he was supposed to be intimidating you, not memorizing the exact shade of your eyes or the way a single strand of hair fell across your forehead.

he cleared his throat, desperate to regain control of the situation. "look, i am just gonna say this straight. i think this is a bullshit waste of time and resources. i do not need a bodyguard."

you simply nodded, unfazed. "i have reviewed your file and combat records. your capabilities are, without question, exceptional. this assignment is not a reflection on your skills, but on the evolving nature of public threats. my role is to manage the periphery, to handle the logistical and environmental risks so you can focus on your hero work and public engagements."

he blinked. that was ridiculously reasonable. and you would said it without a hint of condescension or fear. you were not trying to challenge him; you were stating a fact.

fuck. she is smart, too.

"whatever," he grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide the fact they were suddenly sweating. "we have got a meet and greet at the skyline mall in an hour. you will be there. try not to get in my way."

a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips. it was gone in an instant, but he saw it. it did something funny to his stomach. "i will do my best to be invisible, sir."

sir. no one called him ‘sir’. he kind of liked it... what what?

get a grip, bakugo. you are acting like a fucking idiot.

the drive to the mall was a quiet, tense affair. tense entirely on his part. you sat in the passenger seat of his expensive, blacked out suv, your gaze scanning the passing streets with a focused intensity. he found himself sneaking glances at your profile. the straight line of your nose, the determined set of your jaw. he caught a hint of your scent. clean, like ozone and something subtly sweet, maybe vanilla. it was a hell of a lot better than the usual smell of nitroglycerin and sweat he was used to.

he needed to impress you.

the thought hit him with the force of a small explosion. it was juvenile, pathetic. he was katsuki fucking bakugo. he did not need to impress anyone. but the urge was there, a primal, undeniable itch under his skin. he wanted to see a flicker of something other than professional detachment in your eyes. awe, maybe. or admiration.

he found himself straightening his posture.

what the hell am i, sixteen? he thought, mortified.

the mall was a zoo. a roped off pathway led through a sea of screaming fans, their voices a cacophonous wave of adoration. as soon as he stepped out of the vehicle, the crowd erupted. flashbulbs popped, signs bearing his hero name and face waved frantically. this was his element. the noise, the chaos, the adulation. it was the fuel that fed his engine.

he usually just stalked through it all, a scowl firmly in place, maybe grunting a greeting if he was feeling generous. today was different.

today, he was acutely aware of you walking a half step behind and to his left, your body a shielded, vigilant presence between him and the crowd. he could feel your focus, a tangible force field of concentration.

so, he turned up the charm. or, his version of it.

he flashed a sharp, confident grin at the crowd, earning a renewed surge of screams. he signed a few autographs with a flourish, his signature more aggressive and spiky than usual. he even ruffled a little kid’s hair, the gesture surprisingly gentle despite his internal screaming about the germ ridden nature of small children.

he was performing. for you.

and you? you were perfect. you moved like a shadow, your eyes constantly scanning, assessing threats he could not even see. you subtly redirected an over enthusiastic fan who got too close with a calm, firm word. you kept the flow of the line moving with quiet efficiency. you were a master of your craft, and the sheer competence of it was, against all odds, the most attractive thing he had ever witnessed.

at one point, a burly man, fueled by either too much alcohol or too much fanaticism, broke through the security line, lunging for bakugo with a wild yell.

before bakugo could even flex his fingers to summon a warning spark, you were there.

it was not a flashy, quirk enhanced takedown. it was pure, refined technique. you stepped into the man’s path, using his own momentum against him. a precise grip on his wrist, a pivot of your hips, and you guided him smoothly to the ground, immobilizing him with a knee to his back, all in one fluid, silent motion. security swarmed in a second later to take the man away.

you straightened up, adjusted your jacket, and resumed your position without a single hair out of place. you did not even look winded.

"all secure," you said, your voice still that infuriatingly calm, professional murmur.

bakugo stared at you, his mouth slightly agape. he quickly snapped it shut. holy shit. that was the hottest thing he had ever seen. he felt a flush creep up his neck. he was supposed to be the impressive one here.

"tch. i had him," he muttered, because his brain had apparently decided to regress to a middle school level of emotional intelligence.

"i have no doubt," you replied, and he could have sworn he heard the ghost of a smile in your tone. it was not mocking. it was agreeable. it made him want to punch a wall and then maybe write a terrible poem.

the rest of the event passed in a blur. he was hyper aware of your every move, your every breath. he found himself puffing out his chest when he posed for photos. he made a point of using bigger, more complex words when talking to the press, showing off his strategic mind. he was, for lack of a better term, preening. and he was utterly, completely embarrassed by his own behavior, but he could not seem to stop.

the problem was becoming terrifyingly clear. you were perfect. you were competent, calm, intelligent, and devastatingly attractive. and you saw him as nothing more than an assignment. a job. a potentially difficult, volatile client who needed managing.

the realization was a cold splash of water. he needed you to see him. not just the pro hero. not just the angry, explosive man the media loved to portray. he needed you to see the man who was, against his will and better judgment, completely and totally captivated by you.

on the drive back to the agency, the silence was different. it was thick with his own unspoken, frustrated longing. he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, his mind racing a million miles an hour.

he had to find a way in. a crack in your professional armor. a hint that you might see him as something more.

as you pulled into the underground parking garage, he finally worked up the nerve to speak. it came out more abrasive than he intended, a defensive reflex.

"so. you got a read on all the ‘peripheral threats’ or whatever?" he asked, killing the engine.

you unbuckled your seatbelt and turned to face him fully. your sky before dawn eyes were clear and direct. "the event was secure. there were a few individuals in the crowd i have flagged for further review, but no active threats materialized beyond the one incident."

"right." he ran a hand through his spiky hair. "and what is your read on me?"

the question hung in the air, stupid and transparent. he wanted to kick himself.

your head tilted slightly, a faint line of confusion appearing between your brows. "your public engagement metrics were high. fan interaction was positive. you maintained a strong, confident presence throughout."

it was a performance review. he was getting a fucking performance review.

"that is not what i meant," he said, his voice dropping, losing some of its edge. he was floundering, and he knew it.

you looked at him, truly looked at him, and for a single, heart stopping second, he thought he saw something flicker in your gaze. not attraction, not yet, but curiosity. a questioning of his sudden shift in tone.

then it was gone, replaced by that impeccable professionalism. "is there a specific aspect of your security or my performance you would like to discuss, pro hero ground zero?"

pro hero ground zero. the title was a wall. a barrier he had no idea how to scale.

he was katsuki bakugo. he would fought his way to the top of the hero charts through sheer, unrelenting force of will. he would never wanted for anything he could not earn with his own two hands.

but this? making you see him? this felt like an entirely different kind of battle, one for which he had no map, no strategy, and absolutely no idea how to win. all he knew was that the unwanted, forced bodyguard he had been ready to despise had, in the space of a single afternoon, become the only person in the world he desperately needed to like him back.

he looked at your calm, beautiful, impassive face and felt a fresh, desperate wave of determination crash over him.

"forget it," he grumbled, looking away. but his mind was already whirring, plotting his next move. he had a new mission now, more important than any villain takedown.

he was going to make you fall for him. even if it killed him. and judging by the frantic, teenage like hammering of his heart, it very well might.

you pushed the thought down, burying it under a pile of rationalizations. he’s just tired. he’s a deep sleeper. he’s probably planning something. he’s izuku midoriya; he remembers everything. he has notebooks filled with hero stats and your anniversary date is probably circled in red in all of them.

you got ready for the day, the hopeful anticipation slowly deflating with every passing, silent minute. by the time you met him at your usual spot for the walk to UA, the balloon of excitement in your chest was feeling distinctly limp.

“morning!” he chirped, his smile as bright and genuine as ever. he leaned in, giving you a quick, sweet kiss. he smelled of mint toothpaste and clean cotton.

“morning,” you replied, searching his green eyes for any hint of a secret. they were just… warm and loving, as always. no extra sparkle of conspiracy.

he launched into an animated recap of a new american hero documentary he’d watched, his hands gesturing wildly. “—and the way she utilized her hydrokinesis in an urban environment was just… revolutionary! the structural integrity of the buildings, the water pressure calculations… it must have been incredible to see live!”

you nodded along, smiling at his passion. but with every detailed analysis of quirk application, the little hope that he was just biding his time withered a little more.

“so,” you said during a brief pause, trying to sound casual. “anything special going on today?”

izuku blinked, his brow furrowing in thought. “hmm? oh! right! i have that extra training session with all might after classes. i almost forgot to tell you. sorry, i might be a little late.”

the words landed like stones in your stomach. “oh. okay. no problem.”

he smiled, completely oblivious. “thanks for understanding! you’re the best.”

the school day was a slow, agonizing crawl. every time the classroom door opened, your heart leapt into your throat. it never came. ochaco and tenya were their usual friendly selves, but there was no special recognition in their eyes. it was just… tuesday.

you tried to rationalize it. he’s midoriya izuku. he’s the future symbol of peace. he has the entire world on his shoulders. it’s just a birthday. it’s not a big deal.

but it was a big deal to you. and he’d always made it feel like a big deal.

lunch was the worst. you sat picking at your food, a heavy, hollow feeling growing in your chest. you watched him from across the table, laughing at something kaminari said. he was so bright, so good, so yours… and he’d completely forgotten.

he caught your eye and smiled, a soft, private smile meant just for you. it usually made your heart soar. now, it just felt like a cruel reminder.

the afternoon classes blurred together. the disappointment had curdled into a quiet, profound sadness. you felt silly for caring so much.

when the final bell rang, izuku rushed over. “sorry again about training! i’ll text you when i’m done, okay? don’t wait for me if you’re hungry.”

“sure,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

he gave you another quick kiss, a little rushed this time, and then he was gone.

you walked home alone. the vibrant orange and red of the autumn leaves seemed muted. you let yourself into your quiet apartment, the silence pressing in on you. you dropped your bag and sank onto the couch, pulling your knees to your chest.

the tears started then, hot and silent. you weren’t angry at him. you could never be truly angry at izuku. you were just… heartbroken. you felt unseen. forgotten.

a key turned in the lock.

you quickly wiped your tears away, sniffling and trying to compose yourself.

the door opened and izuku stepped in, looking tired but cheerful. “i’m home! sorry that took so long, all might really pushed us today.”

“it’s fine,” you mumbled.

he flicked on the light. his smile faltered as he saw your face. your eyes were undoubtedly puffy and red.

“hey… are you okay?” he asked, his voice instantly soft with concern. he dropped his bag and came to sit beside you. “you’ve been quiet all day. did something happen?”

that was the final straw. the gentle concern in his voice was too much. the dam broke.

“you forgot,” you whispered, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. “you forgot what day it was.”

izuku’s eyes widened. for a moment, he just stared at you. then, a slow, dawning horror spread across his features. “forgot? i… today is…” he trailed off, his gaze dropping.

you couldn’t look at him. you stood up. “it’s my birthday, izuku. and you didn’t… you didn’t say anything. all day. i kept waiting, and hoping, and… nothing.” your voice cracked. “i know it’s stupid. i know you’re busy. but you’ve always made me feel so special, and today i just felt… invisible.”

you were fully crying now. “and the worst part is, i feel so stupid for being this upset, but it hurts, izuku. it really hurts.”

you expected stammered apologies. but when you finally risked a glance at him, he wasn’t looking at the floor. he was looking at you, and his eyes were shimmering with unshed tears, but there was a small, tender smile on his lips.

“invisible?” he repeated softly. he stood up and walked towards you. “i spent all day… every day for the last two weeks… thinking about nothing but you. about today.”

you stared. “what?”

he reached out, his calloused fingers gently wiping your tears. “i’m so, so sorry i made you feel that way. that was the last thing i ever wanted.” he let out a shaky breath. “i didn’t forget. i could never forget the day the most amazing person came into the world.”

he took your hand. “come with me.”

puzzled, you let him lead you out of your apartment and down the hall to the rooftop access door.

“izuku, what—?”

“just… trust me,” he said, his voice thick. he pushed the door open.

the sight stole your breath.

the entire rooftop was transformed. strings of fairy lights twinkled like captured stars. paper lanterns painted with tiny all might symbols hung from a canopy. a small table was set for two. and standing there, beaming, were ochaco, tenya, todoroki, and tsuyu.

“surprise! happy birthday!” they yelled.

you stood frozen.

izuku was watching you, his hands clenched into nervous fists. “i… i had to get all might to help me distract everyone during lunch to set up. and then my ‘extra training’ was me and the others finishing the food. iida was on lookout. todoroki kept the ice cream frozen.”

he was rambling now. “it was so hard. every time you looked at me with that sad smile, i felt like the worst boyfriend. when you asked if anything special was happening, i almost cracked. i had to talk about hydrokinesis to stop myself! and then when you were crying… i’ve never felt so terrible. i’m so sorry i made you cry. please forgive me.”

he finally ran out of breath, his chest heaving.

you looked from his desperately sincere face to your smiling friends, to the beautiful rooftop. he hadn’t forgotten. he had orchestrated all of this. for you.

the hollow sadness shattered, replaced by a love so fierce it felt like a supernova.

you launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. he held you close.

“you idiot,” you whispered into his shoulder. “you wonderful, secretive, amazing idiot. i forgive you.”

you felt him shudder with relief. “i love you,” he mumbled. “happy birthday.”

the party was perfect. but the best part was watching izuku, the nervous tension gone, replaced by a radiant happiness. he held your hand the entire time.

later, after everyone left, he handed you a small, clumsily wrapped box.

inside was a leather-bound journal. you opened it.

‘reasons why i love you (a non-exhaustive list)’ was written at the top.

you flipped through it. every page had a new entry in his familiar handwriting. ‘#47: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you laugh for real.’ ‘#112: how you always know when i’ve pushed myself too hard.’

there were hundreds.

“i wanted to give you something that showed you how much i think about you,” he said softly. “every day. not just today. you are never invisible to me. you’re the most important person in my world.”

you set the journal down and cupped his face, pulling him down for a long, deep kiss. when you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his.

“this was the best birthday i’ve ever had,” you whispered.

he smiled. “even with the part where you thought i forgot and spent the whole day miserable?”

you laughed. “especially because of that part.”

you looked around at the fairy lights, the city skyline beyond. “you planned all this… for me.”