“I mean, you said it in your text,” Natsuo reaches for his phone, clicking it open to scroll. The light from his screen reflects on the gray of his irises; then, he air quotes, “you said: ‘my chest feels weird’, then when I asked if anything happened,” his index finger glides across the screen, swiping through a long block of text uncharacteristic of Shouto’s typical dry responses.

“You detailed the entire scene of–” he pauses for a moment, squinting to find a specific line, “–a santa hat? Being put on you, or something. You didn’t mention who but I figured it was—” 

You, Shouto thinks, at the moment Natsuo says your name. That same two-part thump sounds in his ears. 

You, who’s stayed by his side for the past five, nearly six years. You’ve carved your presence so deeply into his life, it’s become an undercurrent in his speech. He doesn’t even think of having to say your name when he talks about you. 

You, and how he turns over this familiarity with you inside his brain. How everyone knows—

“—who else stays with you in the agency past office hours, anyway?” 

Natsuo raises an eyebrow, knowing. 

“We’ve been working together for a while.” Shouto replies, lips pressed firmly into a small pout. 

If he’s being honest, he’s not sure what compelled him to say something Natsuo already knows. To state the obvious? Or to argue, maybe? To act in denial? To express disbelief? 

He takes a long breath, surveying Natsuo’s clinic. The walls are pristine white, the desk and examination bed the same shade of ashen gray—a conscious choice to keep patients calm; ironic, given the state of his thoughts right now. 

Shouto’s mind is buzzing, and Natsuo watches the muddled confusion in his little brother’s eyes shift and swirl in blue-gray emotion. Then he chuckles, holding onto his arm rests as he stands up from the other side of his desk. 

“It can happen, Shouto.” he plants a palm on his little brother’s head, ruffling red and white the way he would have when they were teens, “It’s been years, right? Feelings can develop over time, that sorta thing, you know?” 

Shouto lets the realization settle in. 

Under the weight of his brother’s hand, he feels like a kid again—right before all the training started; and right before being kept away, excluded from the childhood he could have had with his siblings. 

Shouto feels like a teen again, without the trauma, without the war, being taught things about life and himself, about feelings he never had the time nor capacity to explore.

The two-part thump continues, beating. 

A crush. On you. Huh. 

The rustling of his hair dusts strands of warm, fuzzy feelings over his eyelids. 

This feels… new, he thinks. 

.

.

.

Shouto knows his Mondays. 

He gets to Shouto Agency an hour before everyone else does because he likes the stillness of it right before the day turns busy. The sun is up but only barely, casting a soft glow of blue and orange hues through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. 

This habit began years ago, back when the agency functioned on the 7th floor of a commercial building. It was called Flashfreeze then, and even though it had an entire floor of 24 office units, being in a commercial building still meant sharing common areas with other companies and agencies. The morning rush left the elevators flooded in utter chaos daily. 

To Shouto, going in early meant less people and less noise—a quiet bube he could use to prepare himself for the rest of the day.  

A lot has changed since then: the agency’s move into a larger, newly constructed building of its own; staff, interns, and sidekicks quadrupling in numbers; better office spaces, bigger teams, more facilities—a big expansion, essentially. 

Somehow, despite being more settled in the industry, he finds that the days feel even busier than before. 

So, Shouto keeps his Mondays the same: his preference of coming in early carrying itself into this newer, much larger and private office space, and his same habit of brewing himself a cup of tea finding its own spot by the small kitchen nook you helped design during the construction of his office space. 

Everything about his office is optimized for efficiency: the backdoor, where he enters from on most days, opens to an elevator with a matching staircase that both lead straight down to the costume unit, training grounds, and his own parking area; the blinds of his windows automatically draw up and down at set times of the day; and the minimalism of his entire space is carefully considered, with every area plotted for easy navigation. 

It’s sleek and neat, sharp edges and clean lines, straightforward much like he is. Cold, for the most part, save for the corners touched by your warmth.

Pale yellow jars sit on the counter of his kitchen nook, with each one housing sugar, cinnamon, and his stash of tea.  

When he looks more closely around the room, he spots the fresh flowers on his desk—a vase of luscious white chrysanthemums starkly contrasting the dark grays and browns of his interiors; they tell him you must be in already, because even when he manages to come in an hour ahead, you always, without fail, beat him to it 30 minutes too early. 

And also, like always, you enter his office in the same way you do every Monday morning. 

Your heels clack against his stone flooring, marking your arrival. He turns to face you from the kitchen nook, cup of tea in hand as he greets you. 

“Good morning.” 

You jolt, nearly tripping. Your head whips up quickly as you clutch a mass of folders tightly to your chest. 

He takes a sip of his tea, the corners of his lips curling slightly on the edge of his cup. 

“Si–” you clear your throat, correcting yourself as you take a breath. Then you smile warmly, bowing your head slightly, “Shouto, good morning.” 

“You scared me a bit there,” you add with a soft chuckle. 

It’s endearing, he thinks, seeing you caught off guard, so out of your usual composure.

You loosen your grip on the folders, “I just came to place this on your desk,” your finger taps against the plastic, “I didn’t notice you were here already, sorry.” 

“No worries,” he sets down his tea cup, pocketing one hand in his sweatpants, “do you want some tea?” 

“I’m good, thank you,” you shake your head, walking towards his desk to set the folders down, “Just a couple of debriefs for the case last month.” 

He nods, eyes tracking your movement around the room. You pause then turn to him, clicking your pen as you say, “Let me get your schedule so we can do the run-down.” 

Shouto moves to his desk when you leave, settling into the few squeaks and cracks of the leather chair you helped restore using your quirk—the ability to minimally reconstruct organic matter. 

Not even a few minutes pass until you return, a tablet perched on the crook of your elbow with a digital pen in hand. 

This is part of his Monday routine. 

The agenda you follow is the same: a schedule run-down for the coming week, any notable trips or events, report updates, and department updates. Occasionally, PR will have you relay messages they have trouble communicating nicely—most of the time, they involve suggestions for him to ‘smile more’ or ‘answer questions more enthusiastically’. 

You have no problem telling him these things straight up, and he has no issue hearing it directly from you, either. 

For this week, you detail a few meetings scheduled for tomorrow and Wednesday, along with updates on his costume revisions, to be fitted on Wednesday afternoon, and—

“Deku requested a joint patrol on Thursday morning, so I moved your fitting for the gala to that evening instead. Is that okay with you?” you look up from your tablet, the tip of your pen hovering over the screen. 

In this light, you’re bathed in the colors of sunrise. 

(From where you’re standing, Shouto is backlit by the rising sun. His figure is washed over by a faded shadow, but you can see his eyes clearly, bright turquoise and dark gray staring right at you.

You hold your breath; you are well aware of Shouto’s tendencies to stare, but he’s taking much longer to answer you this time. And you don’t know what to do, where to look. Do you wait until—)

Shouto nods, catching himself lingering. 

You mumble an ‘okay’ before tapping on your tablet. 

The rest of your reminders are about upcoming events and deadlines: there’s the company team building happening in a few weeks, and a few reports due today and tomorrow. Fuyumi moved the family lunch to Saturday to make way for his photoshoot on Sunday. 

He watches you from his desk as you speak, your foot tapping in conjunction with each item you relay to him, as if marking every point. It’s a thing you do, something he’s noticed in the years you’ve worked together. 

Shouto knows his Mondays, and he’s always been relaxed during these earlier parts of it. 

But ever since that check-up with Natsuo, he’s been more… conscious about it lately. It seems to be a consistent trend that every time he’s around you, he feels a significant uptick in his heartbeat. 

Except now, when you speak—

“Will you be bringing a plus-one to the gala this year? The committee is confirming how many seats they’ll reserve for you.” 

—his heart feels like it drops, plummeting straight to his stomach. 

He looks at you intently, a slight crease forming between his brows. 

You go to most of these things with him; you always have, ever since. 

So, why are you even asking? 

He thinks about it, deciding what to say next. The thought of you not going with him feels weird. Unusual. 

If you’re unavailable, he supposes he can just go alone. 

But—

“What should I do then?” Shouto shifts in his seat, peering up at his brother. 

Natsuo’s instinctive reaction is to laugh; after all, it’s not often that you see pro-hero Shouto at a loss on troubleshooting. But when he spots pure and genuine uncertainty swirling in heterochromatic gray and blue, he sees his little brother—Shouto at ages 4, 8, and 12, still a little helpless on what to do.

“Do you want to do something about it?” Natsuo asks gently, squeezing Shouto’s shoulders. 

Shouto doesn’t say anything. 

The lack of response tells him all he needs to know. 

“Maybe figure that out first, then just be honest about it when the time comes. Nothing beats saying it plain and simple.” 

—‘just be honest about it’ echoes in his head, Natsuo’s voice morphing into his own.

“Will you not be available?” he manages to ask flatly, masking his worry. 

(You look up from your tablet and his eyes meet yours, an intensity in his gaze that’s only been directed at you a handful of times before.) 

“Oh,” you fluster a little, shifting your weight, “I will be, but I just thought…”

He can hear you hesitate, voice trailing off as if contemplating your next words. His head dips to coax you to go on. 

“...I just thought, maybe you’d want to bring someone from your family?” you give a small smile, half-genuine, half-uncertain. 

You know Shouto’s family; know their stories and know what each of them are like, individually. 

You know how far they’ve come into healing, seeing Touya through multiple cycles of rehab and relapse. You’ve witnessed his mother’s strength first-hand, watching her rebuild their family with the help of Fuyumi. On the weekends when work wouldn’t let up for Shouto, she’d welcome you to join in family lunches too. 

There were days during Natsuo’s medical internship when he’d go to the office at midnight because the hospital was nearby. It was the only free time he and Shouto had at the time, but Natsuo would ask you to join in, the three of you slurping on cup noodles while Natsuo prattled on about the absurdity of some of his coworkers. 

So, Shouto can fully understand your intentions. After all, he thinks you’ve been instrumental to his family’s healing, too. 

But he has his reasons for never bringing Fuyumi—she usually has school the next day, if not volunteer work at an orphanage. Natsuo has gotten increasingly busier with his practice, and Touya—Touya is still in rehab, and though he’s allowed at home three times a week, Shouto’s sure he’d rather spend it doing things other than being in a room full of pro-heroes. 

“It might be nice to bring your mom,” you add on.

And as for that—

“The gala is this Friday?” he leans forward, the tips of his bangs brushing his eyelids. 

You nod.

“She and Touya are going to the gardens,” he recalls, his mother casually mentioning it the last time he visited. 

You look pleasantly surprised, “Oh,” then your small smile returns, “that’s good to hear.” 

(It must mean a lot to Rei, you think. She’s always wanted to make up for lost time.) 

You don’t say anything else, silence filling the conversation as you hold his gaze.

It isn’t uncommon for Shouto to hold stare-offs, with you especially, but this might just be the first time he feels fully conscious about it—wondering what you’re thinking; if you can read his mind and tell what he’s thinking. 

“Do you not want to join me?” he asks, a small pout forming on his face. 

(The softness of his cheeks sink just a little bit, and his eyes lose some of the luster they typically carry in the morning. 

He looks so sad, you wish you just said yes in the first place. 

How do you even respond to this?) 

“No, n-no–” you stutter, inching forward subconsciously, “–it’s nothing like that.” 

You check your tablet, swiping through your calendar. He can see portions of it from where he’s sitting, your Friday definitely freed up and empty. 

He pushes himself up, standing to full-height. His hands dig into the pockets of his sweatpants as he tilts his head to the side. 

“What seems to be the problem then?” 

(In your years of knowing Shouto, you’ve learned that he never intends to sound harsh even though his words may seem like it. But even though you’re aware that he only means to be curious, you still feel a little embarrassed admitting that you didn’t anticipate the possibility of going to the gala with him this Friday. 

You’ve always been prepared; it’s in your job description to be like this. You should have had a back-up dress just in case. You shouldn’t have shown Shouto your hesitation in the first place.

So, you breathe out, voice level and calm. This is your problem to fix, you don’t have to let him know about it. You’ll find a way, like you always do.) 

“There’s no problem. I’ll add my name to the list then.”

Then you smile, but it’s just a touch uneasy, and if there’s one thing you underestimate about Shouto—for just as much as you know him, he’s gotten to know you pretty well too. 

He pauses. The last thing he would want is for you to feel forced to go.

“If you have other plans, I hope you don’t feel obligated to go. I can go alone.”

His brows furrow, crease deepening and heart still sinking. 

(And you can see it, that little pout on his face staying right where it is. 

You’re endeared, touched by his consideration.

“I don’t have other plans,” you grin, brighter and more at ease, “and I don’t feel forced to go either,” you sigh, hiding a small chuckle. 

A pause. 

You mull it over before deciding to admit why you were hesitant in the first place, “I thought you were going to bring your mom, so I wasn’t able to prepare a dress.”)

Shouto’s eyes widen slightly, mouth opening to express his apologies. 

“But–!” you interrupt, “That’s my fault,” you raise your hand, swaying it side-to-side. “So please don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.” 

The smile on your face is meant to reassure him, he knows, but he still feels guilty. 

This Friday’s gala is the Annual Midyear Pro-Hero Awards; it’s grand because it’s important, and the dress code is always black-tie—everything typically made custom. 

He tilts his head slightly, thinking, eyes zeroing in on the small calendar propped up on his desk.

“My suit is being made by Bakugo’s parents, correct?” 

You nod, reiterating, “Your final fitting is on Thursday night.”

His gaze flits to you once again. 

(There’s that look in his eyes you’ve become all too familiar with—a glint of mischief accompanying a sort-of ‘Eureka!’ moment that means he’s thought of something.

The pieces click together, realization dawning upon you, but when you open your mouth to refuse—)

“I can ask them to do yours as well.” Shouto beats you to it. 

It wouldn’t be fair for you to scramble for your outfit last minute simply because he assumed you knew you were going. You shouldn’t be more stressed than you already are. 

“Si– Shouto,” you say firmly, “That’s too much.” 

“I’m sure they won’t mind,” he flashes you a small smile. 

(And you hate to admit it, but he’s right.

The Bakugo’s have known you for as long as you’ve been Shouto’s assistant. They’ve consistently designed his suits for big events like the Pro-Hero Awards, and Mitsuki has always extended their services to you too, knowing full well that you are Shouto’s plus-one most of the time. 

She likes to chat with you during suit pick-ups, with Masaru serving you a cup of tea as you wait for minor tweaks and adjustments to Shouto’s outfits. 

“It would be too last minute,” you resist, feeling bad for the hassle this would impose on them.

“Then I can call them later today.” Shouto reaches for his phone, eagerly typing what you assume is a reminder to call Mitsuki some time later, just as he said he would. 

“You–” your voice hesitates, “you don’t have to do that. I can contact their secretary–”

This is part of your job, after all. 

“It will be much faster if I call them directly.” 

And while he does have a point, you still feel bad, inching closer towards his desk, “It’s okay, you shouldn’t have to concern yourself with this–” 

He gives you a look. 

You stop moving. 

Shouto is stubborn, this much you know. When he looks like this, you’re well aware that there’s no point dissuading him from doing something he’s already set his mind to.)

“It’s only right given that I told you last minute.” 

He tells this to you sincerely; it really is the least he can do. 

Besides—

“…be honest…” the words replay in his head.

—he swallows his truth; lets it sink deep into stomach along with that two-part thump in his chest. 

“I only feel comfortable going to these with you, anyway.” 

(Your mind blanks, coming up with nothing else to say but ‘okay’.) 

.

.

.

Cameras flash as Shouto steps down from his van. 

The building ahead of him is colossal, tall pillars and perfect arches made of raw stone and marble—it feels both ancient and otherworldly, fitting to represent Musutafu in this new age. Ahead of him, the staircase stretches on, steps spanning the width of half a block. Down its center cascades a luscious carpet, thick velvet that further lends to the grandeur of the event. 

Standing at the foot of the staircase, Shouto takes a moment to unbutton his suit jacket, revealing his perfectly fitted waistcoat underneath. 

(You know he isn’t doing it on purpose; it’s hardly ever Shouto’s intention to make people swoon, but you’re positive that that one move alone can make anyone melt on sight—you included.) 

Tonight is the Annual Midyear Pro-Hero Awards, a prestigious event where hero rankings, major announcements, and charity biddings take place. 

(It’s not anything new to the both of you, but Shouto skipped out on the past two, and it’s been years since you joined him on the last one he went to. Being here again after so long makes you feel a little out of practice.

After he scales the flight of stairs ahead, Shouto turns back to you, offering his arm for support as you step down from the vehicle. You hesitate, partly because you don’t know whether it’s acceptable behavior for you to take it, and also because you don’t remember if this was something you did the last time you went to one of these with him.

You can’t think straight—not when he looks as seraphic as he does, face half-illuminated by the lights behind him with the shadows hugging the softness of his cheeks. 

Shouto is beautiful, a fact you’ve known long before you ever even started working with him; but you’re reminded of that fact in moments like this, especially. 

“The steps are tall,” he tells you, shaking you out of your thoughts as you glance back at the staircase behind him. You try not to stare, but the strands that frame his forehead shift from his sudden movement; it scatters into a perfect mess—characteristic of how anything out of place always seems to look on him.

You take his offer.)

His forearm is firm against your palm, the thick fabric of his suit jacket providing cushion for your touch. When he bends it towards his chest, your fingers slip towards the crook of his elbow. 

Scarlet red contrasts the building’s stone white structures, the carpet providing a center stage for all heroes and public figures to parade their outfits. If not for the photographers yelling, “Shouto, right!” and “Shouto, left!”, he would have gone straight inside, barely pausing on the landings between each flight of stairs. 

You stand to the side when he takes them, just as you always do. But between each flash that goes off, Shouto thinks about whether you should join him too; after all, Mitsuki did intend for the dark navy of your dress to match the stone gray of his three-piece suit. 

When you finally arrive at the lobby of the city hall, the two of you are welcomed into a receiving area adorned with crystal chandeliers. The lights bounce off the sharp white edges of the building’s neoclassical interiors, the carpet’s scarlet red returning as a recurring motif in the form of drapes cascading from the high ceilings and down the sides of the room.

By this time, Shouto’s relaxed a bit more, his hand slipping loosely into his front pocket. 

(You don’t realize you’re still holding onto him until you’re midway across the floor.) 

“Hey, you guys!” Kirishima waves over, squeezing himself within a narrow space between the backs of who look like one of the executives of the hero commission and last year’s awarded peace ambassador. 

(You don’t know how he could have possibly fit, the width of him wider than any pro-hero you know, but you chuckle at his timid mumbles of “sorry, excuse me, just passing through.” It reminds you of how he typically approaches you when he asks for favors regarding joint patrols and assignments with Shouto.

He greets you both with his trademark hug, a bone-crushing grip that leaves you a little winded.) 

“I didn’t know the two of you were coming!” 

“It was a last minute decision,” Shouto smiles, small and fond. 

(You look at Shouto intently from beside Kirishima, as if processing what he means. And when his eyes meet yours, you feel caught, shy, averting your gaze quickly.)

Kirishima clears his throat, no doubt noticing the interaction but choosing to focus on something else instead—Shouto’s outfit, a dark navy tie tucked underneath a fitted gray waistcoat; the white collar of his button down peeking through the all stone-gray ensemble. His hair is styled down, bangs curled inwards to form commas that frame his forehead.  

“Looking good, man.” the red head deflects, joining his index finger and thumb to form an ‘O-K’ sign as he nods at Shouto. Then he turns to you, the same genuine smile on his face as he says, “That color really suits you.” 

You smile sheepishly, mumbling, “Thanks.” 

(Kirishima is a sweetheart; you can never doubt that his intentions are pure. But the attention makes you feel a little self-conscious, even more now that—) 

Shouto looks at you then, again, too.

It’s the only time he’s managed to get a real good look at you if he’s being honest; from the incident in the car to the flashing lights up the staircase, there haven’t been many opportunities to fully see what you’re wearing. 

And—

Kirishima’s right. 

The color really does suit you, but so does the design of your dress—a simple cowl neck joining into halter straps; it dips low at the back, this detail of it, he knows. He’s been careful not to touch you there the entire time so far. It doesn’t help that your hair is tied into a low bun, accentuating the vacant space with how the dress hugs you beautifully in all the right places. 

The dark navy satin was a good choice, the perfect vessel for catching ripples of light. 

It’s simple but classic; understated, just like the accessories you’ve chosen are. And it brings out the one thing he thinks carries this look the most—

You. 

He tries to form the words in his head, urging himself to speak up—he wants to give you a compliment of his own. 

But—

“Bakubro!” Kirishima waves overhead, much like he did earlier. 

—maybe he can try again next time. 

You and Kirishima don’t stay long after Bakugo arrives, Ashido coming in to whisk you and the redhead away to the main room. She loops her arm around yours and pulls you towards her, prompting you to give one last glance at Shouto as an expression of your apologies. 

The corner of his lips curl only the slightest bit. 

Bakugo watches. 

“Don’t forget the drinks, Blasty!” Ashido calls over her shoulder, green silk flowing behind her. 

He tuts, grumbling as he heads towards the reception bar, leaving Shouto in the middle of the receiving area, unsure of where to follow. 

“Y’coming or what?” 

Shouto lingers for a few seconds, watching your back disappear into the hall before he decides to walk after Bakugo.  

The lobby begins to quiet down as people flood into the main event area, a large hall adorned with the same scarlet red drapes and crystal chandeliers. The table arrangements have been pre-selected and arranged, you and the others most likely finding your seats inside. 

“Old hag told me you’re dating.” 

Bakugo speaks, his back still turned to Shouto. 

The bar in front of them offers a generous selection of drinks, all ranging from different wines to cocktails and liquor shots. It isn’t a surprise that Bakugo knows all of his friends’ chosen drinks, down to each specificity—it’s how he shows that he cares. Shouto’s come to learn that over the years. 

Their friendship has settled into its own dynamic as Bakugo’s mellowed down. Shouto will ask a question here and there, and Bakugo will look at him like he’s the dumbest fuck on the planet, but still answer anyway. 

It works, as evidenced by right now. 

Shouto stops right beside Bakugo, leaning against the countertop as he hums, confused, “Who?” 

Bakugo sighs, sliding Shouto his gin and tonic, “Mom.” Then he rolls his eyes, gesturing towards the door of the main room, “She told me you two are finally dating.”

Shouto pauses mid-sip. 

When he recalls the conversation he had with Mitsuki, it went a lot more like:

“Can a dress be made for my assistant as well?” he speaks into the line, “I will be bringing them to the gala.” 

He doesn’t think he insinuated anything. 

But now that he replays it in his head, it’s no wonder Mitsuki’s enthusiastic reply sounded so eager. 

Bakugo snorts, smirking as if his suspicion was just proven right, “Knew that lady was hearin’ shit.” 

The bartender serves up another drink, Ashido’s raspberry daiquiri being placed right in front of the blond before he moves on to mix another one. Clacking ice fills in the silence, the drink coming together inside the shaker. 

Shouto stares at his drink and watches as little bubbles form on the slice of lime submerged in it. 

“Are you at least thinkin’ about it?” the blond faces Shouto, leaning his forearm against the counter. 

Shouto furrows his brows, a single thought running through his mind.

“How did you know?” 

Bakugo stares, deep vermillion as he speaks, deadpan, “You can’t be serious.” 

Shouto stares right back. 

Another drink is served, Kaminari’s mixed drink of vodka, lime, and lemonade.

The stare-off persists for a few seconds, a series of blinks emphasizing Shouto’s cluelessness to the whole ordeal. Because—why does it feel like everyone knows? Did he mention it without knowing? Or is it really just that obvious?

Bakugo sighs, mentally facepalming as he turns back to watch the bartender shake another drink, “Whatever. S’none of my business.” He leans onto the counter, elbows resting on the steeltop. 

Shouto isn’t sure what else to say. He knows that Bakugo is observant, that his friend has always had a keen sense of awareness for the things going on around him; it just never crossed his mind that that would include his interactions with you.

The blond slides over Ashido’s drink, prompting Shouto to hold the flute of the glass between his fingers, “Just don’t be a fuckin’ dumbass about it. Gotta be dense as hell if you think the way you’re treated is part of the job description.”

The bartender serves up the final drink: Sero’s whiskey on the rocks. Bakugo takes it along with Kaminari’s and starts walking back to the main room, Shouto following right behind him. 

He thinks about it. 

A thump. 

Because right before they both enter the hall, Shouto spots you, further back at the right side of the room as you laugh at something Yaoyorozu must have said. 

He blinks, wondering if the soft glow around you is from the haziness of his eyes. 

“If y’don’t do shit first, some other loser will,” Bakugo mumbles, just within ear-shot before he walks ahead to where Kirishima and the others are seated. 

Shouto makes a mental note to drop off Ashido’s drink before heading over to you. 

.

.

.

You and Shouto leave the gala early.

A message from the police station came in the middle of the event: a request to bump up a few reports for submission tomorrow.

You’d mentioned to Shouto that he could stay, especially since he’d be needed to accept awards that you were sure he’d be the recipient of—among them being one of the top performing agencies of the year, a big chunk of it based on the high turnover rate of timely reports. But he insisted that someone else could represent him instead; he’s certain Midoriya wouldn’t mind. 

If you were going back to the agency to work, so was he. 

The night shift at the agency is minimally staffed, with most sidekicks and pro-heroes out on patrol. Regular employees have clocked out by this time, and it seems that the only ones left in the building are the emergency unit and the two of you. 

You’ve split the work between you two: Shouto tasked to fill in the second pages, where the scene-by-scene breakdown and additional comments can be found, and you, in charge of summarizing those details along with all basic information onto the first pages. 

It feels nostalgic, watching you flip through the papers laid out on the coffee table of his lounging area at a quarter past midnight. Back then, he had just hired you, and the only other employees in the agency were his gear tech and PR manager. There was no way the volume of workload could be managed without spending late nights organizing investigations and reports on the floor of that rented studio unit. 

Now, you sit by the coffee table in his lounging area, one you helped decorate. The books atop it have been pushed to the side to give you ample workspace, but even those remind him of how much consideration you’ve put into helping him build his space. 

Bakugo’s words linger when he thinks about it—how the books you’ve chosen remind him of his family. There’s one on the language of flowers that his mother would love, and a cookbook that he’s sure Fuyumi’s used (some corners are folded, with her handwriting scrawled on every other page). On another stack lie a few comic books he remembers Touya and Natsuo reading when they were younger (that he’s pretty sure he’s seen them flip through during their visits to his office over the years).  

And along with all the books sits a family photo taken years ago, framed and taken by you during one of their annual trips to their family beach house a few hours away from the city. 

It begins to sink in. 

A thump.

He folds the sleeves of his button down to his elbows, his gray suit jacket long since draped over the back of his leather chair. You’ve changed out of your heels too, opting instead for the soft slippers you keep under your desk. 

It’s cute, he thinks, the formality of your entire get-up toned down by a pair of fluffy yellow slippers. 

When he glances at you again, he finds you hunched over yourself on the sofa of his lounging area, an arm wrapped around yourself as if to contain whatever warmth you have left. 

He furrows his brows. 

“Are you cold?” his voice booms through the stillness of his office, jostling you out of focus. You whip your head up to look at him, shaking it immediately as if on autopilot. 

(He pouts, then, a small downturn of his lips that you find adorable, more than anything.) 

“I’m okay,” you smile, but he can see the slight twitching of your lip; the goosebumps dotting down your trembling arms. 

You always seem to be doing things like this with him. 

He pushes himself away from his desk, the wheels of his chair rolling against the stone floor. 

You never express your discomfort in any situation you’re put in, and you diligently work and endure all conditions to get the job done. He always extends his help, but you often decline, and—

“You have to be dense as hell if you think the way you’re treated is part of the job description.”

—Shouto is beginning to realize that the way you treat him really is so much more than that. 

You’ve laid the groundwork of the operations in his agency and you always smooth talk your way to getting him out of schedules he mistakenly forgets to show up to (typically with good reason, though). You cover all the areas he misses—this entire building would not be how it looks and functions without your help overseeing its construction. 

You’re organized and driven, eager and compassionate, and you care, above all else. 

The flowers you leave on his desk are never needed, but you always insist on them to keep his space alive. You fix all his clumsy papercuts, even though he never asks you to; he’s dealt with much, much worse, yet it’s only a split-second after you spot it that the tingling of your quirk works its way to mend his split skin. 

It’s just like what happened in the car earlier tonight, a few minutes away from reaching the city hall. Shouto had accidentally cut himself with the invitation to the gala, and though he insisted that it was okay, it was right on his eyelid—a miracle it even missed his eyeball in the first place, you’d commented. 

You managed to convince him then, saying, “It’s going to sting every time you blink.” —which was true; it did sting every time he blinked. 

That care extends to the people in his life too. His mom loves to go to the weekend market with you, and Fuyumi can always count on you to help her cook when she needs an extra hand. You keep up with Natsuo’s jokes and Touya talks to you, long enough conversations that allow him to be himself. 

You care, and you insist upon your care especially when you know he needs it but would never ask for it. 

It’s only fair, then, that it’s time he does the same for you. 

He removes the suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, the movement drawing your attention. 

(Your eyes widen as he approaches you. You feel shy, a little flustered as you raise your hands up to reassure him that you don’t need it.) 

“Your arms are shivering.” he points out, holding up the thick fabric. 

You crane your neck up to look at him, just a few steps away from reach. 

(You can’t deny the facts.)

From above, he only sees skin—the plunging dip of your exposed back, the small hairs standing along your arms. He tries his best to look into your eyes only, but—

“At least let me place this over you.” 

(And you know you can’t deny Shouto, either.) 

—when you concede and let him, he steps closer and bends just a little bit, his full height too tall to be able to place it on you properly. His arms circle around you, carefully resting the thick wool around your neck and onto your shoulders. 

He bends lower to adjust the sleeves, making sure that your arms are fully covered. You’re so still, and so close, the tips of his ears nearly touching the highest points of your cheeks. 

(It’s just like the gala—)

It’s just like the car—

(—with Shouto helping you navigate through the crowd of people exiting the event as early as you both did. His presence was a steady heat against your back, near and warm but barely touching.)

—with your face almost nose-to-nose with his; apart from the gentle touch of your fingertip against his eyelid, Shouto can only remember feeling that, along with the traitorous thump of his heartbeat. 

It’s a good thing that he had his eyes closed then; he wouldn’t have known how to react at the proximity. 

But now, he can see you so clearly, your low bun kept in place by bobby pins the same color of your hair; there’s glitter on the inner corners of your eyes, some of it falling to dot the corners of your nose. 

This has to be more than just a crush if he’s feeling this intensely.  

Your eyes meet for a brief moment, then it’s two blinks before you look away, clearing your throat as you glance at him again, a little bashful, “Thank you.” 

Shouto nods, taking one step back. 

“The estate we booked for the company outing offered to host a visit for you next weekend.” you speak before he fully returns to his seat, shifting in your seat, “I checked your schedule and there’s nothing set for that day yet.” His suit jacket dwarfs you, the deep navy silk becoming an accent the further you sink into it, “Maybe you’d like to go with your mom?”

You suggest it to him again. Because you know and you care. 

He taps his foot, looking out into the city, “That would be nice.” Then he turns back to you, strands of his bangs falling to dust his forehead as he puts his hands inside his pockets, “You’ll be coming too, then?” 

(There are things you don’t allow your heart to feel in moments like this—hope being one of them. Shouto looks dangerously attractive in a suit, and it’s been difficult to keep your feelings at bay the entire night. He speaks honestly, rarely with double meaning, so when he speaks to you like this, you try not to think too much of it. 

“Yes,” you agree, thinking that he must want you to scope out the venue for the company outing activities, “is there anything in particular that you want me to check out for the team building?”)

Shouto tilts his head. 

“Not for work,” he clarifies, staring straight into your eyes. “Just to spend the day with us.” 

He expects your reaction already, your eyes widening and your hands raising to wave off a ‘there’s no need.’ But, he finds that there’s no reason for you to be shy, already beating you to the final say.

“Mom would want you there,” he mentions, because it’s true. She’d look for you. 

And if he’s being completely honest with himself, with how he’s been feeling around you lately—he would too. 

II. IF I SPEAK

The Todoroki family home comes alive on the weekends. 

Since Touya’s return, his mom has moved into a smaller, more modern place to stay. The walls of its exteriors are painted a warm off-white, its features complemented by light wood and bluish-gray accents. At the back exists a garden large enough for a few small trees and her growing flower collection—a complete flip from their larger and darker old home. 

The tall windows stream sunlight into the living space, each corner of the house doused in its comfort. Opting for a smaller home was a conscious choice—everything would be within reach, and so would the people in it. 

On the days that Touya is allowed to stay home from rehab, he lives here, sometimes with Fuyumi, but always with Rei. 

“Food is ready!” Fuyumi calls from the kitchen, prompting Touya and Natsuo to look over from the couch. Shouto is just about to finish setting the table when Rei brings out a piping hot pot of soup, Fuyumi in tow with a whole plate of tonkotsu. 

Natsuo heads inside the kitchen for anything else that might need carrying, and Touya opens the fridge to take out the iced tea he helped make last night.

It’s taken some time to get here—with Touya willingly doing anything with his family. Getting used to living with people he thought abandoned him for a decade is hard; learning to become a family has been even harder. 

But Touya has always lived in a special corner of his mother’s heart—never forgotten and always considered. Shouto thinks it’s the same case for all of them; that’s how it’s managed to work. 

Touya takes his seat beside Shouto, pouring himself a glass of iced tea while waiting for the rest of their family. 

“Played any golf lately?” Touya eyes Shouto from the side.  

Shouto shakes his head, staring at his palms; calluses used to line the base of his fingers, “Work at the agency has gotten busy.” 

Taking up golf has been part of Touya’s rehabilitation program for the past few months, a recommendation to aid in improving focus while keeping himself calm. And though there was much resistance at first, Touya’s grown fond enough of the sport to play it on his own; it’s made all the difference, Shouto’s noticed, his brother’s overall disposition a lot less angry—

“Looks like I’m going to beat your ass next week,” Touya smirks, cracking his wrists. 

—but still equally as snarky.

Shouto doesn’t normally care about competition; the only person he really has to beat is himself. But he and Touya are alike in many ways, with eyes as sharp as their father’s but their faces holding the same innocence as their mother’s. They are both lit up by fires—one forced to blaze and the other forced to dim. There is a bluntness Shouto shares with Touya that no one else in the family can argue with.

“Being too confident can jinx it for you on the fairway,” Shouto replies, turning to his brother with his signature blank gaze. 

Natsuo laughs as he settles into his seat beside Touya, watching as his older brother’s smirk quickly dissolves into a frown. 

“Little shit,” Touya mumbles, taking a sip from his drink. 

The corners of Shouto’s lips curl up slightly. 

Rei and Fuyumi join the table last, bringing out a steaming pot of rice and a few side dishes to complement the rest of the meal. 

These family lunches keep them connected. 

Fuyumi believes that no matter how busy they are, having this time to gather together and share details on each other’s lives is important.

“Sorry I can’t join you and these two next weekend, mom,” Natsuo starts, slicing through his tonkotsu as he points an elbow towards his brothers, “The hospital has a medical mission out of town.” 

Rei simply smiles, waving her hand, “No need to apologize. I’m so proud of you, Natsuo.” 

“Will you be free, Fuyumi?” she turns next to her, placing a hand on Fuyumi’s lap. 

Fuyumi swallows her food, smiling apologetically, “Sorry, mom, the school’s hosting a kiddie pool party for the first day of summer.”  

Rei pats her lap reassuringly, smiling again as she says, “It’s no problem, I’m glad the kids are having fun under your care.” 

“It’ll just be the three of us, then.” Rei looks at her two boys across from her—her eldest and her youngest. 

Touya blows at his bowl, puffs of steam dissipating into the air. For as hot as Touya’s flames can get, he dislikes anything too hot to eat—a preference of his that Rei’s taken note of as she reaches across the table to cool down his bowl ever so slightly. 

“Thanks,” Touya mumbles, still hesitant to call her ‘mom’ when it’s face-to-face. 

“I heard the estate has a greenhouse,” Shouto mentions, Rei instantly perking up at the information, “You can take a look at the plants there, mom.” 

“That sounds lovely, Shouto,” she smiles; this time, it reaches her eyes, “We can take photos in your handsome outfits too.” 

Touya scrunches his nose as Shouto nods. As per the invitation, the estate prepared a whole day’s worth of activities—a game of golf in the morning, brunch by the gardens, and a simple wine tasting to cap off the afternoon. 

Lunch continues with Fuyumi sharing more about the kids she’s handling this year, and Natsuo retelling interactions of the most obnoxious patients he’s had yet. 

They laugh, a little more like a family—Shouto chuckling as Touya gives a snarky comment or two. Fuyumi laughs, full-bodied, and Rei giggles, softly, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. 

“How are your flowers, mom?” Shouto asks after they settle down, remembering that you helped her pick out which ones to plant last time. 

“The morning glories are going to be blooming soon,” Rei replies, her smile fond and proud. Since being released from the hospital years ago, she’s taken to planting and flower arranging, oftentimes asking you to help her choose which ones to use. 

“Really?” Fuyumi turns her head, gasping as she catches a glance from the window across the room, “They look good, mom! Can I have some when they bloom?” 

Rei nods, turning to her youngest, “You can get some too, Shouto.” 

For you, she adds.

Natsuo eyes him from the side as he freezes, Rei suggesting some more, “You can place it in a vase. It’s not fair, you always receive flowers for your desk.” 

Shouto nods, a small ‘okay’ because he doesn’t really know how else to respond without giving his feelings away. 

Touya observes Shouto’s expressions, his eyes twinkling in sinister aquamarine.

“Speaking of,” he shifts in his seat, crossing his legs to face Shouto, “s’your hot assistant coming?” 

Something twists in Shouto’s face, his brows furrowing slightly. 

Touya knows just how to get on Shouto’s nerves.

(What stares back at him is a deadly shade of gray and blue. 

Touya does this pretty often: provoking just for fun. 

Shouto stares at almost everyone he interacts with; it’s unnerving and uncomfortable for people who aren’t used to it, but Touya’s noticed that his little brother stares at you for far longer than he needs to. 

And though he’s missed a big chunk of how Shouto grew up, he likes to think he reads him pretty well now—how he acts around you, especially.

At his core, Shouto believes in carving his own path, choosing to fix wrongs and better himself for the now. Touya knows these things, knows where a person is weakest, just like he’s been taught—just like he’s been made aware of his entire life. Yet, for how independent Shouto’s become, he still chooses to lean on you; turns to you for thoughts and opinions,  considering you in everything. 

Touya has met you a few times; the whole family has. During the worst of his relapse, you were the only person apart from family who was trusted to accompany him in and out of rehab. You picked him up and dropped him off, often joining Rei and Fuyumi on visits when Shouto would be too busy. 

To him, you’re an extension of Shouto at this point—an olive branch that’s been just as instrumental in healing this family and the people in it. 

It’s never in the big things, but those few minutes of small talk you attempt with him in the car ride home help loosen his tongue, training a muscle that with time, has helped him open up more. 

Touya doesn’t care much for people; he’s still just beginning to learn to love his family again, but he thinks you fit in well, because you and Natsuo have the same god-awful humor, and Fuyumi only trusts you to help out in the kitchen. His mom likes having you around, and you never stick your neck in too deep in other people’s shit when they aren’t ready for it—especially his. You never nag Shouto, but you stand firm on the things you disagree with, because as far as Touya can see, you care, far deeper than your job requires you to. 

In all ways, you are the stability and calm authenticity that Shouto needs after growing up in such a tumultuous family.

So, Touya likes to stir the pot a little. Or a lot. Maybe.

Just for fun.)

Shouto continues to stare, his frown deepening. His jaw clenches, tension throbbing in his temples.

“Don’t say it like that,” he mutters, low and firm.

He feels like a kid again; like this would be a conversation they’d be having if things were normal and Touya had been around when Shouto turned 15, teasing him about a crush he might have, like older brothers do. 

Natsuo and Fuyumi have always felt like his protectors, siblings forced to be parents by circumstance; but Touya feels like his brother, the one he can fight and steal food from; the one who holds a toy up above head where Shouto can’t reach—even though he’s much, much taller than his older brother now. 

Touya scoffs, smirking, “Just saying what you think, little brother.”

.

.

.

All Shouto hears is a thump. 

A succession of them, in a steady three-part beat. 

The golf ball in front of him sits on an even plot of vibrant green, its dents and grooves emphasized by the sunlight of the early morning—there’s pressure, a thump; he needs to beat Touya in this hole to tie overall. Another thump; you’re watching him play. 

He analyzes all conditions, feels the heat on his back seep through the fabric of his white golf shirt. He breathes in and prepares to swing. 

Today is the visit to the estate. 

The agenda starts with an early game of golf, followed by brunch at the gardens and wine tasting in the early to late afternoon. It’s a beautiful day, and Shouto should be focusing on winning this game, but it’s distracting when you’re all he’s really thought about since the start of this round. 

—you, in your perfectly fitted white golf shirt and its complementary skirt; you, sitting with his mom at the back of the golf cart, smiling and laughing as if you aren’t the slightest bit aware of how much you brighten a space when you look like that. You, with your head whipping right in his direction when you hear the loud ‘swauck!’ that the impact of his club makes with the ball—your eyes excited and hopeful. 

Shouto misses the hole, and Touya snickers from the side. 

The thumbs up you give him is a soothing balm to his miss.

Shouto readjusts his cap as they walk closer to the hole, tucking in the strands of hair clinging to his forehead. He glances back at you and lingers, interrupted only by—

“Pretty thing, your assistant,” Touya teases, nudging his head towards your direction, “Cute skirt and all.” 

“Stop.” Shouto stares, impassive and unamused. His eyebrow twitches before he turns, walking away. 

From afar, he can hear Touya’s chuckle, breathy from the movement of fixing his arm sleeve. Shouto only pays attention to preparing his putter.  

He knows this is just how his older brother is. 

Since the start of this round, Touya’s managed to lead by a few strokes, with Shouto falling behind in every hole. It’s frustrating and annoying, aggravated even more by Touya’s teasing and the fact that Shouto has played the sport for far longer than Touya has.

It doesn’t help that he ends up missing again, with Touya managing to make the put afterwards. 

Shouto sighs, clenching his jaw. 

“You know,” Touya eyes him as they walk to the next hole, “staring’s not gonna get you anywhere.” 

“I’m not staring,” Shouto retorts immediately. The expanse of greenery ahead of him is taunting, an endless plot of land that feels like it’s watching.  

Touya scoffs, “Sure.” 

The golf course in the estate is landscaped with luscious trees, vibrant in the brightness of summer. Flowers bloom along the perimeter, yellows and reds carving out this specific section of the estate. You and his mom follow closely behind, riding the cart at a slow and steady pace. 

Just a few meters down, the little red flag for the next hole comes into view, moving with the breeze. 

“If you don’t plan on acting on it, you should let me know.” Touya mentions it a little too casually. 

Another thump. 

It’s a joke. Obviously. Something only meant to rile him up—it’s how Touya is. 

But it still makes him feel just a tad bit uneasy; it makes him feel a little bit like it did when they were kids. 

Before Touya disappeared, they used to sneak into the garden on winter nights. Shouto must have been no older than five and learning how to manage his quirk properly. 

They used to play a game: The Twigfire Race, Touya called it—a competition on who can form the longest and fastest fire trail using a bunch of twigs. 

Touya would always win, his long legs and lanky arms gathering more sticks than Shouto ever could at that age. His flames burned a deep azure blue, eating through the twigs much faster than Shouto’s flames did. Then, he’d press onto the pads of his burnt fingertips, teasing Shouto in some twisted attempt at motivating his little brother to do better. 

Touya would always win, but not without getting a word in. Not without leaving Shouto with a lesson or two about it. 

“I said, stop.” Shouto warns him, voice stern as he turns slightly to catch his brother's eyes. 

“Damn. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Touya raises a hand in mock surrender, smirking, “I can just do it without asking you.” 

Shouto stops walking, fists clenched tightly around his golf club. 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Oh, I’m not joking,” Touya taunts, holding back his laugh.

The stare Shouto gives him turns icy, glare intensifying as he inches closer towards his big brother. Touya doesn’t move, the stare-off lasting long enough for you to notice the confrontation. 

From his periphery, Shouto can see you looking at them in confusion. 

“Or am I?” Touya snickers right before he turns away, walking straight towards the next hole. 

Shouto watches him walk away, each thump matching the footsteps his brother makes. To the side, the cart slows to a halt and you get off, standing up as if to gain a better view of what just happened. 

You lock eyes with Shouto and he musters a small smile, raising a hand as if to say ‘everything’s fine.’ 

“Losers lose ‘cause they don’t get shit done, Shouto!” Touya calls from a few steps ahead. 

Shouto stares at his brother’s back; it’s just how Touya used to say when they were kids—

“You just have to go for it!” 

He takes a step. 

.

.

.

Touya wins the round, with Shouto losing by only a few strokes. 

Rei hugs them both, Touya’s slight reluctance evident in the way his arms stay glued to his side as she wraps hers around the both of them. 

Shouto brings one hand up, resting it against her back; from his line of sight, he spots you smiling fondly, giving him another thumbs up when your eyes meet. 

.

.

.

The estate’s staff escorts everyone to their respective rooms, allowing some time to change into clothes more suited for the late morning brunch. 

When Shouto and Touya finish, they make their way to the greenhouse, a glass dome teeming with life. It’s art in bloom—chrysanthemums, hydrangeas, sunflowers, and camellias all in varying colors of pink, red, purple, and yellow. Under a small bridge is a pond, alive with koi fish swimming underneath pads of water lilies, and right up above, where the sunlight streams in, are baskets of japanese roses, hanging in bright, fuschia clusters. 

He walks atop the bridge, hands stuffed inside his linen pants—a pair that matches the linen shirt you gifted him birthdays ago. What surrounds him is beautiful; perhaps the most heavenly place he’s been to. 

A morning of golf under the sun, nature in florescence. A (relatively) peaceful morning. 

And you—

The moment Shouto spots you, the scenery on your backdrop fades into muddled hues. You and Rei enter the greenhouse side-by-side, with his mother wearing an all-white ensemble: a cardigan with a long, flowy skirt. 

And you—

—you walk in wearing a pale yellow sundress, its hem hitting just above your knees. There are dainty flowers dotted all over it, but nothing too loud; the straps sink into a v-neck with bust details, flowing down into an a-line skirt. It’s perfectly understated, only emphasizing the focus on how radiant you look in it. 

He can’t stop staring. 

Touya snorts as he passes him. 

This day, this sight, is going to stay in his memory for a long, long while, he thinks. 

From up ahead, he can hear his mom call for Touya, dragging him around to ask which blooms would look best for the garden at home. And when he snaps out of the daze you’ve put him in, you appear right beside him, asking if he’s okay. 

“Yes,” he answers promptly, unsure of what to say next. His eyes flit to the baskets of japanese roses hanging above you, then to the view peeking from outside. “Do you want to look around before we eat?”

You nod. 

The depth of the greenhouse is deceiving upon first glance, with Touya and Rei now out of sight as you explore the area. You walk close enough to be side-by-side but still stay a step behind like you typically do, pausing every now and then to take pictures of the flowers around you. 

“You seem more relaxed,” he points out, pushing up the sleeves of his button-up. 

You turn to him from the chrysanthemums you’re snapping, a little flustered at his comment. 

(And at him, mostly. You don’t know how anyone can look this good in a simple linen set. Nature favors Todoroki Shouto, and it shows in moments like now, with sunlight hitting his face at just the right angle that it paints stardust on the tips of his eyelashes.) 

“It’s good,” he quickly follows-up, fluffing through his bangs, “I did mention this wasn’t for work.” 

(You feel warm at the reminder.

“It’s nice to see you with some down time too,” you return the sentiment, uncomfortable with the attention on you.

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress.)

“Did something happen earlier?” you put your phone down, continuing to walk. “At the course. Things looked pretty tense.” 

Shouto hums, considers his next words. He takes a few more steps before answering, “Touya is a dick.” 

A laugh escapes you, and you cover your mouth quickly as you mumble an apology. Shouto knows it’s because it’s completely out of character for him to be so vulgar and insulting when it comes to his siblings.

“Was he sabotaging you?” 

“...Something like that.” he responds. 

“That’s okay,” you scrunch your nose, peering up at him, “You haven’t had much time to play lately.” 

And Shouto wonders if he’s just that easy to console, or if it’s a specific comfort that only comes from you. You make it so easy for him to feel better about all the little and big things—whether it’s news articles headlining him as a PR nightmare, or near-losses on missions gone wrong. 

Not a lot of things get to Shouto, but when they do, you somehow always know how to handle it. 

You continue to stroll around the greenhouse, looking closely at the steel bars holding up the glass arches. From a few steps ahead, Shouto can hear your mumbles—something about measurements and the logistics of turning the rooftop of the agency into a smaller version of this greenhouse.  

“You and mom looked like you were enjoying yourselves earlier,” he mentions offhandedly, hands clasped around his back. 

It’s something he’s noticed for a while—his mother seems to relax more around you, laughing and smiling in most of your conversations. He gets it; you have that effect on everyone around you, the warmth you exude a welcome invitation to be opened up to. 

(You eye him from the side knowingly; Todoroki Shouto is nothing but a closet snoop.) 

“We were talking about plant stuff,” you smile, “and how she’s happy you and Touya finally got to play together. You should’ve seen how red her hands were from clapping for the both of you.” 

He chuckles softly, matching your steps in comfortable silence. 

It’s at a different section of the greenhouse that he pauses, giving you time to admire the shrubs of hydrangeas blooming around you.

Touya’s words come back to him. 

He wonders if he should say it, if he should ask—

“Don’t move,” you tell him, raising your phone to eye-level.

Shouto stares at you, hands in his pockets as he watches you tap on your phone.

“Look to the side,” you instruct him again, and he follows, albeit a little confused. 

When he turns to face you again, the smile on your face is beaming, glowing as you turn your phone to show him the photos you managed to take. 

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

And when you point to the way sunlight streaks highlights onto the redness of his hair, down to the slope of his nose and the width of shoulders, he can’t help but agree. 

Now, he wonders—

“Do you want a photo with the flowers?” Shouto asks, because it makes no sense that you deem him worthy to be pictured in perfect lighting when there’s you, looking like you do—the walking subject to the backdrop of greenery behind you. 

Your eyes widen, a stuttered “O-Oh,” falling from your lips. You tug at your skirt again, fiddling with the soft fabric until your eyes nervously meet his. “I don’t really need—”

“The lighting is nice here, too.”

“Oh,” you respond, a hint of diffidence as you flash a small, hesitant smile, “Okay.” 

As Shouto angles himself to take your photo, he notices you turn restless, the smile on your face never quite reaching your eyes and your fingers constantly twirling the fabric of your dress. 

He puts down his phone, tilting his head. 

“Are insects biting you?”

(Your brows shoot up, embarrassed by how he’s noticed. 

You shake your head in response, providing no other explanation besides “Sorry.” 

He continues to stare, as if waiting for you to continue. You know there’s no point hiding the real reason you feel so nervous when he’s already noticed this much.  

“I think I might be underdressed,” you admit, smiling sheepishly as you clasp your fingers in front of you, “This entire place is gorgeous.”

The estate screams high-class; apart from the golf course and the greenhouse, the area also boasts its own private lake glistening across a large green field. It feels a little too good to be true—a paradise you find yourself out of place in. 

But—)

Shouto looks at you, really looks at you—at the way your dress hits right above your knees at the perfect length, at how your collarbones peek through its dainty v-neck cut. Its pale yellow makes you look like summer, radiating in light, and he thinks he hasn’t seen anything more beautiful, really; anything more fitting—for this occasion, for this venue, for this day. 

For you. 

The words have been lodged at his throat since he first saw you step in, and now they’re being pushed out, coaxed slowly by the honesty beating thunderously in his chest. 

He thinks about his mom, how she speaks of beauty whenever and wherever she finds it, with nothing stopping her speech and—

There’s a hum, a thoughtful vibration priming his throat as he continues to stare. 

“I think you’re dressed just right,” is what he manages to get out. 

A thump. 

It’s more than that, though, he knows. 

If this is his chance, if this is ‘next time’ from his attempt at the gala—

He blinks, and you only get prettier. 

“You look beautiful.” he confesses, the sentence overflowing with honesty.

(And when he says your name unlike any way he’s said it before, you feel your chest expand, terrified that it might explode.

Shouto is blunt and honest to a fault; and that honesty, you’ve realized, also happens to be his most cunning trait—a quality that's endeared you over the years now rendering you into a stuttering, fumbling mess like never before. 

“T-Thank you.” you straighten your dress, “You—”)

Shouto’s phone vibrates in his palm, a call from Touya breaking him out of your conversation. He bows his head slightly to excuse himself and you nod in acknowledgment. 

“Brunch is served,” he relays, pocketing his phone soon after he hangs up.

(Then, with his hand inside his pocket, he bends his arm deeper, creating a wider loop as if to offer it for you to hang onto—the same way he did during the gala.

And just like you did then, you take it.)

.

.

.

Brunch was served at the estate’s main patio, a circular table made of light wood adorned with dainty white tableware and muted green linen. In the middle was a centerpiece, an assortment of fresh flowers from the greenhouse coming together for a pop of color against the main neutral color scheme. 

The food was divine, a lovely selection of seasonal salads and warm breads, along with eggs cooked in every way possible. Newly harvested fruits were served before and after the meal, a kind of appetizer-dessert to complement the main piece—a large slab of freshly caught salmon. 

Now, you all gather on the second floor of the estate’s main building, right at the balcony overlooking the greenhouse and the field—a perfect view for wine tasting.

Shouto doesn’t care much for alcohol, all technicalities going past his head as the sommelier explains notes and wine pairings.

He can’t taste much of the difference, if he’s being honest. 

In the sommelier’s hand is a bottle of red wine; he describes all of the technical parts of it before finishing off with the fact that it’s ‘beautifully balanced’, something that causes Touya to snort at the side. 

Shouto looks, raising an eyebrow curiously. 

Touya leans in closer to his little brother, swirling the wine in his glass as he lowers his voice mockingly, “‘You look beautiful’.”

The expression on Shouto’s face remains unreadable, his brain processing the fact that his brother must have overheard his conversation with you earlier. It’s while Touya begins to gulp down his glass that Shouto steps on his foot—a sharp pressure stomped onto freshly cleaned loafers. 

“Fuckin–” Touya hisses, cursing under his breath as he pulls his foot away. 

The edges of Shouto’s lips curl up as he turns back to his glass of wine, watching from across the table as his mom smiles fondly at something you must have said. 

(You still feel flustered, a little fuzzy. You’re unsure whether the heat emanating off your cheeks is from the wine or the lingering echoes of his compliment earlier.

From across the table, you lock eyes with Shouto, gray and blue sitting strikingly atop flushed cheeks. You look away quickly—a knee-jerk reaction of bashfulness. He doesn’t hold his liquor well, a fact you’ve known for many, many years, so you can’t tell for sure whether he’s turned red from the wine, or from the same thing you’re feeling, too.)

III. LET ME TELL YOU (HONESTLY)

“If y’don’t do shit first, some other loser will.”

“Losers lose ‘cause they don’t get shit done…”

“...just be honest about it when the time comes.”

The streets are calm at this time of night, with cars occasionally passing by and the chimes of shop doors tinkling as they open and shut. Not a lot of people stay up late in this part of the neighborhood, but Shouto still hears them—all the jumbled voices of Bakugo and his brothers merging in his mind. 

He steps onto concrete, footfalls muffled by the cushion of his boots—a new update on his costume, one you suggested after a stealth mission mishap caused by the drag of his heel. 

Tonight is his scheduled patrol—a route he knows like the back of his hand, memorized from the many years he’s been assigned to it. The streetlamps ahead cast a dim glow down the road; an atmosphere he would otherwise find unsettling if not for the fact that it’s provided him odd comfort in times he’s needed it the most. 

Tonight, his mind ruminates on you. 

Lately, his interactions with you have been… different—shy glances and awkward slip-ups; the intentional way he’s been expressing himself more around you. 

He can’t tell what you think of it yet. 

Yet, you still sit with him in comfortable silence on the nights that you both work late, and you still bring in fresh flowers for his desk every few days. He’s sure that when he gets back to the agency after his shift, you’ll still be there, claiming to finish a report when you both know it’s just an excuse to make sure that he finished patrol safely.

You still care for him in the same way. 

And now that he’s thinking more about it, maybe it’s been those little things all along—the same way you’ve been treating him all these years shifting into something deeper and more significant, beating its way out of his chest. 

You know Shouto better than anyone—so much so that his family asks you for lists of gift ideas because they don’t have the slightest clue what else to get him. He’s found himself seeking your opinion on things more and more over the years, and if he’s being honest, a big chunk of his decisions are now partly influenced by what you think of them first. 

Across the street, a couple sways to the beat of the jazz bar they step out of, their hands intertwined and smiles giddy with adoration and love. He looks away quickly before they catch him staring. 

There are things Shouto’s discovered that he likes seeing you do—like how you shift your feet when you feel flustered at something he says, or when you tap your index finger against whatever surface it’s on when you’re deep in thought. Your eyes widen when he says things you don’t expect him to, and something about that intrigues him.

He thinks you look cute. 

He wonders if you know that about yourself; and if you don’t, a part of him is saying that he should be the one to tell you.  

.

.

.

You and Shouto attend only one day of teambuilding. 

The company trip spans an entire two weeks, with each department coming in a few days at a time. You both would stay if you could, but Shouto’s schedule doesn’t allow him to be gone for more than a day.

It’s always been unspoken: wherever Shouto goes, you go too. 

This day of the teambuilding is assigned for the managers and those under Shouto’s direct reporting team. 

The estate is still as beautiful as the last time you both visited, summer shining atop the glistening surface of the lake across the green field. Company trips aren’t typically this grand, but this is also the first time in years that Shouto’s had free time to drop by. 

(It’s a bit funny, you think, watching him struggle to reach the finish line in a three-legged race paired with his finance director. Shouto is typically awkward in most team activities, but you find it endearing, watching him put full effort into things he normally doesn’t do.) 

By mid-afternoon, the day’s activities have consisted of tank rolls, marble balancing, and a classic game of pass-the-message (which, you’ve learned, Shouto is absolute garbage at). And for the final game of the day, the both of you are paired for a duo tug of war against his PR manager and support engineer. 

The afternoon heat burns the back of Shouto’s neck, his cap providing little to no protection for that area of his skin. He stands behind you, rope twisted firmly in his grasp as he prepares to pull. You mimic his stance, bracing yourself with your knees bent as you grip the rope tightly. 

Prior to the game, you were all given three minutes to discuss strategies. 

And so now, Shouto counts, low and steady, “One.” 

“Get set,” the facilitator for this activity announces. 

“Two.” 

You take a deep breath. 

“Go!” 

“Three.”

You both pull, holding your ground for a few seconds. He can see your knuckles turning white from where he’s standing, and when he glances at the other team, they’ve begun to lean back, anchoring their bodies to the ground before pulling away slowly. 

Shouto digs his feet into the earth, the rope’s rough fibers sticking to the calluses on his hands. It doesn’t take long before you both slip forward, being dragged by the other team and eventually pulled into your loss. 

You turn back to him immediately, apologetic as you rub your palms, “Sorry!”

(Before the game even began, you already knew whoever your partner was would be carrying most of the work. And you feel a little bad because your loss does make a bit of sense, you think. 

Though Shouto is strong, you know he’s developed his agility far more than his strength. It doesn’t help that his support engineer lifts bulks of synthetic thermal cloth everyday. 

The both of you didn’t stand a chance, really.) 

But Shouto waves it off, smiling softly. 

“Are you okay?” he looks down at your hands. Your skin is an angry flaming red all over your palms, but what causes him to frown are the small cuts resting at the base of your fingers. 

“Yup, all g–” you attempt to hide it, but Shouto’s reflexes are quick, and he catches your wrist the moment you pull away. 

It’s an instinctive reaction when he looks over it once, pressing his thumb to the center of your palm to get a better look. He reaches for his utility belt out of habit, patting the area above his hip only to feel nothing but the smooth cotton of his shirt.

Right, he remembers, he isn’t wearing his gear today.  

He drops his arms, looking around the field for a first-aid kit nearby. 

(A small chuckle escapes you, endeared, and Shouto looks up at the sound. His eyes meet yours briefly before he jogs all the way to retrieve the red box by the tree. 

It’s just a friction burn; a few small cuts from the rough material of the rope, at most. 

You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

When Shouto comes back, he ushers you to the side, grabbing a few cotton buds and antiseptic ointment from the box. His brain works on autopilot, barely thinking as he tends to your injury.

(You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

He peels the bandaid for you and gently places it on top of your wounds—a yellow checkered pattern decorating your skin. 

(You don’t need first aid. But you kind of get it, you think. It’s the same instinctive reaction you have when he gets papercuts. There’s no need for you to mend them with your quirk, but it’s an inexplicable feeling that makes you feel uneasy at the idea of him getting injured off the field.

A whistle is blown to call everyone back to huddle. 

“Better?” Shouto stares at you from under his cap, readjusting it as red and white strands touch the tips of his eyelashes. 

(He looks unfairly pretty like this. How can he even expect you to answer?

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, swallowing your breath. 

When Shouto walks towards everyone else, you follow, pressing your thumb onto your palm.) 

.

.

.

Shouto drops by the greenhouse at the end of the day. 

The sky above the glass dome ceiling is warmed by orange and pink hues. At sunset, the greenhouse looks ethereal, an almost otherworldly escape. The flowers haven’t changed much from his last visit here, but they seem to have blossomed further now that time has passed. 

He walks past the familiar cluster of chrysanthemums and spots a patch of white flowers he doesn’t recall from last time—a wooden placard with the name ‘iris’ sticks out from the soil. His knees bend to crouch low, fingers grazing over the softness of its petals. 

Earlier today, the estate so kindly offered to let him bring home flowers of his choice, and this bunch in front of him calls out to him, a purity and warmth that reminds him of his mom. 

The nippers in his hand feel clunky, a heavy-duty version of the ones he uses when he helps with gardening at home; but he cuts the stems gently, careful to remember all he’s been taught. 

When he thinks he’s gotten enough, he continues to stroll around the greenhouse, the wicker basket in his hand half-filled with pure, white irises. 

A little further down the path, he passes by the hydrangea bushes, his steps slowing as fragmented pieces of that memory with you replay in slow motion. 

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

“You look beautiful,” he confesses, the sentence overflowing with honesty.

And he decides—

He should get you flowers too. 

Your desk always seems to have some, and you’re consistently on top of keeping fresh flowers around the agency—on his desk specifically. 

It’s only right.

His mom always tells him that flowers can never lie; they bloom where they are loved and speak from the heart when words are not enough—it’s why she loves them so much.

And, maybe she has a point, because the pink hydrangeas look pretty; they remind him of you, especially.

On his way here, the white camellias spoke to him too. Maybe he’ll get them both for you. 

He crouches low again, nipping the hydrangea stems before backtracking to collect a few camellias. By the time he finishes, his wicker basket is filled to the brim, an assortment of pink and white threatening to spill from its edges. The leaves of the irises stick out, poking at his wrist and making the skin itch.

You find him that way—struggling to wrangle in the abundance of blooms into his basket.

“I think you need another basket,” you chuckle, walking towards him. 

There’s something about you and this hour; how it feels like you fit right in this moment, at the peak of sunset, blooming the same way the flowers do. 

Your smile is radiant against the warmth of diffused sunlight, and though he’s seen you in this same exact slacks-and-blouse combination before, the way he sees you now has shifted. 

You look different, but in all the ways he can’t visibly point out. 

He blinks, and that thump beats once more. 

His arm moves before he can comprehend it, the bunch of camellias and hydrangeas outstretched towards you.

Your eyes widen in surprise, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you tilt your head slightly, your hand reaching out for it reluctantly. 

“Would you want me to have this wrapped?” 

(The flowers feel lush in your palm, and you can’t help but wonder who he intends to give them to. There are irises in his basket too, left untouched for reasons you’re not sure you’d like to know. 

Your grip on the stems tighten. 

The camellias stare back at you, an immaculate white, with the pink hydrangeas adding a delicate softness to them. It’s a pretty combination, and you can’t help but think that whoever they’re intended for should feel—)

“It’s for you.”

You lock eyes when you look up. There’s a weight to Shouto’s gaze that intends to get his message across, the words still barely forming on his tongue. 

“Oh,” is the only thing you manage to say.  

(—surprised; grateful; confused; the emotions swirl inside of you. The shock is apparent on your face, your eyes widening at his admission. Confusion presents itself in the tilt of your head as you stumble over how to express your gratitude.

“It’s not…” you hesitate, diverting your gaze to anything else but that piercing pair of gray-and-blue. Your mind is drawing up a blank, figuring out what reason he has for giving them to you.)

“There’s no occasion…?”

It comes out as half a question and half something else, your uncertainty marked by the semi-lilt at the end. 

Shouto blinks. 

He wonders if he should tell you now, if he should just confess that he’s been feeling differently about you these days.

You shift your feet, your thumbs rubbing against the flowers’ leaves. 

The thump persists in his chest, knocking at the base of his throat—

Thump.

He takes a deep breath.

Thump.

—but even with its persistence, the words still struggle to come out.

Thump.

Maybe not now; it’s not the right time. 

But he says something else, an admission much easier that still holds just as much truth.

“No occasion.” 

.

.

.

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

You switch out the flowers on his desk for a different arrangement of blooms every week. Then, you give him a run-down of his schedule, going over important announcements and upcoming events. 

The mornings go by quickly, with you constantly moving around your desk. Shouto can’t tell what you’re doing exactly, but you’re always working on something whenever he sneaks a peek through the single glass panel cut-out from your shared wall. 

Lunch is a wildcard. On some days, you bring your own; on others, you grab a bite down in the cafeteria. Your routine is largely dependent on how busy you anticipate work to be that day, and though it varies from time-to-time, you never forget to knock on his door—a two-part thump that takes him out of his own little work bubble. 

He almost looks forward to it now, the way your head peeps in from behind his office doors. You call out his name softly, only continuing to speak when he looks up from whatever file he’s working on. 

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

You spend the afternoons all over the place, much like he does; while he roams the city, you roam the agency, attending meetings and checking in on different departments. He knows because when he comes back by the end of the day, you almost always have a new set of updates prepared on your desk for the next morning. 

He also knows that Mondays are when you often work overtime, preferring to get a bulk of any urgent matters completed and out of the way.

The back door of his office clicks shut as he walks into the room, his rubber boots leaving no trace that he’s arrived from how quietly his footsteps hit the floor. He unbuckles his utility belt, one hand automatically reaching for its lock; it’s a habit, the ‘clack’ that sounds from it a satisfying marker he looks forward to at the end of every patrol. 

In the corner of his office is a private restroom that he slips into. He quickly changes out of his hero suit and into a pair of sweatpants, throwing on one of his many favorite white shirts—his go-to outfit on the days he works late. 

There are still some reports he has to look over tonight, but nothing too time-consuming. 

It’s really you he’s staying behind for. 

He glances at you through the glass panel of his wall, your face dimly lit by your computer screen. Your eyebrows are scrunched, eyes squinting in pure focus. 

It never feels right for him to leave when you haven’t left either. 

He settles into his seat, finger tapping on his desk as he contemplates whether or not he should offer you his help. 

You always decline when he does; he can already hear your response. But there are stacks of folders on your desk right now and he’s predicting that it’ll take at least a few more hours before you get through all of them.

He taps his foot, staring at the report in front of him. 

A thump. 

The wheels of his chair roll back, leather squeaking as he stands up. 

As soon as he exits his office, you look up, surprised. 

“You’re back!” 

He nods, walking closer to your desk. “It’s 8:00 p.m.”

You glance at the top of your screen, a sheepish smile forming on your face, “Right.” 

(This is his way of telling you it’s late, you’re well aware.)

He looks around your desk, folders and stationery all neatly organized and labeled. You keep a few touches of your personality around your space, with personalized pens and notepads gathered in one corner. 

They’re all things he’s seen before, but what makes him do a double-take is the vase sitting in the corner, obscured by your computer screen. 

Sitting inside it is the arrangement of flowers he gave you back at the teambuilding, the pink hydrangeas still as good as new next to the white camellias. It’s been a little over a week since, and you always change the arrangement on your desk as frequently as you change his. 

So for you to keep it for this long—

“And how may I help you?” you ask jokingly, biting down your smile. 

His eyes flit over to you, your gaze set on your screen as you continue to type.

(It’s hard to focus on the documents in front of you when he looks at you like that. Shouto’s stare has always been unnerving, but it feels especially scrutinizing when he merely stands, watching without a word.)

“You have a lot of work left,” he gestures towards the stack of folders on your desk. 

(Your eyes glance over the pile quickly as you mumble, “Yeah.” 

A few seconds of silence pass before what he really means starts to sink in. 

It’s not often that Shouto finishes work before you—at least, to your knowledge. You still see him inside his office when you pack your things, ready to leave. 

So, this is out of the ordinary. 

And if he’s standing in front of your desk, hinting at how much longer you’ll be staying at work. Then, it can only mean—

“A-are you waiting for me to go?” you move to stand, guilty. “Don’t worry about it, I can lock up.”)

Shouto furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly. 

That’s never been a thing; he’s always gone home last, and has always waited for you when you have work left to do. He makes sure of it every time, watching carefully for your computer light to turn off. 

But he won’t tell you that; letting you know would mean admitting that he’s been doing it for years. 

He places his palm on the top folder. 

“What else do you have to do?” 

You stay quiet for a few seconds before reluctantly listing it all—reports, meeting summaries, and a few emails you plan to schedule for tomorrow morning. His frown deepens as your list only grows, immediately cutting yourself off the second you notice your ramblings. 

“… but if you’re waiting, I can bring these home and—”

“What can I do to help?” he interjects, stopping you just before you shut down your computer. 

(You can only stare when proceeds to take a seat in front of you, the legs of your guest chair dragging against the floor as he pulls it closer. 

It hits you a bit like déjà vu, this moment, how it feels just like early days back in that rented studio unit; back when you could count the number of people comprising his team on one hand. 

Back then, your desks were just a few steps away from each other, an overflow of paperwork inevitably spilling into each other’s spaces. Because all of the files were stored in your drawers, it was more convenient for Shouto to sit himself across your desk, splitting the work and going over them one at a time. 

Things are different now that the agency’s grown—you have a bigger space, and the work isn’t nearly as packed as it used to be; but some days still end up a little bit more hectic than others. Like today.

“There’s no need,” you reach for the stack under his palm, “I can finish this at—”

“We can finish faster if we do this together.”

That promptly shuts you up. 

Shouto is blunt to a fault, unafraid of saying things as they are; his voice carries an unbothered cadence no matter who it is he’s talking to. 

You figure, there’s no point arguing with him when he’s right, after all.) 

Shouto begins going over a few of the reports that you’ve tagged red and yellow, listening intently as you instruct him on which parts to focus on. In exchange, you make space for him on your desk, setting aside some of the folders you had brought out earlier.

It’s a good hour into working before Shouto notices you easing up slightly, your shoulders more relaxed in comparison to how bunched up they were earlier.

He knows you’ve been glancing at him occasionally, your head turning every now and then to check on how he’s doing—a failed attempt at subtlety. 

“Are you almost done?” he asks, head down as he slips another completed file into its folder. The stack beside him is growing, his ‘done’ pile nearly as tall as the unfinished one. 

(You turn to him, attention shifting to the split of red and white hair down the center of his head, “Yeah, I just—”

Your words trail off, eyes squinting as you move closer to where he’s hunched over. 

Right on the shoulder of his shirt is a small tear, big enough to touch the edges of its collar but small enough that you’d only have to be up close to be able to notice. 

You assess the tear intently, looking carefully for any cuts underneath and thankfully find none.

But—

He notices you’ve gone quiet and looks up, the sudden movement catching you off guard. You make a sound, something in-between a squeak and an ‘oops.’ 

“Sorry, I just,” you point, “your shirt’s ripped.” 

His eyes follow the direction of your finger, finding the small tear running horizontally along the fabric of hjs shirt. 

“I can fix it,” you offer, the wheels of your chair rolling to land you directly across him. 

It’s one of his favorite shirts.)

He barely thinks when his body acts on its own, pressing itself closer to your desk as you slightly bend over for better reach. 

You don’t have to patch up his shirt, especially something so small. He has plenty of the same ones in his closet; and if it comes to it, he wouldn’t mind buying a new one. You really don’t have to patch up his shirt, because he wouldn’t have even noticed had you not mentioned it. 

But it’s that kind of tender care and attention to detail that you’ve had for him since you started working together that’s always drawn him in. 

Shouto has lived most of his life with the means to live comfortably, but since starting his own agency, he’s learned the value of maximizing resources—and it’s all because of you.

A thump. 

The moment your fingers touch his shoulder, he hears nothing but that continuous three-beat thump. Your quirk tingles when it touches skin, but you aren’t mending that—you’re fixing his shirt, separate from your skin, and yet, he still feels the little zaps go off inside of him. 

A thump. 

Up close, the strands of your hair tickle his cheek. 

A thump. 

The fabric of his shirt mends itself slowly, and it only makes him think of everything else—of the leather chair you helped fix, painstakingly going through each and every crack to bring it back to near-new condition. He thinks about every cut and scrape you’ve helped heal without having to, about every time you’ve insisted when he’d shrug it off as nothing. 

From you, he’s learned that things can be fixed without having to change them whole. 

It’s how he’s (you’ve) managed to keep the agency running; it’s why you get along so well with him and the rest of his family. 

And these feelings in his chest are pounding, built up over time to tip over and transform into something more than just an excellent work dynamic. At this point, it’s become companionship, a presence he seeks out a little bit more than friendship. 

You know him better than anyone else does. 

The flowers he gave you are still on your desk. 

So, he says your name, voice low and tender by your ear. 

You freeze, holding your breath. 

Another thump.

His honesty spills outs—

“I like you.” 

A three-beat thump. 

(You don’t believe it at first, the urge to ask him again right at the tip of your tongue. But, he pulls away, unfinished, and looks you in the eye to continue. 

“But it feels more than a crush, I think.” He presses his fingers against the table, grounding himself, “Natsuo told me it was a crush, and he told me to think about it, so I did.” 

Shouto is a man of sufficient words; not too few, not too plenty. But when he gets nervous and a little excited, he starts rambling, and—

“Bakugo told me his mom thought we were dating, and even though I said that wasn’t the case, I almost didn’t want to deny it. Touya has been a dick about it, but he makes good points, so I also owe it to him.”

(The shock on your face shifts into fondness. You can’t see the point of what he’s saying yet, but it’s cute—one of the many things that make him endearing.) 

He pauses, watching your expression shift into curiosity. 

“It started with this thumping,” he places a hand over his chest. “It used to only come sometimes, but lately it’s been happening all the time.” 

Shouto keeps his gaze deadset on yours. He doesn’t say anything else, sentences just barely forming in his head to fully capture what he really means. His feet and palms stay firmly planted where they are, his only movement being the steady blinking of his eyes. 

(But it’s okay, because you can understand. 

If you’re being honest, the signs were all there. 

Nothing Shouto does can be subtle when you know him as well as you do. 

A smile breaks out on your face, the one you can barely contain around him. It’s a little teasing and shy but completely genuine from the way it softens your eyes. 

“We’ll have to come up with something for HR,” you try to contain your smile.)

And he isn’t worried at all. He knows you’ll both find a way, just like you always do.

additional material: moodboard + playlist

a/n: so much to say about this fic but i'll sum it up with saying this is my baby! and i hold it close to my heart for many reasons. writing this made me love their dynamic and i hope you did too! also maybe slightly unrealistic office/hr rules but 🤷‍♀️ he’s the boss he makes the rules 🤧

thank you notes: to @soumies for literally beta reading this. i owe this fic to you fr you are my lifesaver i love you. to @augustinewrites @scarabrat @stellamancer @arcvenes for helping me a ton with characterisations, dialogues, songs, inspo, everything!!! ily all!! it took a village to write this fic fr. (+ to my bf for sitting me down so he could explain the whole point system of golf for like 30 minutes LOL)

“Well, that was hard,” you mused sarcastically as you walked down the sidewalk, hands stuffed in your pockets. You paid no mind to the staggered gasps from the locals and indiscreetly raised phone cameras as you and your dual-haired companion made your way to the transportation terminal.

The two of you were dispatched to the island in response to a report of a foreign hiker who had fallen from a cliffside. The place he was in was too difficult for the local rescue team to reach, so they called for Pro Heroes to help—you and Shouto. Your Quirks were a good match for this mission; your Heat Sight could easily locate the hiker through his heat signature and Shouto’s Half-Cold Half-Hot could create a path to his location. You arrived at the island within an hour by catching a lift from a Coast Guard helicopter that was also responding to the call, however, when the two of you arrived, you were shocked yet relieved to find the hiker had managed to climb back up on his own. He was fine save for a few cuts and scratches.

“You are fortunate you didn’t sustain life-threatening injuries.” Shouto had advised the man as he was lifted into the helicopter to take him back to the mainland to be evaluated at a hospital, just to be safe.

Your companion hummed. “At least the man is safe.”

“Yeah,” you replied. “Paperwork’s gonna be a breeze.” You would never say it aloud, but part of you was a little disappointed you didn’t get to see the handsome Pro at work—albeit you would be working too so you wouldn’t have much time to check him out.

Shouto didn’t comment further as the two of you continued on your trek.

“Sunspot! Shouto!” a voice suddenly called out. You turned to find a boy who could be no more than seven years old staring up at you with stars in his eyes and smiling the widest grin you think you have ever seen.

“Awe, hi buddy!” you greeted with a smile, immediately squatting down to be at eye level with the boy. “How are you?” You felt your heart squeeze when he began to giggle under your attention. He made a grabbing motion with his hands and you had about five seconds to spread your arms before he ran into your chest. “Oh my, you’re so strong!” you exclaimed with a faux wheeze as you felt his small arms squeeze around your midsection. You gently wrapped your arms around his tiny body, tucking him under your chin.

“My deepest apologies!” a new voice said. You looked up to the young woman you assumed to be the boy’s mother, the matching hair and eye color a dead giveaway. “Yuki doesn’t quite understand personal boundaries yet.”

You smiled, trying to ease her worries. “It’s alright, ma’am,” you assured her. “He’s fine. I don’t mind.” Shouto crouched beside the two of you but you didn’t take your eyes off the boy in your arms. He was so little; you were afraid he would break if you applied any more pressure.

You glanced sideways at the dual-haired Hero next to you. He was staring at you and the boy with a content-like expression on his face.

“Is everything okay, kid?” he asked Yuki. The boy leaned back to see who addressed him, and his eyes widened when he realized it was Pro Hero Shouto who was speaking to him.

“Shouto!” the boy cried, untangling from your arms and flinging himself towards the Pro, who easily caught him just as you had. Your heart skipped a beat as you watched the boy snuggle into his chest, like a baby koala hanging onto its mother.

You heard the mother’s breath hitch at the sight. Me too, girl, you thought as your heart squeezed painfully at how adorable the sight of Shouto embracing the child in his safe hold was as he softly conversed with the boy. “What is your name?”

“Yuki Fukumoto.”

Shouto smiled—not a full teeth smile, just a closed-lip one—at the boy and inclined his head to him. “It is nice to meet you, Yuki. My name is Shouto Todoroki and I am a Pro Hero.”

Yuki giggled enthusiastically. “I know that!” he exclaimed with glee, happiness dripping from his figure like drops from the sun. Instead of you being Sunspot, he should be. “You one of the Tops!”

You hid your snicker behind a hand, basking in the dumbfounded look on Shouto’s face. “Really? Wow, you really do know your Pros, then.” You know he was merely indulging the child, but it still did things to your heart. The boy nodded in affirmation and snuggled deeper into Shouto’s chest.

“Are you here for the festival, Sunspot?” the boy's mother inquired, drawing your attention from the heart-attack-inducing scene before you.

“The festival?” you echoed, your brows turning downward with confusion. “No, ma’am. Shouto and I were dispatched here for a rescue operation but the man was successfully retrieved before we arrived.”

She nodded her understanding. “So that is what the Coast Guard chopper was for.” She muttered, briefly glancing over to Yuki and Shouto, who were discussing the latter’s apprehension of a wanted fugitive a few weeks back. She turned back to you with a smile. “Praise you Heroes for always rushing to the scene, no matter where it is! It must’ve been a bumpy ride.”

You bashfully returned her smile. “You mentioned there is a festival happening?”

“Oh, yes! The island’s annual summer festival is today.” She said, her demeanor brightening as she spoke. “It is a lovely event! Yuki and I were actually on our way there before we ran into you guys.”

“Really? Oh my gosh, ma’am, I am so sorry for holding you up!” you quickly apologized with a bow. You felt your face start to burn as anxiety and embarrassment rose within. You began to step towards Shouto with the intention of yanking him up by his collar and rushing the two of you out of there as fast as possible but the sound of Yuki’s mother’s laughter stopped you.

“Sunspot, I assure you it’s all right.” She raised a hand over her mouth, attempting to quell her laughter. “Besides, it isn’t often we have Pro Heroes on the island, so this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Yuki to meet two of his favorite Heroes.”

Your eyebrow quirked. “Are we the first Heroes he has seen?” you inquired.

“Yes. In-person, at least.” Upon hearing that, you got an idea.

“Ma’am, I don’t want to keep you from your established plans any longer, but would it be all right if we took a quick picture with Yuki before you go?” Shouto directed his attention to the boy's mother at your question, who eagerly nodded her head. With a smile, you crouched in front of Yuki and your partner. “Yuki, would you like to take a photo with us?” At your question, a smile that could rival the sun took over his features once more as the three of you looked to the camera and posed.

“Thank you so much.” Yuki’s mother said, bowing deeply. “Yuki, dear, what do you say to the Heroes?” She prompted her son with a gentle hand on his back.

“Thank you!” the boy said, his eyes sparkling as he excitedly waved goodbye to you and Shouto as his mother led him away.

“He’s so cute!” you exclaimed to your partner as you watched the mother and son disappear around a street corner.

“He was,” Shouto agreed.

“Perhaps his mom will post the photo on social media and we can share it on our pages.” You smiled in excitement, silently hoping you would see the photo on your timeline tonight during your routine browsing while curled up in the warmth of your bed before you drifted off to dreamland.

Your dual-haired companion hummed in either agreement or acknowledgment, you couldn’t tell which. “We should be on our way to the airport now, Sunspot.” Shouto intoned matter of factly. “Our mission wrapped up over an hour ago. We wouldn’t want to keep the pilots waiting longer than necessary.” He said, referring to the pilots for your flight back to the mainland.

“No, we don’t,” you answered with a sigh. So much for checking out the Festival, you thought gloomily. “Alright, let’s go.”

“I’m sorry, but WHAT?!” you exclaimed, mouth open in disbelief.

The check-in desk attendant gave you a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and that’s when you felt the subtle annoyance radiating from her. “I’m sorry, but all outgoing flights, both on planes and helicopters, are grounded for the night due to a sudden and fast-developing storm system in the Bay.”

“What about the ferry?” Shouto asked. He was standing beside you, five times more level-headed than you were at the moment. “A ferry runs twice a day to and from the mainland.”

“You are correct, Shouto, about the scheduled ferry,” the attendant said, barely holding back the bite of her words. “But no boats are coming in either. The surf is too rough.” She eyed the two of you as she paused to take a sip of coffee. “With all due respect, no sane Captain would sail out in those conditions; Hero or not.” A smirk grew on her lips, her eyes lighting up as she continued. “If you are so desperate to return to the mainland by tonight, I suggest you two should contact your ‘friends’. Perhaps Endeavor or All Might can send somebody to pick you up.” That said, she harshly pulled down the window blinds, ending the conversation. The metallic clatter echoed ominously through the terminal lobby—emphasizing the finality of her actions and the reality of your situation.

The two of you stood there in shocked silence for a moment before Shouto released a heavy sigh and massaged his temples.

“Who spit in her coffee,” you grumbled under your breath as you crossed your arms. “That was such a low blow—what she said.” When your dual-haired companion didn’t immediately reply, you turned to check on him. He was staring off into space, a hand positioned on his chin as he seemingly pondered the next course of action for the two of you. If he was irked by the attendant’s comment about the ex-Flame Hero, he hid it well.

“Hey,” your soft, reassuring voice brought him out of his thoughts. You placed a hand on his bicep—shoving down the excited twist of your stomach when his muscles tensed and bulged under your touch. “I’m sorry this whole day hasn’t gone according to plan but we shouldn’t stress over it.” You smiled softly. “Let’s look at the bright side; we have some time to R&R! We can explore the island, taste the local cuisine—have some time to ourselves to be civilians instead of Pro Heroes.”

Shouto stared at you in what could almost be controlled bewilderment as he thought over your proposition. You caught a glimmer in his heterochromatic eyes and knew he had made a decision. “Okay,” he agreed with a nod. “What should we do?” he questioned. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, Yuki’s mom mentioned there’s a festival in town today and said that we should check it out before we leave.” You explained. “It’s been so long since I’ve attended a summer festival and I think this will be a nice way to spend the evening.” You smiled as you thought back to your youth when you would spend every summer up until middle school at your grandma’s. She had a large backyard garden where she would grow vegetables such as cucumbers, edamame, and tomatoes to sell at the community market and the town’s yearly end-of-the-season festival. You fondly remember helping her load the wagon with the produce and walking to the market every morning at sunrise. While your grandma was selling her vegetables, you would run up and down the festival grounds with a few local children, playing games and stuffing your tiny faces with kakigori, takoyaki, and whatever other sweets you could get your hands on.

Shouto’s voice brought you back to the present. “I have never been to a summer festival before.” He stated nonchalantly. “I would like to attend my first one with you tonight.”

Your eyes widened and you felt warmth rush to your face at his words. “O-okay,” you stuttered. “Awesome!” You clasped your hands together. “Let’s get going, then!”

Ten minutes later, you and Shouto were back walking around the streets of the quaint island town. Once again the locals and tourists gawked at the two of you as you made your way to the festival grounds, but no one approached. You and Shouto made small talk on your way, discussing the fast-approaching Hero Gala next month.

“I met with my designer last week, but for the life of me, I cannot decide what color I want to wear—let alone what dress!” you groused, hands wildly moving about as you explained your dilemma to your partner. “I am running out of time and that doesn’t aid in my decision-making. Deadlines just make me want to procrastinate more.”

Shouto hummed. “I wear the same suit with a different tie and undershirt,” he glanced at you. “Why do you not do the same with a dress?” His dry tone made him sound condescending to those who didn’t know the dual-haired Pro Hero as well as you do, but you knew he was making a genuine inquiry.

You laughed. “I guess I could do that, but we women are under different expectations than you men. If I were to do that, the press would call me lazy and unmotivated.” You shrugged. “Believe me, if the press's opinion didn’t matter so much in our line of work, I would wear whatever the hell I wanted to the Gala.”

The corners of your partner’s mouth tilted upwards at your statement, but it only lasted a moment. “If you are having difficulty choosing a color then perhaps you should wear the same color as me,” he suggested. “We can match.”

“Really?” you asked, taken aback. “Wouldn’t that be kinda weird?”

“I do not see how it could be seen as unusual for us to do so. We work at the same Agency and are partners.”

I can see the logic behind that, you thought. But people would think we are a couple. The two of you moved to the side to let an elderly couple walk by undisturbed. “Thank you,” the man tipped his hat. You smiled and nodded your head, watching as he and his wife continued on their way. You cleared your throat when you and Shouto were side-by-side again. “Well, what color are you wearing this year?”

“Blue,” he responded without pause. “I think this specific shade would look ravishing on you, Y/N. It will bring out the color of your eyes.”

“R-really?” you inquired, breath hitching. You were shocked by Shouto’s forwardness. Where did the reserved boy you had known go? Though you weren’t necessarily complaining. “You think so?”

The dual-haired boy nodded again. “I do.”

Before you could reply, the two of you rounded a corner and found yourselves at the festival grounds. Your attention was immediately snagged by the atmosphere; the sounds of children laughing as they ran around with their small kites and ribbons, the smell of takoyaki fresh off the griddle, and the taste of happiness in the air. Your brain was going into overdrive, rapidly taking in your surroundings.

There were so many different stalls and food being served that you didn’t know where to begin. As if the gods could sense your pause, suddenly the most mouthwatering scent hit your nostrils. You spun on your heel, searching for the source—there! The delicious scent emitted from a small stall, operated by a gentle-looking older man and tucked into the corner of the grounds almost out of sight. You quickly made your way over, forgetting Shouto in your haste.

As you approached, you caught sight of the source of the scent; choco-banana. You must’ve had the stars shining in your eyes as you gazed at the treats because the man chuckled when you caught his eye.

“Why, hello there, young miss.” He greeted. “Would you like some choco-banana?” He was already placing a couple on a plate before you could respond.

“Thank you,” you said as you took the offered plate. You reached a hand towards where your purse would usually be at your side and gasped when you felt nothing but air. Your eyes widened and your heart sank as you remembered you were still in your Hero costume and your purse was miles away back at the agency building. “I’m sorry, sir, but—”

You were interrupted by an arm appearing in front of you, money in hand. You blinked and turned to find Shouto standing there. “Is this enough for two plates, sir?” he asked.

The stall worker eagerly nodded. “Sir, this is more than enough. Just wait a second while I get your change.” Shouto’s raised hand stopped him.

“Keep the change.” He said, picking up his own plate of choco-banana—when did he get that?—and leading you away from the stand towards a group of picnic tables.

“Thank you, Shouto,” you said as you sat down. “That was very kind.”

Your dual-haired partner met your eye, his stare holding the same intensity as always. “There is no need to thank me,” he told you. “If I did not want to pay, I wouldn’t have.”

You gaped at him. “That’s not what I meant—” your words caught in your throat when you saw the corner of his mouth lift into a smile for the second time that day. This little—

“It’s okay, Y/N,” he reassured you. “This is my treat.”

You looked away, no longer able to hold that dreamy, intense gaze of his. “Fine,” you grumbled. “But let me pay next time.” He gave you a look that screamed ‘in your dreams’ but you let it drop for now.

The two of you finished your choco-banana in silence, contently observing your surroundings. You spotted a couple steal a kiss under the cover of darkness provided by an alleyway and watched as a group of children kicked a football around.

Shouto threw away your empty plate for you. When he returned, he asked; “Now what?”

Before you could respond, a loud shriek cut through the evening air. You and Shouto stiffened, immediately on high alert for an attack. Your hands clenched at your sides as you scanned the area for the source of the sound and any indication of an attack. You turned to face the alleyway where the couple were, but they were gone. You and Shouto were back-to-back, scanning the area when suddenly, the group of children who were playing football came rushing towards you, giggling loudly.

“Sunspot! Shouto!” a boy leading the charge hollered as they reached you; about seven to eight children. Where are their parents, you wondered. Shouto turned to stand at your side as the kids came to a stop.

“What is it?” he asked. “Is there danger nearby?” Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his heterochromatic eyes narrow as he awaited a response.

A girl, no more than five, clasped her tiny hands together and stepped forward. She looked at the ground as she spoke, afraid to meet the eyes of two Pro Heroes. “We wan’ yous to play wit’ wus!” she announced.

You bent over, placing your hands on your knees, and looked at the children. “Were you guys the source of the scream we heard a few moments ago?” you softly inquired. The children looked at each other, silently exchanging words before nodding. “Why did you scream?” you questioned.

Another girl stepped forward. She had ribbons in her hair, holding the locks up in matching pigtails. “We wanted to get your attention.” She confessed, looking apologetic. “You didn’t look busy so we thought it would be okay if you guys played with us for a while.”

You sighed and glanced at your partner, gauging his expression before turning back to the children. Shouto addressed the children next. “That was not smart of you, children.” You gaped at him, not expecting him to be so blunt but at the same time, you weren’t surprised. This was Shouto, after all. “You should only scream when you are in danger. Do you understand?” The children nodded. “Now then, what game do you want to play?”

You quickly lost track of time as you and Shouto were dragged around the festival by the children, playing various stall games such as ring tosses and goldfish catching and playing football and catch with others. As the night went on, you had gathered a small army of the local children who followed your every move. You didn’t mind, used to the crowds that typically surrounded you when you went out in public wearing your Hero costume, but this was different—almost special in a way.

You were creating core memories for these children, and that fact warmed your heart. In the years following the War, everyone had worked hard to earn back the public’s faith in Heroes and you were witnessing the fruit of your labor right here in front of you.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had so much fun, running around carefree; as if nothing in the world mattered besides this moment. You almost envied the children for their carefreeness—their innocence—that hadn’t been upturned by the evils of the world. As you watched Shouto play a quick game of football with some of the boys—basking in the cheers and laughter of the youth—you silently vowed that you would do everything in your power, even at the cost of your life, to preserve these children’s innocence.

Eventually, the night got darker and your playful bliss had to come to an end. Parents began to call for their children, and one by one, they left after wrapping you and Shouto in the biggest hugs.

Eventually, only one child remained; the little girl with the pigtails, who you learned is named Mai. She looked up at you with bright, brown eyes full of curiosity and joy. “Are you staying for the fireworks?”

“Fireworks?” you inquired. “I did not know there were fireworks tonight.”

“Neither did I,” Shouto intoned, his voice low.

Mai smiled widely as if she just revealed the secret of the universe to you. “Mm-hmm!” she nodded. “At the end of every festival, fireworks are released into the air! They go BOOM!” She shot her hands outward, mimicking the exploding gunpowder. “It is my favorite part of the festivals! Do you like fireworks, Sunspot?”

You crouched, preferring to be at eye level of children when speaking to them. “Of course I do.” You told her. “Where do you go to watch the fireworks, hun? Do you have a favorite spot where you watch them from?”

“Yup!” she exclaimed, popping the ‘p’. “Usually we all gather on boats offshore to watch them, but we can’t do that because of the storm, so most people are just going to stay in the grounds and watch them. But—” She turned and pointed towards the outskirts of town, where a hill was just barely visible over the buildings. “I also like to go to the top of that hill and watch them!”

You observed the hill. It does look like the best spot if you want a good view, you thought.

“What is the best route to the hill, Miss Mai?” Shouto asked the girl.

Mai giggled, probably due to being asked a question by the No. 1 Hero, holding a hand to her mouth before she gave the two of you directions.

Shouto obtained a pastel blue lawn blanket from a vendor as the two of you made your way out of the festival grounds toward the hill. You picked a spot at the summit, away from others, and Shouto gracefully laid the blanket down where you had pointed. He waited for you to get situated before sitting down himself.

There was a gentle breeze blowing through the air. Down below, the cheers and excited mumblings from adults and children alike slowly filtered up to you and Shouto.

“This was great.” You suddenly announced after several minutes of silence. Shouto turned towards you, silently imploring you to elaborate. “Being able to spend this time with you as regular members of society enjoying a summer festival.” You gazed over to your partner, taking in his facial features—carefully blank, as usual, but there was a hint of something in his eyes but you couldn’t catch exactly what. Your breath hitched when you realized just how radiant he looked in the little light from the town that managed to reach him. “Thank you, Shouto.” For what, you are not sure, but it felt right at the moment.

He started at you for several moments, seemingly processing you and your words. As the minutes passed and his intense gaze remained fixated on you, the more anxious you got. Did I say the wrong thing, you wondered, stomach dropping. Was that the wrong thing to say?

You looked away, breaking the staring contest. “S-sorry.” You stuttered out, embarrassed.

“No.” Shouto suddenly said, surprising you. You hadn’t expected him to say anything, let alone that. You began to turn your head back towards him, but two fingers on your chin brought you eye-to-eye before you could yourself. You stared wide-eyed at the dual-haired man holding your chin. “Do not apologize, Y/N,” he said. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He leaned in. “In fact, I should be the one apologizing—for keeping things to myself.” He continued before you could question him. “I share your sentiments, Y/N. I feel the same way and more about tonight and this time I have shared with you.”

You gapped at him, unable to form words for a moment as you processed his words. Oh my gosh, is he confessing to me right now? “You do?” you eventually gasped out, voice nearly a whisper. This was happening so fast—

“I do,” Shouto confirmed. He inhaled as if in preparation for what he was going to say next. “I have thoroughly enjoyed every second I have spent with you since you became my partner several months ago. I was a fool to not properly identify the emotions I feel whenever I am with you—whenever I think of you—until tonight.” You had stopped breathing sometime during his speech, unable to take in air as you held onto every word that exited that beautiful mouth of his. His hands cupped your face, his eyes admiring every part of your features. “Please forgive me, love, for taking so long to confess, but I am here now, doing so.”

You felt like your heart was about to beat outside your chest as he spoke, mind fogging as you stared at his perfect, plump lips as they moved to form the words of his confession. The two of you stared at each other for several more moments. You mindlessly wondered if you were dreaming.

Shouto chuckled. He ran a hand through your hair, captivated by the way his hand moved through the locks. “You are not,” he softly told you. “This is real.” Your cheeks warmed when you realized you had asked that out loud. “Now, can I kiss you?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, you brought him in for a kiss. The moment your lips connected, a loud BOOM exploded in the sky accompanied by bright red and blue light. The two of you broke the kiss to look up, gazing at the fireworks. You smiled when you realized the two of you had just shared your first kiss, and you did indeed see fireworks when your lips touched. You turned back to Shouto, and by his smirk, you knew he had thought the same thing.

You laughed before bringing him into another kiss.

Fin.

BONUS SCENE:

You felt like you were on cloud nine as the two of you walked along the streets, hand in hand. There was no specific destination in mind; the two of you enjoying the other’s company and this time together. For several hours, the two of you forgot about your Pro Hero duties and the stress and demands of your careers. Neither of you agonized over the report you would have to draw up when you returned to the mainland. If there was a Heaven on Earth, this evening you shared with Shouto was it.

“Let’s purchase a room for the night.”

You hadn’t registered Shouto had spoken right away, too caught up in admiring the neon lights that lit up the front of some restaurants and bars. It took a total of five seconds for your brain to comprehend the words he had spoken, and when it did, the bliss you had felt since your kiss up on the hill came to a sudden, screeching halt as you froze in your tracks.

“W-what!??!!” you exclaimed with a shriek, whipping your head around to the dual-haired male. You rapidly blinked, ensuring you were still awake and not having some crazy dream. “W-why would we do th-that?”

Shouto gave you a puzzled look. “To sleep in, of course.” He stated, tone dead-serious and leaving no room for argument. “What other reason are there for staying in an inn for the night?”

You felt your cheeks heat with amusement and embarrassment as you chuckled nervously. “Never mind!” you chirped. “Let’s go find that room so we can get some sleep.”

You did not, in fact, get any sleep that night.

No plagiarizing, re-uploading, translating, or copying of any kind or on any platform of my writing or inserted into any type of AI generator. Do not recommend my work on TikTok. Do not repost on YouTube.

The first thing you notice when you finally emerge from the depths of your slumber is how comfortable you were. Everything feels just right, your pillows are cool against your neck, and your sheets hold the perfect amount of warmth; enough to keep you cozy, but not so hot that your sweat is creasing the silky sheets and making you feel sticky and gross.

The second thing you notice is the very large, very male hand sprawled on the pillow next to your head. A deep male voice lets out a surprised cry as you jerk back, the hand moving with you.. It takes you several moments to realize that it had come from you. 

Your bare feet thump against the wood paneled floor as you stumble out of bed disoriented and realize where you are for the first time. Namely, not in your bedroom.

Glancing around in confusion, you wonder what the hell happened, and how you ended up somewhere so nice.. The space itself is fairly bare, but you can tell that all of the furniture inhabiting it is expensive. From the sleek wooden dresser to the geometric modern light fixtures to the insanely high thread count of the sheets, everything screams tasteful luxury. 

Where are you? You definitely feel asleep in your own bedroom. Reaching up you rake your hair out of your face and freeze. Instead of the familiar texture and length of your own hair, you’re greeted with short, silky soft strands that definitely did not belong to you.

Mussing your hair to make sure you’re not imagining things, you glance down, and for the first time notice some inexplicable things.For one, the ground is a lot farther away than it normally is, and for two, last time you checked you did not have washboard abs, or a male anatomy.

The entire situation was confusing, and you were still slightly sleep-addled. Despite that you knew that you needed to find a mirror. A quick glance around the room located one in the corner and you hurry over to it. 

Sliding to a stop you grip the edges of the little stand, frost spreading from your right hand to cover the wood while you gaped at your appearance.

Intense heterochromatic eyes stared back at you, shock filling them. Your hair was a unique mess of red and white strands, the two colors mussed with sleep. With those distinctive features, plus high chiseled cheekbones, a jawline that could cut stone and a slim yet unfairly muscular body there was no doubt about it.

You were Todoroki Shouto. At least, that’s whose body you’re currently inhabiting. His very shirtless body. 

BZZZZZT BZZZZZZT

Saved from having to fight your urges to poke at his abs by the noise, you jump, swinging your gaze around in search of the origin.

BZZZZZZT BZZZZZZT

A simple black phone flashes on the otherwise empty nightstand (does he seriously not even have a lamp??), the caller i.d. sending you scrambling across the room to the phone. 

Fumbling in your haste, you manage to swipe and pick up the incoming call from your cell phone.

Your mind is racing a mile a minute. There were only two ways to get into your phone. The first was the password, but even you forgot it most of the time. It sat safely tucked away on a post it in the safe you store all of your important documents in. The second was through face i.d. and the only person who could unlock your phone with their face was you. And since you were in his body, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume that he….Lifting the phone to your ear you speak hesitantly.

“Todoroki? Is that you?”

“Y/N?”

It was unnerving to hear your voice saying your name from the other end of the phone,

“What happened?!” You’re a little mortified to hear the hysteria lacing your words, but you can feel the panicked adrenaline flooding your veins as your body goes into fight or flight.

“I believe that the quirk we got hit with yesterday caused us to switch bodies. However, it is highly unlikely that it is permanent so it will be fine.” Even though it’s your voice, something about knowing Todoroki is on the other end was reassuring enough that some of the tension bled from your shoulders.

“That’s good.” You sigh, rubbing your face. There’s a mildly uncomfortable throbbing coming from your lower half, and you absentmindedly reach down to rub at it, forgetting you weren’t in your own body. Brushing against a bump in your gray sweatpants, you shiver as a familiar feeling spreads through your lower stomach and something twitches.

“Todoroki?” Your voice suddenly gets a little higher, the hint of hysteria from before returning to the normally deep monotone. “We have a problem.”

“What is it? Is something wrong?” 

Ignoring his questions, you stare in growing horror at the very obvious tent in the front of the sweatpants you were wearing. You have no idea how you didn’t notice it earlier, but now that you’ve seen what’s going on down there you can’t help but be extremely aware of the uncomfortable pressure. 

“Y/N? Please explain what’s going on. I’m growing concerned.”

“I-” You splutter, unable to form a coherent sentence. Finally you gather your wits enough to say something. “It’s uh, it’s hard.”

“What do you mean? What’s hard? Oh...” He trails off into embarrassed silence.

“OH?” You can’t handle this. “What do you mean ‘oh?!’ Do something!”

“Like what?” He sounds a little defensive. “What am I supposed to do from here?”

“I don’t know!” You’re shouting now. “But you have to do something! How am I supposed to sit here with your massive boner?!”

There’s a loud crash on the other end of the phone, and you jump. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” He answers a little too quickly, but his voice still retains his usual impassivity. “Anyways, returning to the problem at hand. It will go away on its own after a little while. Unless you would rather handle it yourself-”

“No!” You wince as you practically shout into the phone. “I mean, no it's okay. I feel like that would be unprofessional.”

You can hear the amusement in his voice as he responds. “I feel like this entire situation is rather unprofessional. After all, I did see your breasts this morning.”

There must be something wrong with your hearing because there’s no way he just said what you thought he did. In such a nonchalant manner at that. “Wha-What?” Embarrassingly your voice cracks as you rack your brain, frantically searching through your memories of the night before. Then it hits you. 

“You went to bed without pants, a shirt, and a bra last night.” He informs you matter of factly, and you must be going crazy because there’s no way that that’s smugness you’re picking up from him. “Judging from the temperature of your apartment I’d say that your air conditioning is broken. You should probably get that fixed.”

You’ve completely forgotten about the boner you’re currently sporting due to the mortification of it all. Of course the one time the two of you switch bodies it just has to be the day your AC broke and you went to bed in nothing but a pair of striped cotton undies.

A small part of you mourns that you weren’t wearing something sexier, but the larger part of you is screaming that he is your boss. Sure you’ve been friends for years, and you have a not so little crush on him, but you are his subordinate. This was going to make things so awkward in the office. Hopefully once this is all over you can go hunt someone with a memory erasing quirk down to wipe his mind. But maybe not yours. You kind of want to remember the toned planes of his abs and the impressive bulge in his sweats. 

Giving yourself a shake you chastise your internal voice. Absolutely not. That would be an invasion of his privacy. In fact, you should put on a shirt right this second to respect his privacy, not that he didn’t walk around with half of his hero suit burned off from time to time. Wait. A thought suddenly occurs to you.

“Wait. You have a shirt on now, right? You put on a shirt before calling me.” You laugh nervously, because of course he has more common sense than that. It’s not like he would just sit on the phone with you while your tits were hanging out, right? Right??

“Well no.” Your heart falls out of your ass and you accidentally sear a handprint into the edge of his nightstand at his casual answer. “It’s uncomfortably warm in here and without the use of my quirk I am unable to regulate my body's temperature. Aside from that, I don’t know where you keep your shirts so I prioritized calling you to discuss the situation over going through your personal belongings.

That all sounds perfectly reasonable and you would have fallen for it except for one little thing. “Todoroki. I know for a fact that I was too lazy to put my laundry away yesterday and there is a stack of clean t-shirts sitting on the end of my bed right now.” 

You hear rustling -is he still in your bed?!- as he leans forwards to check. “Oh. You’re correct. My apologies.” There’s more rustling and the sound of fabric sliding over skin as he pulls a t-shirt over his head. “It’s on now.”

“Thank you.” You pointedly ignore the fact that he did not sound the tiniest bit apologetic, filing it away to revisit later. For now, the two of you need to discuss what to do next. “I appreciate it. What’s the plan now though? I think we should meet at the agency as soon as possible and go from there.” 

“I agree.” He seems to lack the sense of urgency currently consuming you as he hums in agreement. It’s incredibly annoying. “We should probably give each other directions on what to do, and where to find the things we need.”

On second thought maybe it’s better that he’s calm and thinking clearly because that was an excellent idea. “That’s smart. I keep a pad of paper and a pen on my nightstand to jot down reminders if you want to use that. Where do you keep your paper?”

“Check my bookshelf.” The telltale sound of paper flipping told you that he found the notepad as you crossed the room and stopped in front of the simple wooden bookcase. “Where is it on your bookshelf?”

“I think I keep a notebook and a pad of paper on the middle shelf.” He sounds distracted and a little uncertain, but when you stoop down to check (it’s weird being this tall) you find a simple yellow legal pad and a black pen. “I got it.” 

“Okay.” The sound of a book closing accompanies his words and there’s a hint of some unidentifiable emotion lacing the two-syllables. 

Not thinking much of it you shrug it off, sitting down down at his desk and listening as he tells you where keeps his car keys, hero suit, and other necessities. You ask a few follow up questions, jotting down what cabinet he keeps his cologne and deodorant in, before launching into your own instructions.

“The first thing you need to do is start the coffee machine. Trust me. My body will not be happy unless you give it at least three cups of coffee or like two big energy drinks before 9 am. Next…” After you’re sure he has understood the importance of caffeine, you move on, explaining where you keep your clothes, car keys, and shoes, as well as where you parked your car. 

“Don’t worry about makeup or hair products or anything while you’re getting me ready. I know there’s a lot on my bathroom counter but it’s not necessary. But you do need to go into the first drawer on your left when you’re standing at the sink and grab my anxiety meds. They should be in an orange prescription bottle. Only take one. And please for the love of god do not forget to put a bra on. You got all that?”

“I believe so. Is there a specific outfit you want me to wear or should I just choose?” You stop and think. Left to his own devices there’s no knowing what he might put you in (his first hero costume proof of his abysmal sense of fashion) so it would be best to give him some guidance. “Could you just wear a casual sweater and some jeans?” 

“Yes. Let’s get ready and meet at the agency in about an hour. If that works for you.” There’s not much writing on the yellow legal pad, the black scrawl of your handwriting barely taking up half a page. Okay. It isn’t that much. You can do this. “That sounds good to me.”

“Oh, I also think it might be best if we kept this from the general employees at the agency for the time being just to reduce drama. Is that okay with you?” 

“Of course.” More than okay actually. Some of them were aware of your not-so-little crush on him, so it would spare you some teasing and interrogation.

There’s a couple seconds of awkward silence, and you get the feeling he wants to say something more, the tension crackling through the speaker of his stupidly expensive phone. Opening your mouth, you start to say something then realize you don’t really have anything to say. The awkward silence persists a couple seconds longer before he wishes you goodbye and hangs up.

Click. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclickclickclick. You didn’t even realize that you had started clicking the pen open and closed, a nervous habit of yours. Sheepishly you place the pen down on his desk and stand. Sure the vibes were kind of weird at the end there, but it’s not like anything worth making you nervous happened. The situation might not be ideal, but it wasn’t the biggest deal in the world. You could handle it. The worst part was already over. You just had to meet him at the agency, figure out what to do with the rest of the day, and wake up in your own body tomorrow. Piece of cake.

Gaping in horror, you realize that this was not, in fact, going to be a piece of cake. 

Getting ready had been easy enough so you had arrived at the agency a few minutes before your agreed meeting time, which fortunately/unfortunately put you in the perfect position to witness the walking shitshow.

You had been idly sipping at a cup of coffee, marveling at how many packets of sugar it had taken to make it acceptable to his taste buds when he staggered in, catching the eye of pretty much everyone in the lobby.

Hunched over weirdly, he staggered in, wearing a pair of jeans that rode just a little too low to be professional and a very white, very sheer shirt that was meant to be layered over an undershirt. Or, at the very least, with a sturdy, modest bra underneath.

Alas, you can only stare in abject horror at the sight of what everyone else would assume was you stumbling in, your nipples visible from across the room, the bra that should have been on your body clasped in one hand. 

You’re pretty sure you disassociated for a few seconds from sheer mortification, standing there unmoving for several seconds. Once you had processed (and gone through the seven stages of grief multiple times) you were bolting across the floor, seizing his (your?) arm and dragging him down the hall and into the family bathroom where no one could see.

Slamming the door shut behind you, you shove Todoroki/yourself into the small space, wincing as you watch him stumble in your body. Did you always seem this weak and small in his eyes? The sound of the lock clicking as you shut the door reminds you of the current situation and you turn on him, rage emanating from every pore of your being.

“I. Thought. I. Told. You. To. Put. On. A. Bra.” You’re hurt, and seriously pissed off, neatly trimmed nails digging into your thighs as you grip your pants. Humiliation courses through your body, pulsing behind your eyes in tears that you will not let fall, no matter what. “Is this some kind of joke? Are you trying to embarrass me-”

“No.” It’s disconcerting watching yourself speak and move, but subtle mannerisms remind you that it’s Todoroki you’re looking at, not yourself in the mirror. “I wouldn’t do that to you, I swear.”

“Then what is this?” You wave your hand at your body, flinching at what others must be whispering about you. “Do you want people to think I’m some sort of crazy person who goes around practically flashing people at their workplace? Someone who has no sense of decency?”

“Of course not.” His tone is as even as ever, but you can tell that he feels bad. “People here know what type of person you are. I’m sure they’re more concerned than anything.”

The fabric of his blue hero suit unscrunches as your hands drop to your sides, chest heaving as you take a deep breath. “I hope so.”

There’s vulnerability in your voice, and for a second you find peace in the quiet of the moment before he ruins it. “Besides, I’m more worried about my reputation than yours right now.”

You look up indignantly. “Why? I did everything you asked, and I’m fully dressed so I’m not sure why you’re complaining.”

He winces as your voice raises (maybe the coffee hasn’t kicked in yet) but he hides it quickly. “I mean, from their point of view, they just watched me forcibly drag my subordinate off and locked myself in a bathroom with her. They probably have all sorts of unseemly ideas about what I’m doing right now.”

You freeze. Shit. You hadn’t even considered what it would look like to the others. “I’m so sorry. We can explain this to everyone. Like you told me, everyone here also knows you, and that you would never do anything inappropriate.” 

“It’s fine.” He gives you a genuine, yet slightly strained smile. “I’m not too concerned. However, your body doesn’t feel great.”

‘What’s wrong?” You reach out and touch his forehead. “You don’t have a fever.” Glancing down, you sigh. “First things first let's make you decent. You literally brought the bra. Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“The best way I can describe it is it’s similar to the time I accidentally ate Bakugou’s extra spicy curry, except it’s not in my stomach. It’s more in my abdomen. And I meant to wear it, I just couldn’t figure out how to get it on.”

“Okay. I can help with that.” You motion for him to lift his arms. “Take off your shirt.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Is now really the time?” The bathroom is silent as you give him a death look. “It’s my body. There is quite literally nothing about the body you are currently inhabiting that I do not already know about. Now, shirt. I’ll help put the bra on.”

Understanding that you were not in the mood, he hurriedly pulls the shirt off, and you’re presented with the sight of your bare torso. Ignoring the strange intimacy of the moment (it was literally your own body you had no idea why you felt weird) you help him slip his arms into the straps, then motion for him to turn around. 

He complies, and that’s when you see it. The relatively small, but somewhat noticeable stain on your crotch in the back of your pants. That’s why he wasn’t feeling good. Your body started your period.

The clasp of the bra dangles in your hands as you stare at it, evaluating your choices. One. You could pretend like nothing is happening but chances are he’s going to have to pee at some point during the day so he’ll find out eventually. Plus the stain wasn’t small.

Two. Be the mature, rational adult you are and calmly explain the situation. After all, there was nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a perfectly normal, perfectly natural, biological function that comes with being a female.

And three. Just leave and go crawl into your bed until this nightmare is over. Let him deal with it himself. 

Option number three was looking pretty good there for a moment and you were calculating how fast you could escape the agency without drawing attention when Todoroki spoke. 

“Everything okay? Why aren’t you doing the hook things?” Snapping out of your trance, you clumsily clasp the back, taking several tries to get all the hooks in the same row. Patting it, you tell him to put the shirt back on before taking a deep breath. “Hey, Todoroki?”

Wisps of hair emerge from the neckline of your shirt, followed closely by your head as he pops into your shirt. “Yes?”

“So like, it’s going to be okay and I swear I’ll help you and I’m sorry you have to deal with this but please whatever you do, don’t freak out. Promise?” He tilts his head slightly, regarding you with confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you say it’ll be okay I don’t see why I would feel the need to freak out.”

His calm response puts you somewhat at ease, and you just rip the bandaid off. “My body just started it’s period. With you in it. That’s why your abdomen was hurting. It was period cramps. Don’t worry, I’ll get you some advil soon. There’s a small stain on the back of your pants, but it’s not bad yet. However, it’s really heavy on my first day so we’re going to need to get a tampon in and a pad on asap.”

A blank stare is your only response. “What…is a tampon? And what does heavy mean? Also, does it always hurt this bad?” A small furrow appears between his brows, and you can tell he’s overthinking.

“Normally it’s only this bad for a few days, but I’m used to it by now.” You reassure him, grabbing a tampon and pad from the free dispenser on the wall. “And to answer your question, a tampon is basically a fancy roll of material that goes up there and absorbs the blood.”

You’re doing your best to remain calm and unbothered on the outside, but on the inside you’re losing your mind because there was absolutely no way that you were about to teach your crush how to insert a tampon into your cooch because you managed to swap bodies on the worst possible day.

He looks at you pensively as you approach him with the hygiene products. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

You pause, considering. How did you want to do this? It would be weird for you to put it in yourself, even if it was your body. The packaging crinkles in your hands as you turn the items over in your hand. The easiest route would be to have him just put the pad on, but you also didn’t want him to deal with the mess and discomfort of sitting in a pad. 

“Alright.” You clap your hands, the sharp sound echoing off the clean linoleum floors. “We’ll get a pad on first, then we’ll try the tampon. Ready?”

“Yes. How do I do that?” Okay. You can explain this. It’s not that complicated. “First things first, pull down your pants and underwear and sit on the toilet.”

A rustle of clothing and the click of the toilet seat against the porcelain bowl told you he had complied. “Wait, but like, don’t look okay. Keep your eyes averted.”

“Understood.” You choose to ignore the amusement in his voice, instead grabbing another pad and giving him a demo. Feeling guilty about the waste, you rip open one of the packages and pull out the pad. It’s thick, and made of cheap material like all free pads in public bathrooms tended to be.

Holding it up so he can see you demonstrate peeling the tab and unfolding it before peeling the sticky back off and showing it to him. 

“Basically you just have to remove the covering and stick it to the bottom of your underwear. Make sense?”

He nods, so you pass him the pad and watch him carefully peel back the appropriate backings and smooth it into the center of your panties. His eyes gleam at you hopefully as he looks up, and when you tell him he did a good job you could have sworn he preened. 

“Good job Todoroki.” A subtle frown pulls at his lips. “So for the tampon-”

“Shouto.” He cuts you off, looking disgruntled. “Call me Shouto.”

“I-What?” Thrown off guard by the sudden demand request you blink at him. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to what’s going on right now, but you’re my boss. It doesn’t seem right for me to address you so casually.”

“But you call me Shouto while we’re at work.” He stubbornly refuses to give the point up, clinging to it like a dog with their chew toy. “How is it any different?”

“Because-” You give him an exasperated look. “Some idiot decided to make his hero name his first name, so when he’s at work his co-workers are forced to use it. I don’t call you Shouto as in Todoroki Shouto. I call you Shouto as in Pro-Hero Shouto. That’s the difference.”

“But we’ve known each other for years.” He’s very matter of fact, clearly missing the point. “I would say we’re close enough for first names.”

He’s unbelievable. Of all the things to focus on right now why on earth is he choosing to argue over how you address him? “Of course we’re close. I consider you a good friend. But I wouldn’t say we’re close enough where it’s appropriate for me to address you by your first name when you’re my boss.”

“I’m currently in a bathroom with you right now, in your body, sitting on a toilet with no pants, on your period. I don’t see how we can possibly get any closer.” He had a point, and you just wanted to get this whole disaster sorted out as quickly as possible so you conceded. “Fine. Shouto. Now, will you please listen to me so we can get this over with and go on with our day?”

Using demonstrative hand motions and trying not to show how flustered you were you explained how to put the tampon in. Finally you finish, and hand him a tampon. He unwraps it, then hunches over in an awkward position trying to see what he was doing.

A red flush crawls up your neck as he quite literally examines your pussy, your insecurities running rampant, thoughts you’ve never had before occurring. Like, what if it looks weird? You didn’t exactly have a huge frame of reference, and all of your past experiences were horny hookups so you literally had no idea what it looked like from his point of view. He was probably repulsed by it. If everything that already happened hadn’t ruined any chance you had with him this was the final nail in the coffin.

A quiet splash cuts through the silence of the bathroom, interrupting your downward spiral. Looking up, you lock eyes with Todoroki, who’s frozen guiltily on the toilet.

“What just happened?”

“I, er, well I’m not sure.” Your eyes narrow. “What was the splash?”

“I did my best.” He sounds defensive. “I had a hard time finding…it…and it’s not easy to line it up and I think I did it wrong because as soon as I put it in it kind of just…spat it back out?”

Gaping at him, you’re at a loss for words before a loud, unflattering cackle rips itself out of your chest. The self-consciousness caused by the strangeness of the moment and being in the presence of your crush fading away as you reverted to treating him like you did in high school.

“Oh-Oh my god!” You’re doubled over, almost crying with how hard you’re laughing. “You can’t find it. You can’t even find the hole. You must be so popular with the ladies.”

As you laugh, a strange sensation builds in your stomach, and next thing you know it feels like you’re getting sucked into a vacuum and shot out the other end. Your vision goes black and fuzzy, the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom hurting your eyes when you finally open them.

When you finally open them and find yourself staring into the unimpressed face of one Todoroki Shouto that is. 

Seeing his face again instead of staring at yours is a relief, but it’s also unfortunate because now you are the one perched on the toilet, your pants hanging around your ankles and a tampon floating around in the toilet water beneath you. 

The two of you lock eyes, and you realize that now you’ve both returned to your own bodies it’s even worse that he’s seeing you half naked (don’t ask you why it just is somehow. Maybe it has something to do with him seeing it from his point of view instead of yours?). 

Embarrassment floods your face, and you yell at him to turn around, hurriedly grabbing another tampon and putting it in before using your quirk to retrieve the tampon from the toilet and dumping it into the trash. A rushed tug has your pants back on, and the two of you stand in the bathroom not moving or speaking. Finally you break the silence.

“Uh, well, anyways. I’m glad this all worked out, sorry for the inconvenience and how weird it was. I’m going to head home and enjoy my day off now. Have a nice day!”

Not giving him the chance to respond, you dart past him and out the door, ignoring him as he calls your name. Yeah right. Have a nice day? More like have a nice life. There was no way you could ever show your face around him again. Maybe you could call Kyoka up and ask her if she needed a new hero at the agency she shared with Denki.

Unfortunately, life doesn’t always go as planned, and you wake up the next morning to your phone buzzing. You called in sick the night before, partially because your cramps were really bothering you, and partially because you were avoiding Todoroki. 

Blearily, you roll over, pawing at your phone before lifting it to your ear. “Hello?”

“Good morning.” Immediately recognizing the smooth, deep voice belonging to none other than the one man you were actively trying to avoid, you do the only logical thing and hang up immediately. 

A couple seconds later your phone rings again, and this time you let it go to voicemail. The sharp trill of your ringtone reaches you through the pillow you pressed over your head, alerting you that he called several more times after that. Finally the calls stop, and you emerge from under the pillows, beating back the strange sense of disappointment rising in your chest.

Ping!

The sound of your phone chiming startles you, causing you to drop it. Picking it back up, you check your notifications with bated breath.

(1) New Message From: Todoroki Shouto

Scared to read the message, you hesitate to click on it, having no idea what to expect. Your thumb hovers over the banner, the light washing over your skin as you work up the courage to check it.

Ping!

Your phone lands on your carpet with a plop as you accidentally drop it over the edge of your bed, not expecting it to go off again.

Ping! Ping!

Cautiously, you poke your head over the edge of your bed, glancing down at the illuminated lock screen. You let out an internal screech of horror.

(4) New Messages From: Todoroki Shouto

Unable to deal with the agony of not knowing what he said any longer, you scoop your phone up and tap the notification, scanning the messages, your heart dropping further and further the more you read.

Todoroki Shouto: Did you just hang up on me?

I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes. Do you want anything?

*image attached*

Also: are these the chocolates you’re fond of? I asked my mother and sister and they told me they enjoy chocolate when they are menstruating. 

Those are, in fact, your favorite chocolates, but as much as you wanted them you wanted him at your apartment in fifteen minutes even less. The sound of aggressive tapping filled your room as you typed out a response at breakneck speed, praying to whatever was out there that he wouldn’t actually come to your place.

You: Good morning Todoroki-San. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it was you and hung up because I was half asleep. It’s sweet of you to think of me, but those are expensive. Also, I’m taking the day off today so is there any possible way the matter you have to discuss could wait until tomorrow? Thanks!

A couple seconds after you hit send, the little label beneath the message changed from “delivered” to “read.” Then radio silence. Anxiety bubbles up in the pit of your stomach? What does read mean? Did he agree with you? Is he still coming? Too drained to deal with the emotional turmoil this was causing you, you rolled over and pulled your covers up over your head. This was a problem for future you.

Drifting off, you were awakened a short time later by your phone chiming once, then again a few minutes later, and the sound of your doorbell ringing. Surely it wasn’t…Half-closing your eyes to shield against the harsh glow of your phone, you unlock it.

(2) New Messages From: Todoroki Shouto

Todoroki Shouto: I’m here. Open your door.

I didn’t want to tell you over text, but you aren’t responding. Bakugou says I have romantic feelings for you and I think he is correct. He also said you’ve been “a mooney-eyed moron” for me since we were in high school. If that is true and you do feel the same way, please let me in. I would like to see you and care for you while you are on your cycle.

Three dots appear, signaling that he’s typing. A couple seconds later, your phone chimes again, not even giving you a moment to process the previous messages.

Todoroki Shouto: Our former classmates also unanimously agreed that I am, in fact, popular with the ladies. I’ll forgive your comment if you let me in. The old lady who lives next door to you is giving me suspicious looks. 

You blink. Rub your eyes. Squint closer at your screen. The words didn’t change, and neither did their meaning. And Todoroki wasn’t the type of person to joke around like this. Your mouth suddenly felt dry, and your pulse thundered in your ears as you realized there was only one thing left to do.

You had to get out of bed and let him into your apartment.

taglist: @arlerts-angel @ponderingmoonlight @sunaraii @hotvinimon

Their faces were ultimately the ones that got splashed across the front page of every gossip-rag in Japan. They became public pariahs, their names repeated ad nauseam on the news, whispered with glee in hair salons and social clubs. In the story of their life, everything became forfeit to the public— their friends, their profession, their dating history, their homes. All of it.

Now, for nearly three months, you’d been one of them. At the end of the day, that was the noodles’ fault, really.

The summer after culinary school, you’d scored your first full-time role, working as the head chef in a small noodle shop just a few blocks from your college campus, at the edge of the city. The owner, Okuda-san, had been in business for years, but the dreams of grandeur that had brought him to central Mustafau as a young man had long since been struck by reality. Though the quality of his meals had never diminished, he’d vastly scaled back his operations over the last ten years— gone was the opulent restaurant in the center of downtown with its sleek metallic architecture and warm ambient lighting. Gone too was his wife, or so you suspected, based on the mutterings you could pick up from the front office, when business ran slow.

The day you met Shouto, the rain had been coming down in sheets, blurring the windows and filling the reception area with a soothing white-noise as you oversaw reservation bookings, dinner preparations and engaged in a small bit of gossip-gathering on the side. It was that same rain that had led you to warn him about the biodegradable styrofoam that his takeout was packed in, and offer the restaurant’s tiny enclave seating to avoid having his meal ruined by the deluge. You’d shared polite conversation— mostly offering tips for balancing buckwheat dough to make proper soba noodles.

Over time, the street in front of Okuda-san’s little shop had become a well-worn patrol path for Shouto’s agency. Conversations turned to texts, and invitations out with his friends. After an unhealthy amount of pining, you’d finally steeled your nerves enough to ask him on a date— an awkward but effective kickstart to almost two years of the best relationship you’d ever had.

There truly was no protocol for having such an intimate piece of yourself revealed to the public, to millions of your partner’s diehard fans. There weren’t words to describe the moment you first laid eyes on the incriminating photo that had started all of this: the two of you, sharing a kiss on the way up to your apartment. Your longing, exacerbated by Shouto’s tedious travel schedule had faced off against your building’s perpetually-slow elevator doors and came up short.

One grainy picture, posted to one account incited a slew of Internet detectives, stealing your anonymity in a matter of hours.

At the very least, you’d been blissfully unaware at first— overlooking the increasing stares from the diners at Okuda-san’s, and glossing over the fact that the cab driver knew your name on the way home. You’d remained blissfully ignorant up until arriving home to find Shouto on the doorstep, still in his costume. He’d quickly shepherded you up to your apartment and barricaded the door. In full pro-hero mode, he’d guided you through the essentials to pack in a duffel bag, and then quickly brought you back to his, to wait out the full extent of the madness.

The worst of it was concentrated in that first two weeks. You’d been unable to turn on the TV without hearing the diminutive nickname the media had chosen for you— “Noodle Legs”— coupled with the same clip of Shouto guiding you up the steps into his high-rise building, over and over. Unfortunately, your legs had been wobbling, as the full magnitude of what was happening had finally begun to set in. In those first days, you’d sequestered yourself in the guest room with the blinds drawn, the drone of the TV only semi-effective against the catastrophizing taking place in your mind.

The public had judged your relationship with Shouto and you clearly had not met expectations. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Even a decade on from the war that had rewritten the operations of superhuman society, competent wasn’t a word that paired well with Quirkless.

As the media storm raged, you had never seen Shouto so upset. In the first few days, his schedule was particularly erratic, his whereabouts always announced by text and sticky notes left on your door, or the bathroom mirror in tight, neat script. Often, he was out amidst the public, speaking to media outlets on his own, trying to stem the influx of public opinion about you that had become the nation’s topic de jour. As you slowly began to emerge from your cocoon of solitude, you saw just how oppositely this ordeal was affecting him.

When he was home, Shouto paced, relentlessly. He completed a book of Sudoku puzzles as you absently cooked enough udon to feed a small army— or at least four of his pro-hero friends. Each night, he scarcely settle in on the couch next to you before noticing a stray sock or a flickering lightbulb, some small thing to put right. Nothing was enough, anymore, and even as you asked him to come to bed— his bed— he only ever seemed to sleep on the couch, if at all.

After nearly a week, his mania and your melancholy finally collided, spectacularly. You could still remember the whisper of the paper against the hardwood, as it slid under the bedroom door, late that night. Nearly two pages offered a handwritten letter apologizing for the upheaval of your entire life, and his absence in the aftermath. The third carefully recorded the plan he’d been building to mitigate the fallout, mentioning the friends he’d enlisted to help him and proposed ideas for a manufactured scandal, enough to take the limelight off you. That moment of shade, he argued, would allow you to distance yourself.

“I promise to help you establish a future that will make you happy.” the letter concluded, “And I understand, if that future no longer includes me.”

It was carefully-worded, largely self removed and so quintessentially Shouto that it nearly broke you all over again. Not much about your future was determined that night, apart from one, indelible truth: you didn’t want a future without Shouto in it. If that meant you’d have to face the public— the cameras and opinions and bigotry— so be it.

You’d casually perused enough gossip magazines to know the general strategies that hero & civilian relationships used, publicly. Some couples went on luxurious (sponsored) vacations, their devotion shamelessly showcased through glossy magazine spreads and corny ‘What’s in Our Suitcase?’ Q&As. Others used their moment in the limelight to launch one partner’s passion project — a private art studio, a taproom, a crossfit gym— often trendy, always overcrowded and never necessary public infrastructure.

The rest wrote memoirs. So. Many. Memoirs. You’d just finished “Catching the Copycat. — How I Fell in Love with Phantom Thief” earlier that month, and it wasn’t half bad. Amidst the unending slew of public attention and the realization that you were going to have to market yourself somehow, the idea of writing a novel was contenting. At the very least, your partner’s versatile Quirk meant there was no end to the pithy puns you could come up with for a title.

And then, Shouto’s PR team put out a press release announcing that the two of you would be starring in the next episode of Split Shift— the Hero Network’s one and only reality television program.

‘Think you’ve got what it takes to be a hero? Think again!” announced its pithy tagline, in the promotional packet,’ Each week, Split Shift lets its viewers experience a day in the life of the nation’s top defenders, exposing their personal sides, through the eyes of their inner circle!.’

The two of you had tried to fight it. Oh, how you had tried, your combined efforts quickly spawning endless hours of email chains. But Shouto’s public relations team was relentless— apparently, the clamor of the public for more details, photos, evidence of your leaked relationship was stronger than any villain in the known universe. And without it, they warned, Shouto’s rank in the heroics charts was severely at risk.

“I’m sure you’re aware,” Omori Mika, Shouto’s head of PR, explained, fingers flying across her keyboard as a window of metrics popped up, “a significant portion of Shouto’s fanbase finds him anywhere from “considerably” to “highly” attractive. Early this year, he dethroned Best Jeanist to win Quirk’d Magazines’ “Hottest Hero Alive.”

“Oh, yes— well deserved.” you nodded, sparing a glance to your own well-loved copy, resting on the coffee table. The cover-shot had really captured his intensity, the haunting contrast of his heterochromatic gaze in low lighting.

From the other side of the couch, Shouto cleared his throat, and you found yourself impishly delighted by the fact that he refused to meet your eyes.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because that faction in particular wants to know — why her?” Mika made a brief gesture towards you as she expounded, “Why, out of every person in the nation— the world, even— why is she the one you chose?”

Shouto blinked, glancing between you and the laptop.

“Do they want a list? I’d have to ask Midoriya for—“

“—evidence is the name of the game, Shouto.” Mika broke in, “Photos, maybe, but what people really want is footage.”

“Footage that we have to get by being publicly humiliated, got it.” you sighed.

A notch appeared between Mika’s perfectly- plucked eyebrows.

“I know you’re both unhappy about the booking, but the Hero Network is the best platform to showcase Shouto’s capabilities. The nature of the show won’t just remind people why they trust him— it’ll show that he’s chosen a capable and resourceful partner, as well.”

You flushed and averted your gaze. Capable and resourceful were just about the last things that you were feeling, at the moment.

“And honestly, Split Shift is tame in comparison to some of the shows that have been asking for you.” Mika began to flip through her color-coded planner, “Let’s see… Quirktastrophe, Save my Love Life… oh, you’re lucky we didn’t put you on Zero to Hero, I hear that host is a real piece of work, off-camera…”

“Message received.” Shouto intoned, cutting off the diatribe. You moved your legs enough to allow him to scoot over, leaning forward to minimize the chat window and zoom in on a contractual document, written in a font size in the single-digits. He met your eyes

You took a deep breath and sealed your fates with a nod.

“Where do we sign?”

The devil worked hard, but apparently the scheduling team for Split Shift worked harder. Less than a week later, the two of you were arriving at the studio at the crack of dawn, for what promised to be a grueling day of filming. The process began two blocks before the filming lot, a two-man crew driving out to meet in an adjacent parking lot. You and Shouto were each asked to step out of the car in order to have a microphone pack strapped and secured beneath your clothing. They also hooked a small portable camera to the dashboard, to “capture your authentic reactions to arriving on-set.”

In a mutual act of defiance, you and Shouto remained dead-silent for the remaining two blocks. It was a welcome respite, especially given that it seemed those silences would be few and far between for the rest of the day.

Two steps out of the car and you were being accosted by a human gale-force. She arrived in a cloud of cherry-scented perfume, and wasted no time in handing over the two smoothies she was carrying. The badge pinned smartly to her dark blazer read “Noujuu Yōko”.

You’d just barely opened your mouth to offer a ‘thank you’, but the woman barely spared a glance before she turned and circled a finger in the air to follow.

“You’re seven minutes late.”

“Your crew was delayed and there were a number of road closures en route.” Shouto fell in line, his cooler hand lacing with your free one, “We weren’t—“

“—I sent a reminder email at 2:45 AM with these details. Your coordinator should have shared them.”

You watched as a notch appeared in your partner’s brow, a subtle display of his annoyance. Before he could retort, you broke in with a small laugh that felt as awkward and forced as it sounded.

“Sorry about that.” you said, “This is all… very new.”

You didn’t receive a response, nor at this point were you particularly expecting one. Avoiding the wires criss-crossing the asphalt while keeping up with her brisk pace was taking enough effort, anyways. Unfortunately, an experimental sip of the smoothie in your hand revealed that it tasted like chalk.

“Don’t feel the need to apologize.” Shouto murmured, as you slowed your pace. This close, notes of mint and jasmine stood out in his cologne as he leaned over to murmur to you, “She’s just high-strung. They can film and record as they like, now— I’ve already seen a camera following us, from the right. They’re looking for reactions.”

“So, no public meltdowns— got it.” you smiled weakly, a chill going up your spine at the prospect of indirectly being ‘on-air’.

Yōko led the way back to the first of the sound stages as she explained that Split Shift was filmed in a “psychologically-backed” sequence. The core of that process was candid footage, occasionally guided by interviews.

“You’ll be interviewing throughout the day, both separately and together.” she explained, at the door, “At midday, we’ll have a thirty-minute lunch, and a touch-up with hair and makeup. The afternoon will then be dedicated to wrapping up the heroics case.”

“The… what?” you asked, glancing at Shouto, “Is there something you’re supposed to look into?”

“Not that I am aware of.” Shouto said, “Although I assume, based on the increasing number of cameras that have tracked us here, that this is meant to be some kind of dramatic twist.”

It took you a moment to begin to spot them— angled around corners, hidden in the shrubbery and eaves of the soundstage. There was even a drone flying overhead, high up enough to muffle the whine of its motors. Apprehension bloomed in your chest, counting at least fifteen cameras, knowing there were likely more.

The tone Shouto adopted was pure apathy— but you knew it as a defense mechanism, to hide the anger he hated to show.

“Is there a particular direction you’d like us to face, to express our shock?” he said.

Yōko’s chartreuse eyes narrowed in a silent declaration of war.

“This way will be fine.”

In the next instant, a loud metallic screech made you jump. Whirling around, you realized that the garage door of the warehouse was opening, and although you couldn’t see much through the gloom, the sun’s rays did catch off another two camera lenses, at least.

“We’ve made a few changes on set.” Yōko had to raise her voice to speak over the shuffle of the film crew as they filled in the space, the descending screech of the drone, “Audiences used to prefer viewing the world of heroes at street-level, through the eyes of those they loved most. Now, they want to experience it, for themselves.”

You weren’t looking at her, though, or any of the multitudes of cameras. Instead, your gaze was focused on the mannequin angled in the center of the sound stage, and dressed in a disconcerting blend of lycra and tactical gear— specifically an all-too-familiar vest and utility belt.

Yōko’s voice rang out behind you, sending a chill up your spine as the full scope of what you had gotten yourself into began to click into place.

It was a lousy morning, for a lousy day, for an even lousier night. You’d lost your job, your boyfriend, and even your wits all in one day. 

Your job had been threatening you with termination for months now, saying you’d taken too many days off, been late too many times. Today was the last straw, as you showed up at 7:31, instead of 7:30. It was silly, really, that this was the nail in the coffin for them. Surely, someone else had fucked up worse that day. But alas, you had received the boss’ rage in the end, as she kicked you out with your box of little decorations and doodads. 

As for your boyfriend, you knew it was over long ago. You’d known each other for ages, stayed together for the familiarity. But as soon as you shared your first kiss, your first touch, you knew it wasn’t gonna work. You both pulled away with the oh so familiar look of disappointment. As soon as he called you, voice filled with a suppressed excitement, you knew he’d found his soulmate. You let him go, with not so much as an ‘oh no’, and just like that he was packed up and gone when you returned home.

‘The least he could’ve done was clean up…’ you thought to yourself, a slight anger bubbling in your tummy, as you returned to a trashed apartment. 

The apartment wasn’t trashed per say, but there was a slew of trash left in his wake. Anything he didn’t need was left behind. The familiar emptiness of the home left you hollow, feeling little like a home and more like just a room.

You were never one to dwell on the little things, moving through life at a brisk pace. But as you neared your thirties, getting steadily closer by the day, you found yourself becoming more and more desperate to find your soulmate in life. Your now ex boyfriend and you had thought you were being revolutionary by settling for each other, but as made apparent by his absence, neither of you were that happy with the other.

Maybe you should have fought harder.. You wondered. But, deep down, you knew he wouldn’t have stayed for you. It’s not that you thought you weren’t worth it. But you knew if you were in his shoes, you would have done the same.

As the sun went down, you decided a good bit of alcohol would do you some good. Anything to warm the ache in your heart, as you found yourself drowning in your own sorrow. You put on your warmest coat, trekking outside into the monochrome glow of the lowering star. 

Shadows crossed your path and blended into the pavement, making eerie shapes as you walked on by. 

You soon found yourself in the nearby liquor store, scanning the bottles on the rack, looking for something familiar. You were so involved in your search, that you barely registered the dual toned head of hair behind you. 

“Miss..?” they mumbled out, in a voice soft and monotone, causing you to jump in place and nearly knock over the display stand.

You whipped around, almost bumping into the stranger. “Sorry?” you stuttered, embarrassment flushing your cheeks.

The dual toned eyes met yours, two shades of gray, matching the white and gray hair. “Are you looking for something… specific?” It was then you noticed the familiar employee uniform.

You also couldn’t help but notice the beauty of the man. He wasn’t just handsome, he was gorgeous. His bone structure was perfect, and beneath his uniform, he was seemingly fit.

Your brain stumbled over the words, struggling for maybe a minute too long. 

“Um... not really…” you paused momentarily, desperate to continue a conversation with any living being. “…do you have anything for a, um, breakup..?” You tried to maintain composure, even tried for a laugh, but as the words left your mouth, you’d finally realized the weight of your situation. Your lips trembled and your eyes watered, the burden of your body becoming heavier.

The employee reached a hand out in your direction, as if to help you with the weight, but he seemed to think better of it, retracting his hand at the last moment. A frown graced his features, an expression you thought shouldn’t look so perfectly poised on anyone. 

“Um... we have some… stronger options, this way,” he gestured to your left, offering to lead you down the aisle. You sniffled, gratefully accepting the help, following him down the lane. 

Your footsteps fell, quietly in sync with each other. It was a short walk, very short, but as you wiped away your forming tears, you thought you caught him sneaking glances at you. 

If it wasn’t for your shitty circumstances, you’d be flattered by such a pretty guy checking you out. 

I mean, come on, he looked your age, he had a calming air to him, and he even seemed to be a gentleman.

 ‘No, he’s just doing his job…’ you thought, disappointed in yourself. Getting yourself interested in someone so soon after your break up? Bad luck, you don’t want to treat someone as a rebound. 

As you reached the section of stronger alcohol, a brand known for its near toxicity, you turned to thank the boy, but he had already wandered off to continue helping customers. 

You found yourself a bit disappointed at his absence.

Afterwards, you quickly picked out your poison of choice, and made your way to the checkout, surprised to find him waiting for you there.

You waved, softly as if you were scared to disturb him, as you placed your product on the counter. 

“Thank you. For showing me, I mean… I know it must be tiring to deal with unaware people all day..?” You ended your sentence, as if it was a question. Embarrassment crept up your back as you floundered to save your mistake.

He scanned the product, a slight beep filling your ears. It would annoy you, if it weren’t for the boy in front of you.

He simply quirked an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile on his face. “No worries… Happens all the time,” he muttered absentmindedly. 

Once he had bagged the item, he turned to you. “It’s on me..” he spoke carefully, as if he might surprise you again.

You read his nametag carefully as he spoke, barely registering his words.

“Oh! Really? Well, thank you… Todoroki.. It was nice meeting you..!” you smiled, as wide as you could given the circumstances. You were sure he could see the sadness in your eyes, but it didn’t matter to you.

“Yeah, you too…” he waved, carefully, as you left, his gaze following you out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn’t long before you found yourself wandering back to the liquor store. You were intoxicated, not blackout, but close. You weren’t sure why your feet led you this way, but you were sure you had to get there. 

It had been weeks since you’d last seen him, or even been to the liquor store, but after a night on the bar, your feet drug you ever closer to his place of employment. 

Was this creep behavior? Yeah. Were you following through anyway? Also yeah!

As you were met with the familiar buzz of the neon sign, illuminating the sky around you, you found yourself questioning your motives. What did you hope to get out of this? Another small greeting? Todoroki didn’t seem like the social type, and surely wouldn’t appreciate a random stalker.

Sober you would be stopped dead in your tracks by this realization. But drunk you? They saw this as an opportunity! Maybe he would think you’re special, showing interest in him.

As you took your next step forward, into the shop, a hand grabbed you from behind, covering your mouth, and pulling you into the back alley roughly.

You squirmed and kicked against the strong hand, to no avail. You tried to scream, but nothing escaped you. 

As you began to run out of air, and the lights dimmed around you, you heard a door swing open and a quick set of footsteps. A loud crack went off, and you were dropped to the hard ground. 

As you regained complete consciousness, you were met with dual toned eyes, watching you wearily. 

“Are you alright?” a worried voice reached your ears, as his gaze raked your figure, looking for any injuries.

You quickly collected yourself at the sound of his voice, Todoroki’s voice, no less.

“Mmyeah..” your speech slurred, much to your embarrassment. Your brain was foggy, and you still hadn’t processed the attack. 

Your eyes quickly found the body of your assailant. He was a big dude, with dark hair and, apparently, darker motives. As you searched again for your savior, you caught Todoroki glaring down at him with the utmost look of hatred.

As if sensing your gaze, he perked up, meeting your eyes. “Let me help you up..?” he held a hand out in your direction. You gently waved his hand away, getting up yourself. You almost swore you caught a look of disappointment, faintly visible on his features.

It was then you realized just how beautiful he was, perfect bone structure and sharp eyes. His long lashes fanned across his cheeks so gracefully, you almost thought it was mascara, or falsies.

In your drunken staring stupor, you came to the conclusion that the moment had become awkward. Your cheeks flushed, as you tore your gaze away, hands coming to cover your darkened cheeks. 

His bicolored eyebrows knit together, as Todoroki watched you closely. “Can I walk you home?” he muttered, fidgeting with his phone. “At least let me take care of the 110 call..?”

You nodded faintly, grateful for the help.

As the two of you padded home together, you found yourself admiring him more, and more. You didn’t know much about him, but surely he was a kind soul if he helped you out. Anybody else would have turned the other way. And it was surely helping that he was so good looking.

You hiccuped, covering your mouth, flustered. Todoroki met your gaze, a confused look on his face as his eyes fell on your hand, hovering over your lips. Quickly, a dark hue dusted his cheeks and bled into his ears, as if he had an embarrassing thought. 

“Whatcha thinkin ‘bout..?” Your speech was slurred, bringing heat to your cheeks. “Anything interestin?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he mumbled, a surprising bit of humor laced into his tone. Was he laughing at you? 

You frowned, small enough that nobody would care, but big enough to notice. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Soon enough you found yourself placed in front of your apartment, both of you lingering together.

“Come inside..?” you muttered, barely loud enough to be heard.

His cheeks lit up, dusted with a heavy blush, eyebrows knitting together. “Sorry.. I.. I dont..-” 

Your eyes widened at the implication you made. “No! Not what I meant, ‘m sorry,” your words came out jumbled together, further embarrassing you. 

You sighed, dissatisfied at his lack of a proper answer, and slid down the door to your apartment, head in hands. You felt his careful stare on the top of your scalp, care and uncertainty filling his mind. 

“I guess.. I could come in for tea..?” Todoroki winced as he said it, ever so slightly, a ghost of an expression, really. What was he thinking? You were some stranger he barely knew. He was aware of some connection to you, but was it worth the risk? 

Apparently, it was.

As your face lit up, he knew he made the right choice. Your cheeks flushed, and your features displayed a look of excitement as you raised your head to meet his look. You nodded excitedly, rising from the ground, and clumsily unlocking your front door.

At your reaction, he flushed, a deep gray dusting the tips of his ears. Todoroki averted his gaze, eyeing the lights that adorned the apartment building, illuminating each doorway. 

As you lead him through your front door, he couldn’t help but notice the state of the place. The place was cluttered beyond belief, with little memories hidden everywhere, hard to let go of. His attention fell on a specific doodad, a small cat figure, each side a different color. The left half a pale tabby, the right a dark, patchy hue. 

He tenderly picked up the cat, inspecting it. Holding the dual toned feline, he caught your attention. 

“You like it..?” he nodded in response, a slight look of intrigue in his eyes. “You can have it,” you slurred, plopping down on a loveseat.

“I can’t accept this,” he shook his head. “It’s yours.”

You gingerly patted the space beside you, as you reassured him, he could keep the figure. Todoroki sighed, squeezing into the love seat with you, careful not to touch you. You felt a little hurt at the implications of his fear. You absentmindedly twiddled your fingers, humming to yourself. 

You two tried your best to make small talk, chatting amongst yourselves. You found his quiet nature endearing, but couldn’t help but want him to open up to you.

Wouldn’t that be special? It’s always nice getting someone to trust you. 

“So about the tea?” he gestured towards your kitchen, catching your attention. You instantly rose from your seat, so quickly in fact, you found yourself falling forward.

Todoroki reacted in the blink of an eye, extending an arm to catch you by the wrist. 

As soon as his skin came in contact with yours, your sight erupted into beautiful colors. Every hue of the rainbow made its way into your vision. Todorokie must have noticed it too, as his grip immediately loosened, causing you to drop to the floor.

As you rubbed your head, feeling the pain from the impact, you took in your surroundings. Todoroki stood over you with his hands to his chest, looking terrified. “I need to go…” he mumbled, under his breath. 

You instantly sobered up, hurt clear across your features, and not from the fall.”Huh..? But, surely you see it too?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I need to leave,” And just like that, he sped for the door. “Goodbye..” he muttered, letting the door slam shut behind him.

You let your head fall back to the floor, ignoring the dull throbbing pain it brought. The real pain resided in your mind, your heart. Of course your soulmate would flake out on you.

One particularly warm morning, you man the counter in the lobby as usual. Your sweet wife Delilah is cleaning up a room one guest had evacuated in the earlier hours of the day, and the inn is otherwise quiet. 

That is, at least, until the front door creaks open. The old worn bell you keep swearing you’ll get replaced rings out with a sharp high note, drawing your attention forwards. 

Shocks of red and white drop below the brim of the mysterious stranger’s stetson, framing the soft curves of his cheeks. He looks worse for wear, with dark circles clinging to his lower lids and a nasty scar that stretches across the top left of his face. 

And yet he approaches you with as much politeness as he can seem to muster. Shy in the way his gaze flickers around the room as he waits for you to acknowledge him, in the way his hands seem to clasp tight around the strap of the leather bag strung around his back. 

Perhaps this stranger is the very intrigue you’ve been waiting for. 

“Afternoon, sir,” you call, resting against the counter. “Looking for a room?” 

“No,” he says bluntly. “Are there stables near?” 

You frown, tapping your fingers against the wood. “‘Fraid not. We ain’t a horsefaring sorta town, y’see. Keep to ourselves for the most part.” 

Then it’s the stranger’s turn to frown. He stays quiet for a moment, pondering over something, before he speaks up again. 

“I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll be on my way.” 

His voice is quiet and reserved, overly polite. Not the sort of way of speaking you’ve heard around here before, save for perhaps an occasion in your youth. There’s no lyricality, in fact it holds rather monotone, but it’s soft and rather pleasing to the ear. 

“You sure about that, sir? We’re an awful long way from the next town.” 

The stranger hesitates. 

“I have no money.” 

“Ain’t no problem,” you insist. “It’s on the house.” 

“This feels like poor business practice,” he returns, and yet he doesn't make to leave. 

“Just doin’ my duty, sir. Can't send a nice young fella like yourself back out there with no horse and no place to rest his head, now can I? Why, that'd be a downright crime.”

You lead him up the stairs and to one of the spare rooms. They’re only quaint, barely suitable for a bedroom in reality, but you rarely hear a guest complain. It’s a comfortable place to rest their head, clean and well-sheltered. They do the job. 

“These are nice rooms,” the stranger comments politely as he follows you inside, surveying the area. “You keep the place well.” 

You resist the urge to fawn over the compliment, choosing instead to cover it up with a polite smile. “I try my best.” 

With your new guest settling, you decide to take your leave. There’s no point to lingering after all, it does nothing for your reputation as a host. 

“Uh,” he hesitates, and you turn back to face him. His lips have curled into an almost shy pout, and his gaze is fixed upon you. “Thank you.” 

“Any time,” you nod. 

“My name is Shouto,” he says. 

A pretty name for a pretty face. Maybe you really will need to keep an eye on this one. 

“Nice to meet you, Shouto,” you flash him a warm smile. “Lookin’ forward to seein’ you around.” 

Shouto is a surprisingly quiet guest, you learn in the few days that follow. 

Polite, considerably so. To the point that even some of the other guests seem to pick up on his energy and pepper in a few extra please and thank yous to their speech. (He fast becomes a favourite of Delilah’s, and she makes a point of bringing him up in conversations with you of an evening. You know where she’s going with it, and you nod along with a laugh nonetheless.)

But that courteous behaviour of his seems to be so finely attuned with his being that even his very movements are quiet. 

Not even in the way that your other enigmatic regulars usually are. Even though he leaves his room for mealtimes, goes to take walks around town and familiarise himself with the setting, you rarely end up realising he’s gone anywhere until you see him coming back at the end of the day. 

He’s unnaturally silent as he moves around, footsteps barely audible even on the inn’s infamously noisy wooden floors. 

So you aren’t surprised when you don’t register the familiar creaking of the staircase until Shouto is already stood by the side of the counter. He’s looking over towards you rather intently, as though there’s something on his mind. 

“If you’ll excuse me one moment,” you say, raising your hand politely to the trader you’ve been speaking to, “I’ve got a customer needin’ my help.” 

She acquiesces and bows her head, stepping to the side to allow you to traverse the room. You reach the counter and balance against it, donning a warm smile as you ask how you can assist Shouto today. 

“I think she’s overcharging you,” Shouto says simply. “Those aren’t worth that much.” 

“Hey!” the trader balks from her seat across the room. “I’ll have you know I charge the fairest price this side of the river.” 

You lower the volume of your voice and lean in close to Shouto as you respond to him; “What’s got you sayin’ that?” 

“There’s a market due north of here, about a day or two’s travel, that sells these for half the money. You’re being upcharged for the convenience of her bringing it to the inn.” 

“You’re kiddin’,” you whisper, otherwise speechless. 

“Oi!” comes a cry from the neglected trader. “Are you really gonna listen to that drivel?” 

With a sharp cough, you rise from your position at the counter and take a step towards the woman. 

“You said thirty for these, yes?” 

“That’s right,” she beams with pride. “It’s a bargain the likes of which you ain’t gonna get nowhere else.” 

Pretending to mull over a decision, you exaggerate a few uhms and ahs. “Well, then. I think it’s settled.” 

“You’ll be takin’ ‘em?” she asks, eyes lighting up with the prospect of cash. 

“I’ll take exactly zero of your stock today, thank you ma’am.” 

“Great, pleasure doin’ business with y- “ she stops abruptly, your words registering in her head -  “WHAT!?” 

“We won’t be making a trade,” you reiterate. “You’re welcome to rest here for as long as you need before you continue on your way.” 

You don’t get more than a grumble and a pointed glare as she finally acquiesces, roughly stuffing her produce back into the burlap sack she’d hauled in here earlier. 

“You’re gonna regret fuckin’ with me,” she spits, slamming the front door behind her. The little bell almost falls off its mount with the force of the movement, quaking and ringing frantically. 

“Thank you,” you say, turning back to Shouto as you breathe a sigh of relief. “You’re a lifesaver, you know. I can put that extra cash towards some real nice stuff for the inn.” 

“I couldn’t stand by in the middle of an obstruction of justice,” Shouto confesses. “It wasn’t fair, what she was doing to you.” 

“You know, I’m surprised you ain’t some sorta sheriff,” you tease, before your tone drops serious. “You… you ain’t, right?” 

“I’m not,” he says. “Something about the legal systems here… leaves a lot to be desired.” 

“Ain’t that the truth! So, what- you do mercenary work?”

A disappointed frown quirks at the corners of his lips. “I’ve been trying to, ever since I came here.” 

“Since you came here,” you echo. “Well, how long you been here?” 

“I think it’s almost a year,” he says. “The ship docked last autumn.” 

It’s the middle of summer now, if the blazing heat is any indication. You can’t help but wonder how difficult it really must be to get work around here. It isn’t like you have any sort of reference- you worked for your father until you were left with the inn to run. 

“Sorry to hear that,” you offer. 

And then, an idea springs to mind. 

“Listen, if you’re looking for work, why don’t you help out around the inn? Lord knows Lilah could do with an extra pair of hands in the kitchen, ain’t much I can do for her all the way out here. It ain’t much, but I could pay you for your time. You just saved me the money I can do it with.” 

“I thought you said that would go towards nice things for the inn,” Shouto states. 

“Well, you’re nice,” you say, flashing him a smile. “Ain’t that good enough?” 

Shouto denies your efforts to pay him for his time, in the end. He insists you’re doing enough, but that doesn’t stop you pulling some extra strings for him when you can over the next few weeks.

Only small things, like serving him extra portions of food and offering snacks when you can. Going out of your way to ensure there is fresh water and ice to hand when he’s working, even at the expense of pulling a muscle when cranking away at the communal well. 

Typical things you’d do for a guest. Obviously. 

It is one of these very trips to the well that brings you back to your inn during the early hours of the afternoon, the summer sun at its highest peak, with a heavy bucket full of water. You use your hip to force the front door open and it slams against the wall before attempting to enact its revenge on you by ricocheting all the way back. 

Conveniently, Shouto is right there to witness your folly. 

As heat rushes to your cheeks, he rushes to your side. Levies the weight of the pail and holds the door open with one foot as you bring it inside. 

“I could have gotten that for you,” he says, almost chastising you for underestimating your workload. 

“I’m fine,” you wheeze, shifting the weight of the bucket to your other hip as you bring it through the lobby. 

Delilah is waiting by the doors to the kitchen, holding them open for you. You thank her as you heft your way inside and place it down on the countertop with a groan of exertion. Shouto hangs in the lobby, one foot forward as if ready to jump to assist you at any given second. 

It’s rather endearing, if you think about it. 

You try a little harder not to think about it. 

As you fidget around with miscellaneous kitchen jobs- you’re in there already, you might as well- you hear the front door bell ring out again. A bustle of commotion follows, cries of ‘pew, pew!’ and ‘get down, bandits!’ echo through the lobby and make their way down to your ears. 

If you didn’t recognise it as the youthful voice of your little brother, Cole, you just might have been scared. 

The young boy jumps around the tables like a whirlwind, diving for cover as he ‘shoots’ his ‘gun’ around the room, aiming towards a rather bewildered Shouto who has had the misfortune of being caught in the middle of his antics. 

Cole cheers, pretending to blow smoke from the barrel. “Take that, fiend!” 

Shouto blinks once, twice, and for a moment you’re unsure whether he understands what’s happening. 

Then he looks down at his chest, before announcing in a blank tone; “you got me.” 

“Ya could at least act dead, mister,” Cole pouts, folding his arms. “Ain’t fun when you don’t play properly.”

Shouto nods solemnly, and proceeds to lay down on the floor. “Oh, the pain. I’m dying. Bleh.”

You take the opportunity to walk back properly into the lobby, coughing loudly to announce your presence.

“Cole, it ain’t nice to shoot strangers,” you chastise gently, as said boy balks at the sight of you and runs around your legs, clinging to the back of your shirt. 

“He don’t mind,” Cole argues from the safety of his personal meat-shield. “Do ya, mister?” 

Shouto looks utterly caught off-guard by the entire interaction, straight-faced but wide-eyed. 

“You’re, uh, fine,” he manages awkwardly. 

“He’s too polite for his own good,” you say to Cole. “Tell ‘im you’re sorry.” 

Cole refuses at first, stubbornly balling his fists tighter into your clothing and shaking his head. 

But then you dip to your knees and take his hands in yours, fixing him with a stern gaze that seeps with genuine concern and care. When Cole meets your eyes, after a few more beats of futile non-compliance, you release a soft sigh.

“I know you were just playin’, but you can still be brave and strong without bein’ violent.”

“I was bein’ like daddy,” Cole pouts. “He plays with guns all the time.” 

The words send a sinking feeling straight to your gut. 

Of course this is your father’s influence. What else did you expect? The man is constantly flashing a firearm, an obscene show of power that does far more harm than good. You’ve grown sick of it, but there’s not much you can do to stop it whilst your existence depends on him. 

“If ya wanna be like our daddy, why not try helping big sis Lilah out with the dishes? A mayor has to be respectful of the womenfolk, after all.”

Like the heavens themselves had summoned her to you, Delilah appears from the kitchens and stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “C’mon little man, I’ll let you play with the washboard when we’re done.” 

That’s enough for the boy, whose head perks at the mention of more playtime, and he eagerly runs past Delilah and out of sight. You use the nearby table to anchor yourself as you stand, letting out a groan as something pops somewhere it really shouldn’t. 

“Thank you, sweet Lilah- ” you reach across and place a kiss on her cheek- “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

She grabs you by the cheeks and squeezes you as she says, “you’d have been long gone years ago, darlin’.” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” you chuckle heartily.

An uncomfortable cough from Shouto reminds you of his presence, and suddenly Delilah’s hands are burning hot against your flesh. You part from her like you’ve been shocked.

“Why, do forgive me. I seem to have forgotten my manners.” The space across the room between yourself and Shouto feels unfathomably larger now. “We have a guest and I haven’t even offered him a drink yet. What can I getcha?” 

“I’m good, thanks,” Shouto responds politely. “I did want to see if you have any news from the stables, though.” 

A frown twists its way onto your face, and you can’t decide if it’s from courtesy or disappointment. 

“Not a word,” you admit. “I was fixin’ to go down there in a few days; make sure they ain’t been raided, y’know?” 

“I could join you,” he says, all too eagerly. “Maybe it will help.” 

“Now that’s a mighty fine idea,” Delilah pipes up. She reaches across to nudge you in the ribs pointedly, flashing you a look. “Let him go with, why don’tcha?” 

A sharp cough wracks you. “Right, of course you can tag along.” 

You meet with Shouto early in the morning on the day of your excursion. He’s more prepared than you, somehow, with his stetson to block out the sun and a satchel full of provisions across his shoulder. 

“We only got ol’ Duke here,” you say, gently patting the side of the steed’s snout, “but if you don’t mind ridin’ behind, he’s a strong’un. Carries me and Lilah like it’s nothin’.” 

Shouto looks apprehensive as he sizes up your stallion. “You’re sure he’ll be alright? I wouldn’t want to hurt him.” 

“He’s done it for years,” you assure. “Besides, you’re experienced, ain’tcha? Just hold on tight, move with him, and you’ll be fine.” 

It takes another hem and haw for him to finally agree, and you stretch your hand out to take. His grip is firm as you help him up behind you, and his fingers are… surprisingly soft. You try not to dwell on the sensation, nor on how his arms cinch your sides for support. 

And you try even harder to ignore the way his breath tickles against the nape of your neck, or how oddly pleasant his chest feels pressed flush to your back. 

“We should get going,” Shouto says, and the smooth monotone of his voice reverberates through your very bones. “You said the journey’s half a day, right? It’ll be nightfall soon if we aren’t careful.” 

“Yeah,” you cough. “You’re right.” 

As you let the reins fall slack in your grip, Duke breaks into a walk. The steady motion is enough to bring you back to focus, attention redirected to the trail ahead. You’ve walked it plenty of times before, especially with Duke, so it becomes rather easy to tune out from your emotions and sink into the pleasantry of the ride. 

“He’s well-trained,” Shouto comments. 

“Broke him in myself,” you confess proudly. “He was a stubborn lil’ bastard, but I took my time and did things my way.” 

“Your way?” Shouto echoes. “As opposed to… ?” 

“My father’s.” The words leave you like vitriol, spat out as though you’ve swallowed something foul. “He’s a fan of tough love, and his horses ain’t no exception.”

You can’t ignore the way Shouto seems to tense up behind you, fingers digging into your waist. They relax almost immediately after, and he shifts his grip to your arms. 

“Your father seems…” Shouto quietens as he tries to find the right words. 

“Like a real piece of work?” you finish for him with a dry chuckle, a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood. 

“I understand,” Shouto says. “My father is not exactly worthy of praise himself.” 

“Sorry to hear it,” you offer. “Nobody should have to deal with a shitty old man.” 

The ranch is closer than you remember- or, perhaps, you simply lose track of time tied up in the idle conversation you share with Shouto. Either way, you’re tying Duke’s reins to a nearby post before you know it. 

There’s a little shack by the front of the lot, a big hand-painted sign above the doorway directing visitors to ENTER HERE. You oblige and guide Shouto inside, immediately faced with a rather flustered stablehand and a boisterous stranger. 

“‘M sorry, sir,” the stablehand stammers. “We don’t got no racehorses here. My boss only raises workin’ breeds.” 

“Well, you tell yer boss to get his ass in gear and rear some purebred racin’ stallions already!” 

“The poor boy said he ain’t got none,” you interject, much to the stablehand’s gratitude. “Why not give him a break, huh?” 

The large stranger turns on his heel to face you, deep frown etched into his features as he sizes you up for the audacity to interrupt him. And then his brow furrows. And then, his eyes widen. 

This man seems to recognise you, much to your dismay. 

He takes a step closer to you and juts out an accusatory finger, before his deep grating voice is launching an assault on your eardrums.

“Ain’t you that faggot boy of the mayor’s?” He sneers, puffing himself up to appear more intimidating. “What’s a sissy like you doin’ in a man’s establishment?” 

The words pierce harsher than a bullet. You feel a lump form in your throat, and your fingers start to tremble at your sides. This uncharacteristic helplessness reminds you of your boyhood, of your father, and a deep-rooted fear takes hold of your heart and refuses to detach. Blood rushes through your veins to your head, dizzying you as you fight the urge to seethe. 

“He’s got a fine lady wife back home,” Shouto interjects matter-of-factly, leaping to your rescue, “which is more than I can assume that you have, if you waste all of your time picking fights with men you hardly know.” 

“It’s okay,” you manage quietly, “he’s not worth it.” 

But Shouto doesn’t hear you, or at least he chooses not to listen, as he steps in between yourself and the stranger. He has no need to broaden his stance or force himself to stand taller to appear imposing. Something about his steeled gaze and the calm way that he holds himself is far more intimidating than a false show of bravado. In fact, you’d argue he looks downright dangerous like this. 

And the other man seems to feel it, too. 

He bites out in spite of it, like a threatened animal. “What? He too much of a girl to fight me himself? Needs a real man to step in and fight for him?” 

“I’m not going to fight you,” Shouto says coolly. “I have no need.” 

The stranger stammers, torn between arguing back or throwing a punch. Off to the side, the stablehand looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. He finally throws himself into the commotion, hands outstretched to put space between Shouto and the other man. 

“The boss will not tolerate brawling in here!” the stablehand exclaims desperately, trembling as he continues to serve as a human boundary. “I have to ask you to leave, please.”

“Outta the way, brat- “ the stranger goes to grab one of the stablehand’s wrists, but Shouto raises his hands gracefully in surrender. 

“We wouldn’t want to cause unnecessary trouble, right?” 

After a few seconds- which stretch to a small eternity in your frame of reference, heart pounding and head light- the stranger finally acquiesces. Raises one hand flippantly over his shoulder as he turns to leave. 

“Aw screw this, I got better shit to be doin’.” He casts one final glare your way, and doesn’t hesitate to share it with Shouto. “Stay outta my sight, gayboys. I won’t be so nice a second time.” 

You release a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. The soles of your feet feel rooted into place, two precarious anchors for the wobbling of your frame. 

“If you two could leave as well,” the stablehand chimes, and you find the resolve to speak up at last. 

“We wanted to see if there was any progress with acquiring a horse for my friend here.” 

The stablehand looks uncomfortable as he hesitates to respond. “I’m afraid we won’t be doing business with you any further, sir. You’ll have to look for a horse elsewhere.” 

“But you’re the closest ranch to our town!” you exclaim. “If we don’t trade with you, it might take months to find somewhere new.” 

“That ain’t our problem, mister. Have a nice day.” 

You go to retaliate, take a step forwards, and Shouto places a hand on your upper arm to hold you back. He’s right; you already know. If you lash out at the poor boy, you’re no better than the hulking brute that came before you. The stablehand repeats his have a nice day with a more insistent tone, ushering you to walk away. 

It takes all your willpower not to slam your fist against the wall in frustration as you leave. Instead, you let slip a few choice curses and grit your teeth as you storm towards your horse. The hot summer sun blazes overhead and batters against your face, amalgamating with the heat building from your frustration until you almost feel faint. 

“I’m truly sorry,” Shouto offers tentatively, voice almost lost against the ringing in your ears. “The way he was speaking to you was unacceptable.” 

“My family’s been tradin’ with them for decades,” you lament, reaching Duke’s side and placing a gentle hand against his face. “I don’t know what I’m gonna tell my father about this.” 

“We’ll tell him the truth.” 

“The truth?” you balk. “You think the mayor wants to hear that there’s a rumor going around that his only son’s fuckin’ other men?” 

You release a shaken breath as you take hold of the saddle, hoisting yourself up. There’s no point staying mad when you’ve got to travel; it isn’t fair to poor Duke. 

“That isn’t what I meant,” Shouto argues. “I was going to suggest telling him that it was my fault.” 

“He won’t give a crap,” you say matter-of-factly. “God, I just hope he don’t do anything with the inn.”

“I thought the inn was yours?” 

“We inherited it young, didn’t know what we were doin’. He offered to put it in his name, and we let him.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Ain’t your fault he’s a piece of shit,” you sigh. “I just gotta hope he either don’t find out, or don’t care when he does.” 

Quiet falls for a few moments, save from the rustling of trees and the distant ambient chatter from inside the stables. You hold your hand out for Shouto to mount Duke behind you, and he squeezes a little harder than he had the first time. 

“I’ve been told I’m not the best at offering comfort,” he says carefully as he situates himself on the saddle, “but I want you to know that I understand how you feel.” 

“Right,” you nod, urging Duke to move. “Appreciate it.” 

The world begins to pass you by as Duke carries you home, surroundings shifting into nothing more than hues of brown and green. Once riotous pounding in your chest, your heartbeat finds its way to a more level pace, and you feel like you’re finally able to breathe properly again. 

“I’m sorry, by the way,” you speak again at last, breaking the silence, “about the horse thing.” 

“It’s okay,” Shouto says. If his tone were more expressive, you’d be able to sense the disappointment that lingers in his words. “I can figure something out.” 

“You’ve been stuck here for two weeks now,” you argue. “I ain’t been the help I promised you. If anythin’ I made it worse.” 

Shouto is quick to respond; “but you’ve let me stay at your inn all that time. You haven’t even charged me.” 

You fall quiet for a moment as you think to yourself. He isn’t wrong, after all. You’ve been gracious enough to give him room and board for nothing, gone out of your way to ensure he’s been comfortable. 

Shouto isn’t the first pretty face you’ve been so kind to. He is, however, the first you’ve felt this strongly drawn to. He’s the first who’s gotten so involved with your family so quickly, friendly with Delilah and even Cole. He’s the first that Cole has even liked, you realise rather abruptly. Winning that boy’s trust doesn’t seem like something that should be such a feat, and yet Shouto had achieved it effortlessly.

More importantly, Shouto is the first you’ve had to face the reality of disappointing like this. 

Your grip on Duke’s reins tightens as a thick wave of anxiety grips you once more. The stallion feels the shift and instinctively slows, pulling to a stop just shy of town. A sharp huff leaves him, and he shakes his head as he settles down. 

“Is everything alright?” asks Shouto cautiously, peering over your shoulder to check for roadblocks. 

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “I mean, it’s fine.” 

He gives you a tentative okay as you gently urge Duke to move again. The rest of the ride back to your inn passes in relative silence, though your thoughts echo so loud in your head you could easily be convinced they’re being yelled at you externally. 

When you return, you’re still quiet. Not for lack of trying- you really do want to strike up some other conversation- but the mood seems to have soured past a point where your bones seize up when you make the attempt. The most you get out is a quiet see you later when you part ways. 

It ends up a few more days before you talk again. 

You get busy with the inn, tending to a small group of travellers from the south who party hard and demand a lot. But they pay well, and their stay is relatively short, so you suck it up and take it as the opportunity you need to reset your headspace emotionally. 

The weather seems to gauge your mood and adjust accordingly. Turbulent rain strikes up on the second day, and on the third it’s accompanied with a strong wind. By the fourth, the travellers have left and you decide you’ve recovered, and everything feels calm again. 

That is, at least, except for the damage control. 

First on the list is surveying the inn itself, to check what may or may not have been damaged in the storm. Not much is out of place- save for a poor fencepost that had undergone a dramatic journey across the expanse of the town- and you’re almost convinced that you’ve avoided a hefty workload…

… until you look up. 

The panels of the inn’s roof have blown out of place, and a handful have broken entirely. The splintered remains hang on for dear life by the nails that held them down, and the sight near gives you a heart attack. 

It was only a light storm, all things considered, but that poor roof has been neglected for a few years too long. The wooden slats didn’t stand a chance. 

As you try to size up the true scope of the damage, pacing around the outskirts of the property, you hear the front door bell chime. Shouto walks out onto the porch, scanning the area until his eyes land on you. 

“You alright there?” you call to him. 

“I was about to ask you that,” he replies. 

“All good over here!” you offer a quick salute, and immediately mentally berate yourself for the embarrassing display. “Just checking the damage.” 

Shouto steps down from the porch and wanders to your side, stepping back to peer up at the roof. 

“I could fix that for you,” he says easily. “Do you have the supplies?” 

You can’t help but let out a laugh. He really does seem to think he’s capable of everything. Maybe that’s one of the reasons you like him. 

“It’s gonna take a whole team to get this sorted.” 

“Can I try?”

“Sure- “ you point across to some spare wooden slats you’d managed to drag out earlier- “knock yourself out. They ain’t all that heavy, but carrying them up to the roof is gonna be a bitch.” 

He gives you a determined okay, and walks off to collect what he needs as you stand there and watch. 

You can’t believe what you’re seeing, really. 

Shouto has managed to prop one of the slats over his shoulder as he climbs up the side of the inn, with all the strength and precision of a trained professional. No, that’s an understatement– you don’t know anyone skilled enough to do this. 

It’s impossible to do much more than watch, awestruck, as he heaves the slat up on top of the roof and drags himself along after it. He takes a small leather bag of nails from between his teeth and finds a suitable spot to nestle it, before calling for you to pass up the hammer. You comply dumbfounded, doing everything in your power to keep your jaw from falling agape. 

“That’s mighty impressive of you,” you get out at last. “Who taught you to do that?” 

He looks back at you, confused. “Nobody taught me this.” 

“So you learned how to fix up buildings all by yourself?” 

“This is the first time I’ve done this.” 

You think you might burst a blood vessel. He has no right to be this perfect, truly. Strong, capable, intelligent? Able to size up a situation and just know he’s able to handle it? Delilah’s right, if you don’t snatch him up soon who knows who might. 

No, you can’t think like that. You still don’t even know if he likes men. Let alone you. 

The thought alone is enough to have you spacing out until he’s already finished with the roof and making his way back down to you. 

“Good job,” you praise. “That looks like it’ll hold for years.” 

“I hope so,” he nods. “I used some of the old boards to reinforce the new ones- it doesn’t look the neatest but it should be sturdy.” 

“I appreciate it. Lord knows what I’d do without you.” 

“It’s nice that you’re talking to me again,” he says, abruptly changing the subject. It isn’t spoken with malice, no more than a passing comment, but the words hit you with a hard pang of guilt nonetheless. 

“Sorry,” you say, embarrassment flooding your veins. “I wasn’t feeling myself after that incident at the ranch.” 

“They hurt you. You’re allowed to feel that pain.” 

He just has to be insightful and empathetic too, huh? This man really might be the death of you, you realise there and then. 

“Thanks,” you return lamely. 

In an attempt to save face, you think for a moment, before an idea hits and you speak again. 

“We got a nice family dinner planned for Sunday, why don’t you join us? My way of apologising for being so weird around you the past few days.” 

“That sounds nice,” Shouto agrees, and you can’t stop the smile that weaves its way onto your face. 

Shouto arrives at your father’s house on Sunday with a gift basket in his arms and a nervous look in his eyes. 

“You’re here!” Delilah greets him enthusiastically, ushering him into the house with a hand on his shoulder. “Esther’s been dying to meet you.” 

“Esther?” Shouto echoes. 

“My older sister,” you say, popping your head out from behind the kitchen door. “Nice to see you, by the way.” 

“Uh- you too.” 

“C’mon- “ Delilah brings him through to the dining room, and takes the basket from his arms- “dinner’s gonna be ready soon.” 

Your sister is in the room to greet him, and he offers her a polite bow of acknowledgement. 

“Ooh, he’s got manners!” Esther fawns, practically running to take hold of his hands. “It’s nice to meet you, my little brother’s said so much about you.” 

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Shouto says. “If you don’t mind my asking, I was told this is your father’s house? It’s lovely.” 

“Yeah, it’s our daddy’s,” Esther says. “He’s out on a trip with my husband, so he won’t be joining us today.” 

“What a shame,” your voice calls sarcastically from the kitchen. 

“Now then squirt, that ain’t very nice.” Your sister releases Shouto to face off with you in the kitchen, and comes back out with both you and Delilah in tow like a pair of naughty children. 

“Yeah, squirt,” Delilah echoes, pinching at your cheeks. You fend her off as best you can, but she’s a strong woman, and when she wants to torment you she always succeeds.

“Please, feel free to sit,” you say to Shouto, almost pleadingly so. 

Esther had set the table, and you’d been the one to assist Delilah in the kitchen with preparing the main course. If your father had been here, he’d surely have strongarmed you into forcing the poor woman to do it all by herself. Luckily, you’d been granted the freedom to hold this dinner your way. 

“We laid a place for you,” Esther says sweetly, pointing towards the end of the table. A small dish of fruit slices lays pre-served, her attempt at a pleasant welcome. 

“Thank you,” Shouto offers her a polite bow in response. “I appreciate your hospitality.” 

“Why, of course,” she beams, giving him a sharp pat on the shoulder. It’s purely intended as amicable, but you can’t help noticing the way Shouto flinches at the contact. Esther plays it off smoothly nonetheless, her natural friendliness oozing from every word. “Oh, you’re a lil’ jumpy, ain’tcha? Well, no bother. Come on, sit and eat with us!” 

By the time everyone is seated- even Cole, who you’d had to wrangle from an intense solo game of marbles that had until now left him silent in the living room- the thick scent of cooked meat permeates the air. 

There are three whole pies to split between you, two with meat and one with only vegetables- just in case, Delilah insisted, because you still don’t really know what sort of food Shouto prefers, because all you’ve seen him eat are foods he’s had served up to him, and it’s nice to offer choice. You serve up Cole’s portion, who declares he has to try part of each pie at the same time, and extend your innkeeper habits to ask if Shouto would like you to do the same for him. 

“Ooh, you’re lucky,” Esther teases, “he never serves portions up for the women in his life.”

“That is a lie and you know it,” you snap on instinct, immediately biting your tongue. It doesn’t phase your sister, who has long been used to bickering with you (she’s the most notorious instigator, after all) and she bursts out laughing instead. 

“They’re always like this,” Delilah giggles, leaning towards Shouto. “It’s the feistiest I ever see him, you know.” 

“Really?” He peeks past her to look at you, still engaged in a pointless argument with Esther. You make eye contact with him somewhere in the middle and immediately fluster, falling silent. 

“You got any siblings, Shouto?” she asks, and the focus of the room pans across to him. 

He flounders over the question for a moment, gaze fixing intently upon you as if to beg for help. When you give him a reassuring nod, he takes a breath and speaks. 

“I’m the youngest of four,” he says. “Two brothers and a sister. We… don’t really talk much.” 

“I’d think not, if you’re all the way out here,” Esther cracks a smile, tone light and airy. “Any of ‘em come with you?” 

“My eldest brother wanted to see more of the world, so I travelled here to find him. If my other brother and sister knew about it, they’d probably have joined.” 

“Sounds like an interesting man,” Delilah says. “Your father must be real nice for his boys to have such a strong bond.” 

You feel your heart churn at the sentiment, and as you share another turbulent glance with Shouto you can’t even begin to imagine how he feels. 

“My father has a strong personality. I’ve been told we inherited that.” 

“Funny,” Esther notes, “people say the same about my little brothers.” 

As though proving her point, Cole slams his utensils down on the table and declares he’s finished with a shout to rival a warcry. 

“Now, can I go play again?” he asks eagerly. “Can I? Can I?” 

“I dunno, little man, did you eat all your veggies?” you ask. 

“Uh-huh! Look- “ he sticks out his tongue and wiggles it around, showing a slimy but empty mouth- “all gone!” 

“Well, I think that’s good enough,” Esther chuckles. “Go on, get.” 

He’s gone like a flash, practically leaping down from his seat to pelt into the living room. How he has such an abundance of energy, you’ll never fathom. 

Esther stands soon after, her own plate since emptied. “I’ll get started on the dishes. You three good in here?” 

Shouto nods politely, “thank you.” 

“You can come round for dinner whenever you want,” Esther beams. “I’m sure my darling brother would love to see you here more often.” 

“Essie,” you whine pointedly, “stop embarrassing me.” 

“But you’re so easy,” she teases, blowing you a kiss as she dips out of the dining room. 

“She got you there,” Delilah notes, gently nudging at your side. “Don’t worry, it’s why we love you.” 

You grumble out an I love you too as you regain your composure, trying hard to keep yourself together in front of your guest. He has a smile on his face as you look across to him, and it’s infectious enough to rekindle your mood. 

“It's nice how in love the two of you are,” he says. 

Delilah laughs loud, slapping her hand against her knee. “You got it wrong, mister. We ain’t in love. He’s like a brother to me.” 

“But you’re married?” he questions, tilting his head. 

“The world don’t accept me, nor sweet Lilah here,” you confess, hoping your subtlety is enough to convey the message. “We did what we had to do. I love her, it just ain’t like that.” 

“Besides,” Delilah adds, leaning in close and raising her hands to her mouth as if to obscure the words from potential onlookers, “I’ve got a girlfriend.” 

“Nice woman,” you vouch. “Met her a few times now.” 

“And this… works for you?” 

“It does the job,” Delilah says. “We get to live our lives at the small price of living with each other. I could think of worse ways to do it.” 

You nod along. “Lilah’s my best friend. Spending my life with her don’t seem so bad all in all, you know?” 

Shouto ponders over it for a moment, and then seems to hit an epiphany. “I have a friend back home. We grew up together, and I think at some point our parents wanted to arrange a marriage. If we’d had to, it would have been okay.” 

“What happened to her?” you ask cautiously. 

“I left her behind,” he admits. 

Delilah rests her chin in her hands as she leans forward, invested. “You wouldn’t go back to her?” 

“Maybe one day,” Shouto says. “If things worked out that way.” 

You start to lose track of the conversation as Delilah takes over, fascinated by any story Shouto is willing to share of his youth. He doesn’t divulge all that much about himself, you notice, tending to focus on the people he knows instead. You learn about a Yaoyorozu, and an Iida, a Midoriya and a Bakugou. Half a dozen more names are infrequently mentioned and you try to catch them all, but it’s difficult when you’re already entangled in the way that Shouto looks when he’s talking about the people that matter to him. 

It’s as though he starts to glow, radiant as he recalls the fond moments that shaped his teenhood. The corners of his mouth are upturned just the slightest, resonating with a tender sentiment that feels utterly enrapturing to witness. 

You just about manage to catch the end of the conversation, a comment about the lively atmosphere at the table earlier. 

“It reminds me of home,” Shouto says. “The good side, at least.” 

“You’re welcome here any time,” you say. “Lilah and Essie loved seeing you today, and you know Cole’s happy so long as he can cajole someone into playing with him.”

Shouto catches himself partway through asking what about your father?, falling silent and turning away. “Sorry, don’t mind that.” 

“If you weren’t my friend, he’d probably like you,” you confess, placing a comforting hand on his knee. He seems to flinch at the touch at first, but makes no further move to shy away. “Everyone connected to me is the devil to him somehow.” 

He looks back to you, heterochromic eyes glistening in the candlelight. You swear you can see something new in those depths, a spark of something warm and hopeful. 

“We’re friends?” he asks. 

“Of course we are,” you promise.

“You’re my friend too,” Delilah interrupts, giggling to herself. “Anything you need, you just ask. Okay?” 

And for the first time, you think you see Shouto as embarrassed as you’ve been today, a pink flush creeping up across his cheeks. 

“Okay,” he agrees. 

The rest of the evening passes with little event, and you have to admit it’s an entirely pleasant affair. Cole ropes Shouto into playtime for a while, and you go to help Esther finish with the cleanup duties. 

By the time you’re all leaving, Shouto accompanies you on the walk back to the inn. 

“I had a plan for getting you a horse,” you break the evening silence. “We got some open plains out to the east, chances are there’s a herd out there. Think that’s where the ranch we went to first got theirs from.” 

It’s not a surefire idea, but it’s better than what you’ve managed to try so far. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all. 

Shouto meets you readily the next morning, but you’re met with disappointment when you reach Duke’s stable. He’s slow to move, and refuses to take his morning treat. 

Perhaps you’ve been working the poor boy too hard. 

“He needs to rest,” you say. “But that don’t gotta stop us, if you wanna take the trip by foot. Lord knows I’ve kept you stuck here too long.” 

“I don’t mind the wait,” Shouto insists, “but the trip out with you would be pleasant.” 

Well, that’s all the encouragement you need. “We should be able to get there by the late afternoon. By the time we’ve found you a horse, that should just about give us the time we need to get back here.” 

If only it had been that simple. 

Another storm hits suddenly when you’re halfway down the trail, the heavens opening solely to hinder your progress. Rain pelts from above and wind rages, blowing into your eyes and battering your bodies. 

Thunder cracks overhead, an unholy sound that rends the sky. You’re fast soaking through, heavier clothes straining your muscles as you lift your arms to cover your head. 

“We need to find shelter,” you call across the cacophony of rain, “else we damn well might die out here.” 

Shouto’s eyes must be better than yours, because he points out the vague figure of a building far off in the distance and you bolt for it like a lifeline. 

As you draw closer, you almost stop in your tracks at what he’s managed to find. 

It’s a familiar old barnhouse, though in a state of disrepair completely unhelped by the pouring rain. 

You’ve been here in your youth, before it had been left abandoned at least. Your family had moved into town some years before Cole had come along, and until then you’d lived out here on the outskirts. With your very own ranch. It had been your father’s decision to abandon the place and move somewhere with more influence, somewhere ‘civilised’, once your younger brother was on his way. Which had left the house your mother, your sister and yourself grew up in to rot under the whims of time. 

You had almost forgotten that this was still out here. 

“We can hide out in here ‘til the storm passes,” you declare, taking Shouto by the hand on instinct as you guide him inside. 

The varnish is peeling from the wood, and the carpets have long since gathered such a thick layer of dust that the original colouring is utterly impossible to determine. You vaguely recall the warm creams and browns that had accented your childhood, and the chill of the storm starts to leave your bones. 

“Are you sure it’s safe to be here?” Shouto asks. 

“I promise,” you say. “Ain’t nothin’ to hurt us here.” 

You’re lucky, really, that the roof hasn’t caved in. Clearly it had been built to last, and it endeavours to remind you of such as the rain pounds against the outer walls. 

There’s an old broom left gathering webs in a corner. You take it to clear away the dust from a sizeable section of the living room, near to the fireplace. It doesn’t do much, but at least you feel relatively comfortable with the idea of having to settle there for the night now. 

As you turn back to check on Shouto, your jaw almost hits the ground. 

His shirt is hanging loose off one arm, chest entirely exposed. He has a fantastic build, you note, and it’s no wonder he’s proven so strong and so capable over these past few weeks. The sight makes you gulp hard to stay composed. 

“We’re wet,” he says, as if that magically explains it all. “A wet shirt could make us sick.” 

Shouto looks at you expectantly, and your gaze falls down to the buttons of your flannel. God, he wants you to strip, too? You’re not going to survive the night.

You oblige with hesitation, knowing his logic is sound. But there’s something so horribly vulnerable about exposing your chest like this, to him of all people. It feels like you’re bearing your very heart and soul to him in a way that has you fumbling over each button. 

“Better?” you ask, dropping your shirt to the floor. It hits the carpet with a dull thud. The sound echoes in your ears. 

“Does it feel better?” 

“I suppose.” 

“Good.” 

It’s strange, standing in your childhood living room with a man you’re definitely attracted to, both completely shirtless. You’re sure he can’t be viewing this from the same angle that you are, but a part of you has yet to hope. 

There’s no better time to test than now, you suppose. 

If he rejects you, so be it. The storm will pass and you’ll find him a horse and he’ll leave- and there will be no consequence. 

But if he accepts… 

…oh, you pray that he’ll accept. 

You take a tentative step towards him, and he doesn’t step away. In fact, his eyes haven’t left you since you removed your shirt. Almost as if he can’t find the strength to look away. 

“Listen,” you start carefully. “Stop me if I’m way off track here, but… we like each other, right?” 

“You said that we’re friends,” Shouto responds. 

“We are,” you assure. “I was just wonderin’ if you’d ever- “ the words lodge in your throat, and you swallow thickly to force them out- “considered anythin’ more.” 

“Like best friends?” 

“Ah.” You think of a better way to say what’s on your mind. “Like Delilah, and her girlfriend.” 

“You want me to… be your girlfriend?” 

“You have to be doin’ this on purpose,” you sigh, taking another step closer. He still doesn’t move, instead welcoming your advance. “Do I have to show you?” 

And then you catch it, the glimpse of mischief in his eyes, the quirk of a smile on his lips. This bastard has been playing you the whole time. 

“I think you should,” he says, with near-insufferable smoothness. 

You take it as a challenge, and feel a surge of confidence wash over you as you bridge the gap between you and take his face into your hands. He’s so beautiful this close, and part of you is dying to savour it. 

The louder, more insistent part of you, however, screams to devour him whole. 

Shouto’s mouth tastes like iron, with a vague hint of the breakfast you’d served up this morning. It’s a dizzying sensation, and you can’t help yourself from coming back to kiss him over and over every single time you draw to part.  

He’s nervous, breath hitching as your hands fall to his waist. Though his kisses never cease, lips meeting yours time and again. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he utters suddenly between breaths. “What if someone catches us?” 

“Ain’t nobody gonna know where we are in a storm like this,” you assure him, running your fingers through his hair. “‘Sides, sweet Lilah’s at the inn tonight and she’s mighty smart. She’ll keep people off our trail.” 

Your words seem to be enough to placate him for now. He’s more pliant, responsive to your touch as you nimbly work at his belt. 

A particularly large flash of lightning illuminates the room and you finally catch a good glimpse of the state he’s in. 

His cock is gorgeous, you think. Thin, but a fair length, with the slightest curve that entices you to wrap your hand around it and give a light squeeze. Shouto keens into your touch, hot breath fanning your neck. 

“That feel good?” you ask softly, stroking along his length. His hands come to your biceps and grip hard as his eyes fall shut and his head rolls back. Satisfaction bubbles in your gut and you simper with pride. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

A curse falls from his lips in a language you don’t understand, but it sounds beautiful from him. You coax him slowly to release, an almost teasing pace that keeps him whining for you like a symphony. When he cums for the first time, the way your name forms against his tongue damn near has you finishing in your pants right there with him. 

“Can I?” Shouto asks, shy in the way his fingers hook around the loops of your belt. 

It has to be the first time he's done something like this. He's clumsy as he works your buckle, and his hands seem to tremble as he pulls down your pants. You don't mind. In fact, there's something incredibly flattering about his eagerness to share this experience with you above all others. 

When the warmth of his hand envelops your cock, your body erupts into flames. The pace he sets is steady but slow, similar to your own, as if he's enacting revenge for your earlier torment. A proud smile plays on his lips and you indulge in the urge to kiss it away. 

He's still hard too, and you shift so you can guide his hand to stroke you both at the same time. Feeling his cock pressed up against your own is addictive, you think, and the coiled tightness in your gut spirals ever closer to release. 

The sight of your stomachs and his hand covered in a mix of both of your cum is enough to keep you hard, and instinctually you grind against him as you take his face into your hands to smother him in wet, open-mouth kisses. 

It doesn’t take long for you to climax a second time, this time with your body intwined tight with his, your hands since shifted to play with his hair and his sunk deep into the soft flesh of your waist. 

Your knees fold as the pleasure wracks through your body, finally crumpling you to the ground. Unceremoniously, you manage to drag Shouto down with you, until you’re half-sitting half-laying in a heap together on the floor. 

“You’re surprisingly needy,” Shouto observes. “I like it.” 

“I like you,” you confess in response, mind hazy in post-orgasmic afterglow. 

He lets out a mild chuckle, the sound of which would likely drive you wild if sleep wasn’t already fast encroaching upon you, and shuffles you both to a more comfortable position to rest. 

“We should get to sleep,” he says, placing a chaste kiss to your head. “Hopefully the storm will have passed by morning.” 

When morning comes, the storm has long since moved on. 

You take Shouto back out to the plains, and you search around for the perfect horse. After a few failed attempts, spooking the poor things away, Shouto catches the attention of an elegant young mare. Likely only a few years old, but well-built and friendly. She’s the one that walks up to him, taking the food he offers and letting him pet her. 

“She’s the one,” he says. “I’ll call her Kansei.” 

She saddles up with surprising ease, and though you’re hesitant to double-mount a fresh steed, you’ve little other choice if you want to make it home before nightfall. You’ve little reason to worry with how smoothly she adjusts, and you decide to give her some of Duke’s treats when you return as a way of thanking her.

There’s something bittersweet about the ride back to the inn. 

This time, you’re the one riding behind Shouto with your hands around his waist. You think briefly that you should have done this sooner. You know solemnly that this is likely to be one of the last times you ever will. 

Now that he’s got a horse again, he’s able to leave town; and it’s not like you have any right to try to ask him to stay. 

You’ve got a life to get back to, an inn to run. He has a brother to track down. It isn’t like you could even… be with him if he did stick around. Despite how much you might want to. 

As the prospective future head of your family, you are under a spotlight at all times. You’d been lucky enough to get the time alone with Shouto that you had so far. Once your father returns and finds out about your loss of the connection with the stables, you’ll be on such a short leash that you’ll lose every last inch of slack you’ve scraped and fought for over the years. 

You try not to think about it. Naturally, you manage to fail this task miserably. 

When you reach the inn, you’re immediately greeted by a frantic Delilah. 

“Sweetpea, we got trouble. Thirteen guests just showed up and we only got room for twelve.”

“You’ve let them know?” 

“Of course. They’re insistin’ we find ‘em the space.” 

“Right,” you say firmly. “I got this. Leave it to me.” 

Before you run back inside, you turn quickly back to Shouto. “Sorry to leave you so quickly. You know what it’s like.” 

“I do,” he nods. “I’ll see you later.” 

And you believe him, because why wouldn’t you? 

But there’s a burden that comes with falling for a man who is so incredibly quiet. When he thinks he’s overstayed his welcome, there’s nothing you can do to stop him from leaving. 

You return from your sudden embargo to a note at the front counter. Neat handwriting, with your name penned at the very top. 

I didn’t want to leave like this, but I figured it would be the best solution for your problem. That remaining guest can take the room I had. I’ve left it clean. 

Thank you for everything. I’ll write again soon. If you’ll forgive my sudden departure, I’d like to see you again soon.

Yours, 

Shouto.

Of course, despite it all he’s still thinking how best to be helpful. 

There’s no way you can be angry at him for it, despite the ache that builds in your chest and drops heavy into your gut. 

Shouto was always destined to move along. He’s a traveller with a purpose, a reason to remain on the roads. You were never more than a rest stop on that journey. 

You try to send him a letter in the days that follow. Something to let him know that everything is alright. But the ink comes out splotchy, and your hands don’t want to write the words. So, you give up. 

And one day, you find he’s reached out first. 

To whom it may concern, 

Recently, I passed through a large city and saw those carved boats that you mentioned Cole has wanted. The courier wouldn’t take more than my letter, but I have kept hold of it for him. I… don’t particularly know when I will be able to get it to him, but I thought I would tell you nevertheless. 

There has been little luck on my search for Touya, but I received correspondence from a friend of a friend further north who swears they saw a man matching his description several weeks ago. It should take three days to reach the town they mentioned, and I can only hope he’s remained there. If not, at least it points me closer to the right direction. 

It feels strange to travel alone. I know my conversational skills leave much to be desired, but the silence that I have been left with aches more than the pleasant quiet we used to share. 

Perhaps, when I have completed my mission, I can return to visit? Touya would like you, I think. It would be nice to see you make him laugh. 

Yours, 

Shouto

Shouto, 

You’ve made a nine-year-old boy very excited for his new boat. (That was real kind of you, thanks.) He’s been asking after you every day. You really made a strong impression on him. 

Sorry to hear the search is dragging out. If you need provisions, Delilah’s parent’s live up in a town up north too- maybe even the same one. She’s sent a letter to them already, they’re there for you if you need it. (Her idea, by the way. She misses you too.) I’ve clipped a map to the backside of this letter for you.

I know what you mean about the travel. Went to the market yesterday and even Duke seemed to miss having that extra weight around. Hope Kansei is adjusting well to you, though. She’s a good horse, strong and smart. 

There’s always room for you at the inn. Touya too. I hope we can meet soon. 

Yours always

You place the pen back in the inkpot and hold the parchment up to air-dry. A few of the letters have smudged as you’ve written them, but it’s legible at least. 

It fits neatly into its envelope, and you seal it with some wax from the candle you’ve been burning to write by. Rudimentary, sure, but it works. You’ll take it to the post office in the morning, you decide, and place it neatly on the edge of your desk. 

A few months have passed since Shouto first left. Though he’d only been around for a handful of weeks, you can’t ignore the void that seems to be left in his absence. That’s just the sort of man he is, you suppose. Enigmatic, in his own way. 

You’ve fallen back into your familiar old routine. Wake up early, kiss your wife good morning, work the inn, go to sleep. But now, something has changed. 

This time, the promise of adventure lingers just beyond the horizon.