Chapter Text
the weather’s cold, the sort of cold that creeps up your sleeves and makes your eyes water, and you’re slumped against the little table in the apartment kitchen, fiddling with a mug. you can hear the kettle boiling, the sound of traffic in the street, the distant thump of someone dropping weights upstairs. shoto’s by the window, looking at his phone trying to decipher his wordle of the day. he glances at you, then back to the window, then back at you—he’s never been good at pretending he’s not interested in what you’re doing, especially when you’re in one of your moods.
“are you going to drink that?” he asks, voice as gentle as the steam billowing from the kettle, and you shrug, pushing the mug away, watching it spin in a lazy half-circle. it bumps the bracelet box, the one you somehow never got rid of—some ritualistic relic now, a paperweight for love’s lost and found.
shoto crosses the kitchen, socks nearly slipping on the floor, and sits down next to you, all neat and careful, his hair as ridiculous and perfect as the day you met him. “you’re thinking about that day again,” he says. not a question. he always knows.
you groan, dropping your head to the table. “why did i just hand you a random jewelry box and run away. who does that? you must’ve thought i was out of my mind.”
he hums, tilting his head, that little smile of his threatening to break. “i thought it was some sort of secret club invitation or a love profession.”
you snort, hiding your face in your arms. “and yet, five months of silence later, you actually asked me out—of course in like our way... you waited longer than most people serve in jail for petty theft.”
he leans over, nudging your shoulder with his. “i was… thinking about it. i was waiting for the right time.” shoto’s ‘right time’ is the lunar eclipse, the first snow of the year, a sale on strawberries at the market. a rare occurrence, almost mythic, but worth waiting for.
he dangles it in front of you, grasping it clumsy with one hand but determined. “i like it,” he says, turning his wrist this way and that so it catches the light. “i like that you gave it to me before i even knew your name.”
you roll your eyes, but there’s a flush on your cheeks you can’t quite hide. “you’re such a sap.”
he grins, the kind that always starts in his eyes, soft and wide, and suddenly the room feels a little less cold. “well, you did start it.”
he catches your hand, thumb tracing slow circles against your knuckles, and the rest of the world fades, his lips press soft against your temple, his voice is low as he murmurs, “your new shampoo smells nice.” you barely catch it, and the compliment lands. “thank you,” you mumble, almost shy. you never get used to how natural this feels, the way his affection sneaks up on you in the middle of a tuesday morning.
you tilt your head back, watching him pour two mugs of tea, the steam rising like tiny ghosts. “how’s work?” you ask, nudging his leg with your toe under the table.
he sits, sets your mug in front of you. “it feels good to be out there again,” he says, a rare glint in his eyes, the kind that only comes from a day spent chasing purpose, all fire and frost and the pride he carries so quietly. “i missed it.”
you nod, understanding exactly what he means, because it’s how you feel when you step back from a patient, exhausted but alive. “mine’s exhausting,” you admit, rubbing your eyes, “but… i love it. you know i do. even when i want to set my desk on fire.”
he smiles, soft, and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering, “then it’s worth it.”
you sit in comfortable silence, sipping tea, until shoto taps his mug and clears his throat in that awkward way he does when he’s about to bring up something important but has zero clue how to do it without sounding like he’s announcing the start of the olympics.
“so… uh, my friends want to do a meet up. they said we should come. it’s this weekend. i think they just want to see if you’re real and not something i made up.”
you laugh, nearly spilling your tea. “should i be worried? am i about to be interrogated by the hero league’s social committee?”
he leans closer, bumping his nose against your cheek, “probably. but i’ll protect you.” his words are teasing, but there’s a real thread of comfort there, a promise woven in between the lightheartedness.
your hands smack the table in a burst of excitement and the mug rattles, nearly toppling, but you catch it at the last second. “yes please!” you say, maybe a bit too loud, but you’re beaming and there’s no one here to judge you except shoto, who thinks the sun rises and sets just to light up your smile.
there’s this secret you both keep, heavy and precious—your relationship, tucked away from the spotlight. most days, you like it that way. you’re not a pro hero, you’re not famous, and you definitely don’t have the energy to argue with rabid fangirls who would probably riot if they saw you holding his hand on the street. it’s always been about safety first, but it’s also about preserving something that’s yours, untouched and undisturbed.
he’s got his arm around your waist before you can blink, drawing you close until you’re both squished against the back of your chair. he buries his face in your neck, nuzzling at the spot just below your ear, his breath sending a shiver up your spine. “shoto—what’s the matter?” you ask, trying to sound exasperated, but the laughter bubbling in your chest gives you away.
he doesn’t answer, not really. he just mumbles something unintelligible against your skin, kisses your neck, your jaw, then your collarbone—so soft and slow it’s almost lazy. his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, tracing circles at the small of your back, thumb brushing the edge of your waistband. it’s not even scandalous, just possessive in the way only he can manage—protective, loving, his whole world funneled into the curve of his palm.
you giggle, squirming a little, but you don’t pull away. “you’re such a baby,” you tease, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he just sighs, a deep, content sound, like he could live right here forever.
he finally pulls back enough to meet your eyes, and there’s that softness in him that nobody else gets to see. “i just… missed you,” he whispers, even though you’ve been together all morning, like every second is one he’s desperate to keep.
you keep your arms wrapped around him, chin tucked over his shoulder, the soft fabric of his shirt warming beneath your palms. his cologne lingers, just sharp enough to remind you of those rare, expensive nights out—something clean and woodsy, but there’s always a little hint of smoke beneath it, like the echo of his quirk refuses to be left behind.
his hair is damp at the tips, sticking a little to your cheek where it brushes you, still cooling from his shower. he’s dressed like he always is at home: basketball shorts, that battered black compression shirt with the slightly stretched neckline, looking so entirely unlike a top-ten hero that you have to bite back a grin. you both ended up grabbing the same silly striped socks this morning, and every time your feet bump under the table, it makes you want to laugh all over again.
you lean your head into the crook of his neck, letting your eyes flutter shut, just listening. shoto’s breathing is slow, steady, almost meditative. he keeps pressing gentle kisses along your jaw, down your neck, his hands drawing patterns over your back. he always does this after long days—melts into you, no words needed, just touch and presence, unwinding in the hush that’s only yours.
sometimes he’ll murmur something under his breath, little apologies for getting home late or thank-yous for putting dinner in the microwave. but most nights, it’s just this: the two of you tangled up together, his thumb tracing slow circles at your waist, your heart matching his rhythm, the exhaustion bleeding away as he lets himself just be, safe and real and so achingly tender, only for you.
you breathe him in, let the quiet settle over the kitchen like a blanket. the outside world is still there, just beyond the thin apartment walls, but right now, it’s nothing more than white noise—background static to the soft hum of two lives pressed close, perfectly matched, a little ridiculous, a lot in love. your laughter comes out light you mumble, “you’re so sweet,” voice half muffled against his neck.
before you can finish the thought, his hand slides lower, bold in that sneaky way only he manages, and gives your ass a firm squeeze. it’s gentle but just cheeky enough to make you squeal, the sound bubbling out of you before you can even think to stop it.
shoto smirks, barely lifting his head, and in that low, velvet-soft voice, he mutters, “you’re too kind.” like it’s some private joke the two of you share, a secret language woven between the spaces of all your late nights and lazy mornings.
he presses a kiss to your jaw, lingering, then nuzzles your cheek, his hand not moving an inch. you swat at his arm playfully but don’t really want him to let go.
as he finally pulls back, his gaze lingers on you—quiet, unwavering, that peculiar todoroki brand of attention that makes your heart flutter and your skin prickle with goosebumps. he takes you in like the way the morning light lands across your cheeks, the way your hair’s all mussed from his touch. it’s that kind of look that makes you squirm, that says more than he’d ever dare out loud in front of anyone else.
then he drops it, plain as can be, not even a hint of a smile tugging at his lips—“you’re so beautiful, you know that?” he says, his tone as dry as ever, but his eyes are impossibly soft. you choke out a laugh, shoulders bunching, heat flaring up your neck.
you wave a hand at him, flustered, half hiding your face. “oh my god, shoto, you can’t just say that with such a straight face! you’re so sweet.” you place a hand on your red cheeks and look away, huffing a small laugh.
he blinks, completely unbothered, as if he’s genuinely confused why this would be funny. “i’m just being honest,” he says, as though it’s the most logical thing in the world, and the corners of his mouth twitch just the slightest bit—he knows what he’s doing, and he’s proud of himself for it, the little menace.
your laughter rolls between you, soft and bright, filling up the tiny kitchen. he leans in, plants another kiss on your forehead. his hand finds its way to the back of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair with that steady, tender pressure that always leaves you weak in the knees. he pulls you toward him, eyes flickering down to your lips before he ducks in, brushing his mouth along your jaw in a trail of gentle, barely-there kisses.
“you’re really… just, ridiculously cute,” he mumbles, lips skimming your skin, the words almost lost in the space between breaths. he’s got that wild look in his eye now, the kind he gets when he’s overtaken by cuteness aggression like he can’t decide if he wants to squeeze you or just keep kissing you until the world runs out of mornings.
you can’t help it, you giggle, trying to twist away, but he’s relentless, dotting kisses from your jaw to your cheek, nose bumping yours, his arms wrapping you up even tighter. every time you laugh, he kisses you harder, until you’re both half tangled in each other and the kitchen chairs nearly go toppling.
he pulls back, barely, just enough to look at you, his cheeks a little flushed. “i love you,” he blurts, suddenly, out of nowhere, and it’s so honest, so raw, it knocks the wind out of you for a second.
your hands find his shoulders, fingers curling in the soft fabric, your smile so wide your cheeks ache. “i love you too, ya big lug,” you say, still a little breathless, and he grins back, the rare, real one that’s only yours.
somewhere outside, a car alarm goes off, a dog barks, the city stretches awake—but in here, you’re safe, you’re held, and shoto is kissing you like he’s just remembered how lucky he is that out of everyone in this enormous, loud world, he gets to have you.
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few days later
the car smells like lemon-scented air freshener and old hero gloves, and shoto is sitting behind the wheel, staring blankly at the group chat on his phone like it’s a bomb he’s being forced to defuse. he grimaces at his own reflection in the rearview mirror, fixing a strand of hair that’s somehow both too white and too red for this world, then sighs so hard the windows fog up a little. he loves his friends, truly. would probably let them crash on his couch, eat his snacks, maybe even borrow his favorite shirt if they were really in dire straits. but in this moment? he would sell every single one of them for an extra hour of bed-rotting with you.
he scrolls up in your texts, all hearts and thumbs-up and one very tragic selfie you sent him of your work badge hanging off your tired face, captioned; the city needs me. im sorry that your emotional support gf isn’t there.
shoto types; you hate me and my friends. confirmed. then, before he can think better of it, he follows with: you’d rather save lives than hang out with us.
midoriya sends seventeen rapid-fire texts about how excited he is for tonight, how he can’t wait to see everyone, how he made homemade cookies, how he’s bringing them to share, how he hopes everyone likes them, bakugo responds with, shut up, nerd, and then, ominously, don’t bring any of that green stuff again. he slumps over the steering wheel, texting you again: actually… i could just say im sick.. my only comfort in this cruel world is knowing i have matching pajamas with you.
he scrolls up again. your last text: kick bakugo for me. twice. on the shin. xoxo
he cracks a smile, drags himself out of the car, and heads for the door, already planning his next excuse to duck out early. in his head, he’s picturing you at home, probably already in pajamas, curled up with a cup of tea and that blanket you keep stealing from his side of the bed. maybe, if he’s quick, he can sneak back before you fall asleep, pretend the hero world is just a place he visits for the paycheck, and real life is the sound of your laugh echoing in the kitchen and the way you always, always leave the hall light on for him.
well,
it’s only been fifteen minutes and shoto’s already realized he might’ve been a little dramatic in the car, sulking like a man whose true love had been stolen by—well, by u.a alumni’s, honestly. seeing everyone in person, all talking over each other, izuku accidentally elbowing uraraka in the chest (they both turn beet red and try to pretend they haven’t been holding hands under the table), bakugo already complaining about the snacks, it actually feels… pretty nice. comforting, like wearing an old sweater that smells like safety and a little bit like satos cakes.
except, of course, that he’s been stood up. by you. the love of his life, the reason he put on his nice shirt and actually tied his tie the right way, just for you. now the only one paying any real attention is iida, who beams so proudly you’d think shoto just invented the concept of nice clothing.
“todoroki!” iida booms, eyes shining behind his glasses. “splendid choice of tie! a fine knot, and very suitable for your complexion. may i ask where you acquired it?”
shoto clears his throat, fighting the urge to text you: ‘iida likes my tie, please marry me before he does.’
he looks over, catches izuku and uraraka’s hands twined together under the table. he blinks, tilts his head like a confused puppy. “so. when did that happen?” he deadpans, and everyone stares at their food for a second like it might answer.
then, from across the table, mineta pipes up, nearly bouncing out of his chair. “see! i told you! they’re real! unlike todoroki, whose so-called girlfriend is still hiding in the shadows! what’s next, todoroki, she lives in canada? only comes out at night? she’s a cryptid?”
the table explodes into laughter. bakugo rolls his eyes and mutters, “bet she’s imaginary, just like his social skills.”
shoto’s face doesn’t even twitch, but his phone is already halfway out of his pocket. he texts you, they’re bullying me. mineta thinks you’re a government cryptid. iida’s in love with my tie. help.
he glances up, catches iida still admiring his tie with a kind of wholesome yearning. he sighs, already planning to steal a cookie and escape as soon as humanly possible—preferably before mineta tries to verify the existence of you.
—
the fluorescent lights of the emergency department flicker overhead, doing nothing for your mood except making your exhaustion look twice as dramatic in the reflection of the break room window. you’re clutching the iced latte shoto sent you off with—he shoved it into your hands with that look, the one that says he’s suffering in silence, the world’s most beautiful kicked puppy.
as you clock in, your friend leans over, her eyebrows already arched high. “rough night?” she asks, eyes flicking from your face to the cup in your hand. you’re already sagging against the monitor, ready to melt right into the floor.
you groan, thumping your head back. “i was supposed to meet my boyfriend’s friends tonight,” you whine, voice pitched low so no one eavesdrops. “finally. after, like, years. and i got called in. again. by that evil gremlin—” you jerk your head in the direction of your supervisor’s office, “—who hasn’t moved from her desk since the feudal era.”
your friend snorts. “tragic. you gonna at least eat some of the free pizza in the breakroom, or do you wanna keep suffering on an empty stomach too?”
you open your mouth to answer, but your phone buzzes with a text. it’s shoto. you already know from the way your heart skips that it’s him.
they say hi. i miss you. mineta’s convinced you’re fake. iida keeps asking about you. i hope your coffee’s still cold… love you.
you sigh, feel your entire chest deflate with the weight of how much you want to go home, crawl into bed, and listen to him complain about mineta in person. you pull your mask up, scrubs perfectly wrinkled, hair barely wrangled into a ponytail, and snap a quick photo: you, coffee in hand, mask hiding the worst of your despair, eyes wide and pitiful.
outside, sirens wail, the automatic doors slide open and closed, and you steel yourself for the rush—just another night, another round of chaos, but at least you’ve got shoto’s ridiculous texts to keep you tethered.
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shoto barely cracks a smile as he flips his phone around, holding out the picture of you in your scrubs and mask for mineta to see—he doesn’t say anything, just lets the evidence speak for itself. mineta squints, leans in like he’s searching for the hidden watermark, and scoffs. “nice try, todoroki! you found that on the internet, didn’t you? probably searched ‘cute doctor girlfriend aesthetic’ or something. you can’t fool me.”
bakugo chokes on his drink and mutters, “she’s real, all right, she just doesn’t want to hang out with you.”
iida immediately begins analyzing the hospital ID badge in the corner of the photo, squinting through his glasses, probably about to launch into a diatribe about privacy and digital safety.
shoto just shrugs, his expression cool as ever, already sliding the phone back into his pocket. “well, okay,” he says, unbothered, reaching for another one of izuku’s cookies. “you’re welcome to believe whatever you want.”
izuku gives him a supportive nod, drinking his water, and ochaco is trying not to laugh behind her hand. shoto turns his attention to their conversation, every so often glancing at his phone, where your message still sits, glowing at the top of his notifications.
in the corner, mineta is grumbling something about deepfakes, but the rest of the group’s already moved on, discussing which pro hero agency has the best staff lounge snacks. shoto’s just quietly proud, knowing that you’re out there—braving emergencies, making faces behind your mask.
izuku, ever the golden retriever in human form, perks up as soon as the laughter dies down. “so, uh, todoroki, how long have you been together?” he asks, almost shy, like he’s expecting the answer to be “a few months” or maybe “oh, we just started dating.”
shoto, who’s in the middle of deciding whether to go for another cookie or another handful of chips: “we’re actually celebrating our four year anniversary soon.”
the table goes silent. necks crane. forks freeze mid-air. bakugo’s jaw drops, cookie halfway to his mouth. iida’s glasses practically fog up. then, in a beautifully synchronized outburst, everyone shouts, “YOU’VE HAD A GIRLFRIEND FOR FOUR YEARS AND DIDN’T TELL US?!”
shoto just blinks, unimpressed. “but you don’t even believe me when i had said it thirty seconds ago,” he deadpans, his face as flat as a cutting board, sipping his drink with all the nonchalance of a man who has not just blown their collective minds.
ochaco’s staring at him in disbelief, mineta is close to losing it, and izuku looks both amazed and a tiny bit betrayed, like someone just told him all might was actually two raccoons in a trench coat.
shoto just shrugs, “you never asked.” bakugo snorts, already muttering under his breath, “guy’s got more secrets than AFO has quirks.”
and somehow, now they all believe him—mostly because nobody could keep a straight face for that long if they were lying, and also, because who else but shoto would think a four-year relationship was just background noise?
everyone else at that table could think you were some mythical girlfriend from a parallel universe, but to him?
you were the sun that graces his eyelids, the moon he measured his nights by, the quiet tug of the stars pulling him home.
you were the penelope to his odysseus, except he would cross seas faster, burn boats if he had to, swim continents if it meant getting back to you. shoto todoroki, who barely knew how to smile in public, had entire folders on his phone labeled with your name. every selfie you ever took, every blurry picture, every accidental voice note of you humming in the car—archived, backed up, cherished like national treasures.
if he ever woke up with a quirk that let him terraform the earth, japan would become a shrine dedicated to you. he’d carve your name into mountains, redirect rivers so they spelled out confessions only you’d recognize, plant entire forests shaped like your initials. dramatic? absolutely. beneath the stoic? always.
but it didn’t start with poetry. it started five years ago.
the day was gray with rain. shoto was walking down the steps of a university he wasn’t even attending, hoodie on, hair a mess, visiting a friend who kept skipping lectures anyway. he was minding his business, thinking about nothing in particular, until you came barreling around the corner.
you—hoodie pulled up, scrubs peeking out, eyes tired, cheeks flushed from either crying or running or both. you marched right up to him like fate shoved you forward and shoved a box into his hands.
“take this please,” you mumbled, voice cracking, words spilling out like they were too heavy to hold. before he could ask a single question—before he could even blink—you were gone. sprinting away. disappearing into a crowd of students.
he opened the box on the steps. inside sat a ridiculously nice chain bracelet—expensive, clearly meant for someone who mattered. the lid had a tiny embossed note: i love you so much.
shoto stared at it for a long time, thumb brushing the metal, wondering what kind of whirlwind of emotions you were lost in. wondering why it made his chest feel oddly warm. wondering why your face stuck with him long after.
and because he was shoto—earnest, unaware of normal social cues, painfully straightforward—he decided this was an… attempt to court him!
he came back to campus the next day. and the next. and the next few weeks, just to see if he could return your gesture properly. maybe ask your name this time. maybe ask why you looked so sad. but fate kept playing dodgeball with him. he stopped after a while, convincing himself he’d imagined the whole thing.
five months pass.
he comes back on a whim, stepping into the same hallway—and there you are. hoodie up again, balancing coffee and textbooks, hair a little frizzy, eyes a little brighter. you bump into him again and go, “oh, sorry,” because you don’t even remember him.
so he says, out loud, with no preamble whatsoever:
“i accept.”
you blink. “haha… dude, accept what?”
he pulls the box from his bag—yes, he carried it with him for months, like a talisman—and opens it in front of you. the bracelet gleams in the fluorescent lighting, the little i love you so much tag sitting like a confession in his palm.
you stare. hard.
in that one second your brain does cartwheels.
am i falling in love at this man’s gesture or am i delulu?
meanwhile shoto stands there patiently, looking at you like he’s already made his choice.
and from that moment on—well… the rest is four years of soft mornings, hidden kisses, and a love so steady it could knock the earth off its axis, all because you handed a stranger a bracelet and ran for your life.
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one rainy night, movie playing in the background, you’re curled up with shoto on the couch—feet tangled, popcorn bowl wedged dangerously between you two, the world outside soft and distant. he’s got the bracelet on, always does, flicking it back and forth absentmindedly as the main character gets into some melodramatic romcom trouble onscreen.
you giggle sheepishly, half-hiding your face behind a pillow. “hey, you know that bracelet i gave you?”
he glances down, dangles it in front of your nose, the chain catching the glow of the tv. “this one?” he asks, with a little smile.
you nod, taking a breath, deciding to just rip the band-aid off. “i, uh, actually saved up for a long time, working part time, to get that for my ex-boyfriend.” you swallow, cheeks burning. “i found out he was cheating on me at a party… so i never got to give it to him. then i just—well, i gave it to you.”
he pauses the movie, turns toward you fully, the bracelet still swinging between his fingers. you let out a listless sigh, “they uh— didn’t take refunds… so i was kinda stuck with it.”
“i couldn’t bear to look at it— so i gave it to the first person i made eye contact with…” you poke your fingers into his chest, giving him another laugh, “then i had to go away for a couple months for my semester abroad…and i didn’t even get to enjoy it as much because i bought a stupid bracelet for a guy who didn’t even love me! so i couldn’t buy stuff i wanted!” you playfully pout but soon dies down to a resigned sigh.
that explains why he hadn’t seen you since that day then. for a second, his eyes flash—a quick, dark little fire that disappears as quick as it came. you look away, embarrassed, but before you can say anything else, his hand finds yours, fingers warm and sure.
“you don’t ever have to worry about that again,” he says, voice quiet but so steady you feel it in your bones.
your brows knit, still a little unsure. “what do you mean?”
his thumb traces slow circles over your knuckles, and he leans closer, his hair falling over his eyes. “i’ll take care of you from now on. so you can chase your dream without any burden. you deserve that.”
your eyes go wide, a tiny, disbelieving laugh caught in your throat, and suddenly you feel lighter—like someone just unlocked all the windows in your soul. his gaze is so open, so genuine, it makes your chest ache in the best way.
you lean your head on his shoulder, your voice all soft and sparkly. “you mean it?”
he just nods, turning your hand over and pressing a kiss to your wrist, the bracelet cool and reassuring between you. and outside, the rain keeps tapping against the windows, but you swear the world feels warmer, hope blooming slow and steady, happiness shining in your eyes like you never thought it could again.
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lol
so of course, after that conversation, shoto’s whole brain short-circuits for a bit.
that bracelet? the one he’d worn like some knightly vow, cherished and guarded like a national treasure—well, the next morning, it’s nowhere to be found.
you’re brushing your teeth, humming to yourself, when you peek out of the bathroom and spot him rifling through his drawers, a suspiciously blank look on his face. the bracelet is missing from his wrist.
“shoto, where’s your bracelet?” you ask, still half foamy and adorable.
he doesn’t look at you, just grumbles, “must’ve misplaced it,” as if he hasn’t worn it every single day since you gave it to him.
the truth is, he saw it in a whole new light after that movie night. no way is he wearing a hand-me-down from your cheating ex—he’s got pride! but mostly he’s got you, and now he wants something that’s only yours and his.
the next weekend, he drags you out, doesn’t even bother pretending it’s for groceries or new socks. “let’s go,” he says, grabbing your hand, “i have an idea.”
before you know it, you’re in the jewelry shop downtown, that little place with the sparkly glass counters and the faint smell of vanilla candles. shoto is dead serious, eyes scanning every bracelet, anklet, and charm in the display like he’s looking for the holy grail.
“we’re getting new ones,” he says, matter-of-fact, already picking out a set. “matching. for us.”
you try to tease him, poking at his side, “what if i want something with a dinosaur charm?”
he doesn’t blink, just shrugs, “then we’ll get dinosaurs.”
fifteen minutes later, you both leave with shiny new bracelets—yours with a little flame, his with a little heart, a private joke tucked between the links. you slip yours on right there in the shop, and he does the same, holding his wrist up next to yours with this smug, satisfied look.
“these are better,” he declares, grinning for real now. “they’re ours.”
and from that day on, you never catch him without it—your wrists always matching, a secret promise, one that started with a little heartbreak and turned into something stubborn, dazzling, and utterly, perfectly yours.
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your pager goes off mid-yawn, and you nearly drop your iced coffee on your own foot. it’s your supervisor—gremlin queen of the fluorescent-lit jungle. you brace yourself for disaster, but her voice cracks through, unexpectedly chipper: “hey, you’re off early. found someone to cover the rest of your shift.”
you don’t even hesitate, don’t try to act polite, just blurt, “hell yes!” loud enough that half the night staff turns around.
your best friend, who’s already pulling her hair tie out and plotting her escape, looks at you with raised brows. “what’s got you in a good mood?”
“i’m out early!” you say, scrambling for your phone. “can you drop me off at a restaurant? i need the address from my boyfriend. it’s… complicated.”
she grins, “it always is.”
you shoot shoto a quick text: babe, miracle—i’m out early. can you send me the address?
he responds within seconds—maybe he was just staring at his phone, maybe he’s got the notification sound set just for you.
fantastic. here you go.
he pastes the address, adds a i’ll meet you outside, and then another: hurry. mineta’s trying to ask me about kissing technique. save me.
you show the address to your friend, who whistles, “fancy place. you two got a secret billionaire life you’re hiding from me?”
“if we did, do you think i’d still be at work?” you shoot back.
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shoto is sitting at the table, half-listening to bakugo and kirishima bicker over appetizers, when your text comes in. his phone buzzes and he glances down, the tiniest hint of a smile pulling at his lips. he nudges izuku, who’s the only one still nodding along to his “i really do have a girlfriend, guys” speech.
“she’s coming,” shoto says quietly, almost as if he’s afraid if he says it too loud, you’ll vanish into the ether. “i’m gonna go grab her.”
izuku’s eyes light up, practically glowing with excitement and righteous best-friend energy. “really? that’s awesome, todoroki! should i tell everyone?” he’s already half out of his chair.
shoto just nods, standing up and smoothing his shirt, grabbing his jacket. but izuku, sweet little rumor-mill that he is, blurts, “guys, shoto’s girlfriend is coming. he’s going outside to get her!” and the energy in the room spikes.
mineta stands up so fast he nearly knocks over a water pitcher. “no way. if he comes back alone, i’m never believing a single word he says ever again.”
iida is immediately straightening the cutlery and napkins at the table, “we must present ourselves properly!”
ochaco and tsuyu exchange bets on whether you’ll actually show or if shoto will just come back with a stray cat in his arms and call it even. there’s a sense of suspense so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. even the waiter pauses to see if this mysterious girlfriend is real, or if shoto’s about to walk back in and claim you “had to leave for urgent, top-secret, medical reasons."
outside, shoto texts you one more time—i’m right outside. can’t wait to see you.
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he opens the door for you, gaze dipping down and up in a blink—yeah, he always did have a thing for you in those ridiculous baggy pants, the way the pockets bulge with pens and snacks and that one weird keychain. there’s a little tingle that travels up his spine, the kind he files away for later, when you’re both alone and he can tell you all the ways you drive him crazy.
he greets you with a soft kiss to your forehead, the gentlest press, careful not to mess up your hair any further. “how was your shift?” he asks, genuine, voice low and soft as always. you’re already talking before he finishes, words spilling out in a breathless, animated ramble about cranky patients, spilled coffee, your friend’s epic breakroom meltdown, and how your supervisor nearly ruined your life before miraculously letting you off early.
he listens, nodding, smiling at all the right parts, opening the next door so you can step into the warm light of the restaurant. you barely notice the way his thumb traces circles on your lower back as you walk in, too busy recounting your day in dramatic detail—complete with hand motions, exaggerated sound effects, and a full reenactment of how you almost tripped on the iv stand.
inside, the air is thick with anticipation. the table full of pro heroes, all craning their necks, jaws dropping as shoto ushers you in, his hand never leaving you. and you? you just keep yapping, too thrilled to notice the sea of wide eyes and slack jaws, not realizing you’ve just single-handedly broken the shoto todoroki does not have a girlfriend myth.
shoto, unfazed by the mounting circus, keeps his hand at your back, calm as can be. he looks over the crowd, deadpan but with that quiet pride lighting his eyes, and announces, “everyone, this is my girlfriend—”
he says your name, slow and clear, like it’s something he wants the world to remember.
a hush falls, then mineta absolutely loses it. “no way! he got a girlfriend and she’s hot and a nurse?!” mineta’s wailing now, clutching his napkin like a lifeline. “that’s it, i’m retiring! i’ve seen everything—someone hold me!”
ochaco’s hiding a smile behind her hand, izuku is beaming so hard you’re worried his face might crack, kirishima’s already congratulating shoto with a thumb’s up, and bakugo just rolls his eyes and mutters, “figures. leave it to icyhot to overachieve at everything.”
iida, meanwhile, is standing up so fast his chair screeches, ready to shake your hand and welcome you to “the friend group,” as if it’s some secret society you’ve just unlocked. you can feel your cheeks heating up, but shoto squeezes your waist, keeping you anchored.
he’s nonchalant, but his thumb rubs slow, reassuring circles on your side, the proudest man in the room. “see? i told you,” he says to no one in particular, but mostly to you, like this moment—this official, hearts-on-the-table introduction—was worth the wait.
it’s chaos the second you sit down. you barely get your coat off before questions start flying across the table, everyone talking over each other, eyes sparkling with curiosity like you’re a rare cryptid finally spotted in the wild.
“what’s your favorite color?” ochaco asks, leaning in, eyes bright.
“favorite food!” izuku chimes in, notebook halfway out because of course he wants to write this down for ‘research purposes.’
kirishima grins, “how’d you guys meet? did you confess first or was it todoroki?”
iida is already halfway through, “do you enjoy your profession? it must be rewarding to save lives every day, truly exemplary—”
but then, mineta, ever the menace, pipes up, “what’s shoto like in private? and, uh, what’s he like in private?” he waggles his brows, and bakugo nearly flings a breadstick at his head.
your brain is spinning, and for a second you just sit there, blinking, wondering if this is some secret hero interrogation technique. you laugh, a little breathless, and try to answer the easy ones first—you met in college, and yes, he actually does talk when he’s comfortable (even if he sounds like he’s reciting the morning news).
“he’s sweet,” you say, smiling at shoto, who’s sitting beside you looking like this is the best day of his life. “he’s… well, honestly, he’s quieter at home. but really thoughtful.”
you grin, feeling your exhaustion melt just a little at the sound of everyone’s laughter. “and … in private—” you start, but bakugo barks, “don’t answer that! nobody wants to know about icyhot’s bedroom voice!”
the whole table dissolves into giggles and fake protests, someone shoves another plate of appetizers your way, and suddenly you’re just another friend at the table, swept up in the wild, messy, wonderful energy. you lean into shoto, whispering thanks, and he just smiles, proud and quiet, finally getting to show off the person who means more to him than any hero title ever could.
-
the night stretches longer than you expect, laughter and questions blending with good food and a hundred little jokes you’ll remember later. you and shoto linger after the others have filtered out, waving and hugging, promises to meet again echoing in the doorway.
outside, the city’s cooled off, the air smells faintly of rain and traffic, and you and shoto walk hand in hand beneath the restaurant’s twinkling lights. you’re beaming, cheeks rosy, fingers laced with his, the memory of everyone’s warmth still buzzing under your skin.
“that juice was so delicious,” you announce, nearly bouncing on your toes, your words just a little wobbly. there’s a foam of happiness in your voice, unfiltered and bright.
shoto glances down at you, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “yeah? you had like five of those…”
he pauses, unlocking the car, steadying you as you try to get in—his hands gentle, patient. “they all had alcohol, my love.”
you hiccup, swaying a bit as you plop into the passenger seat, fumbling with the seatbelt. “nuhuh,” you protest, dragging out the word. “it was juice. it tasted like a fruit salad. a really good one.”
he can’t help himself, leans down to buckle your seatbelt for you, lips brushing your temple as he clicks it into place. “it was a cocktail, sweetheart. five cocktails.”
you just blink, grin wide, “you’re a cocktail,” you say, very serious, like you’ve cracked some great mystery.
shoto chuckles, smoothing your hair back, the sound low and fond, “if you say so.”
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you barely make it through the door before your crocs go flying—one lands by the entryway, the other somewhere under the coffee table, and you’re already giggling, swaying a little as you toe them off. the apartment smells like home, soft and safe and tinged with that faint, clean cologne shoto likes best.
you stagger ahead, wriggling out of your jacket, and shoto lingers in the doorway for a second, just watching you—like he’s trying to commit every bounce and sway to memory. he has every reason in the world to behave, to play it cool, but tonight? it’s just not happening.
he follows, eyes glued to the way your scrubs hug your hips, the loose waistband doing nothing to hide the fact that, yeah, he’s hopeless for you—every curve, every soft spot, every little jiggle that has his brain stalling out entirely. he’s no better than any man (he is a man), but he’s got a one-track mind and a criminally attractive girlfriend making it ten times harder to focus.
the closer he gets, the more he debates with himself—shouldn’t, shouldn’t, definitely shouldn’t… but the way your scrubs ride up as you bend to pick up your bag, the way you look over your shoulder with that tipsy, dazzling grin? it’s too much. usually, he tries to play it smooth, wait for you to make the first move, but tonight, patience is slowly leaving the building.
he comes up behind you, hands sliding to your waist, grip firm but careful. you squeal, surprised, but your laughter only eggs him on. he tugs you back against him, head dipping to your shoulder, lips trailing the barest of kisses up your neck.
“you’re extra cute tonight,” he murmurs, voice low and a little rough, “you have no idea what you do to me.”
he lets his hands drift down, finally giving in and grabbing a handful. your legs part for him almost instinctively, the feel of his fingers brushing the inside of your thigh making your skin spark. his touch is slow, patient, never rushed—a gentle contrast to the heat that’s starting to pool in your stomach. the pads of his fingers ghost over the fabric between your legs, barely teasing, making you whimper and mumble, “i’m sensitive, shoto…”
he doesn’t miss a beat, his breath tickling your ear as he murmurs, “that’s perfect for what i’ve got planned then.” the promise in his voice is enough to make you shiver, equal parts thrill and anticipation curling through you.
his other hand drifts up, cupping your breast, thumb rubbing slow circles over the fabric, and the soft groan that escapes you only makes him smile, all smug and quiet. he’s got you pinned, your back flush against his chest, the pressure of his body a reminder that there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. his lips claim yours—hungry, coaxing, stealing every little gasp you give him.
you press your ass back against him, the heat and want between you simmering to a slow boil. there’s something playful and needy in the way you move, drunk off the night and the five “juices” that definitely weren’t tequila sunrises. he moves with you, gentle but unyielding, the way he always is—his touch, his mouth, his words, all deliberate, all meant for you.
he makes love to you every day, tender and soft, always making sure you’re cherished. but sometimes, when the world feels too heavy and the night is thick with unsaid things, you wonder what it would be like if he let go completely, if he pressed you down and just took what he wanted—if that sharp glint in his eyes meant more than slow, measured patience.
you feel that curiosity now, the ache of it in your bones, as you groan into his mouth and press closer, silently asking for something a little rougher, a little wilder—wondering if tonight’s the night he finally lets himself unravel, just for you.
his lips never leave your neck, slow and hungry, open-mouthed kisses that leave a trail of heat up to your jaw. you shudder, breath hitching, and manage to whisper, voice trembling, “shoto… c-could you… fuck me rough tonight?”
his hands still, just for a moment, as if your words pulled every last ounce of air from the room. he draws back just enough to see your face, his own flushed and a little stunned, eyes searching yours for any hesitation. his breath is warm on your cheek as he asks, low and a bit hoarse, “is that what you want?”
you nod, honest and eager, eyes shining up at him, heart pounding loud enough for him to feel. the tiniest, pleased hum vibrates against your skin as he presses a kiss under your ear.
“alright,” he murmurs, voice firmer now, hunger threading through every syllable. his hand slides down your body, grip tightening, his other hand tangled in your hair as he pins you back against his chest. you can feel the shift in him—less hesitation, more urgency, the tension that always simmers beneath finally rising.
he nips at your neck, lets his hand slip between your legs, all teasing forgotten. his body cages you in, his mouth greedy, claiming every gasp and whimper you give him, finally letting himself unravel—rough, possessive, all that quiet fire breaking loose just for you.
he’s always been bigger than you—broad shoulders, long arms, the kind of strength that you feel in every touch, every time he holds you a little tighter in his sleep. he’s careful, always. he knows what it means to be gentle, to keep himself in check. he’s spent years learning restraint, and sometimes you catch him watching you like he’s making sure he doesn’t ever break what he loves most.
but tonight, when you give him that nod, that permission, something shifts in his chest. he laughs softly against your neck, the sound husky, a little raw. “you sure?” he teases, but his hands are already moving as he tugs your scrub top over your head, then his hands go to your waistband. he leaves your pants on, just enough for his fingers to slip inside, seeking out the warmth and softness he’s grown addicted to.
his fingers slide beneath the band of your panties, callused fingertips gentle at first, then more demanding as he finds your clit. his touch is rougher than usual, less afraid of making you squirm, more intent on wringing those breathless sounds out of you. he circles your bud, presses down just enough to make your hips buck, and when you yelp, twisting against him, he only tightens his grip, holding you flush to his chest.
you can feel how wet you’re getting, the slick heat building as he works you with focused precision, his breath steady in your ear. he’s unyielding, not letting you move away, not letting you set the pace—his palm heavy on your belly, his other hand working you until your nerves sing, until your voice is all broken moans and desperate pleas.
he kisses the side of your throat, teeth grazing your skin, and hums, “that’s it… good girl…” and you feel yourself unraveling, melting into his hold, aching for more of that roughness, more of him, letting him take you apart piece by piece.
your moans spill out, thick and shaky. you press back into him, desperate for more of his touch, your hips rolling up into his hand, chasing every spark he sets off under your skin. his fingers move just right, rubbing and circling, coaxing out every gasp and cry he can get from you.
you can’t help it—you say his name over and over, breathless and pleading, “shoto… shoto, please…” it feels so good, it feels so so good.
he presses a kiss to your shoulder, voice gentle even as his grip is firm. “that’s it. you’re doing so well for me…” his words are soft, but there’s heat under every syllable, every praise winding you up tighter. his thumb never lets up, his other arm holding you close, grounding you as you come undone in his arms.
he murmurs in your ear, “so beautiful… i love hearing you like this…” every word is a caress, warm and steady, and it just makes you fall harder, body arching into him, needing all of him, every rough and tender part.
his breath is hot at your ear as his fingers work you, the familiar warmth of his body pressed behind you—then, suddenly, you gasp as heat blooms where his fingers circle your clit, a flood of gentle fire making you shiver and keen. the pleasure deepens, your thighs trembling as the heat rolls through you, tightening every nerve.
you barely have time to catch your breath before his other hand finds your chest, palm pressing against your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple—except now there’s a sudden, biting chill, a cold so sharp it almost aches. your nipple hardens instantly under the icy touch, the contrast with the heat below sending a bolt of pleasure through you so strong you cry out, arching helplessly into his hands.
shoto hums, smug and quiet, loving the way you moan for him, the way you squirm and writhe and call his name, every sound fueling the fire in his eyes. “sensitive tonight, aren’t you?” he teases, warm fingers stroking just right, his cold thumb circling your nipple, every switch in temperature a new way to unravel you.
you cling to him, rolling your hips in rhythm, drowning in the pleasure and the sensation, your breath stuttering as you feel yourself climbing higher, his mouth is still pressed to your neck, his breath turning ragged as your scrubs slip off your hips, pooling around your ankles. you’re left in nothing but your panties, skin flushed and tingling under the push-pull of his quirks—heat blooming low in your stomach, that sweet ache in your chest where his cold fingers teased you moments before.
he hooks his fingers at the band of your panties, pulling them aside just enough to slip one thick finger inside you. he groans quietly at the way you squeeze around him, the wet heat drawing him in. his finger begins to pump, slow at first, then a little harder, a little deeper, each thrust sending sparks shooting up your spine.
your moans spill out, helpless and hungry, hips rocking in time with his movements. his hand cups your thigh, anchoring you against his chest, not letting you shy away from the pleasure building inside you. his finger curls just right, finding that perfect spot again and again, drawing out every shaky gasp and every whispered plea for more.
he murmurs praise against your skin, soft and hot—“that’s it, baby… let me hear you… just like that…”—and you’re gone, all reason lost, all that matters is the way he fills you. his pace quickens, fingers moving faster, pressing deeper, the slick sound of your arousal filling the room as you gasp and tremble in his arms. he slips in a second finger, stretching you just right, and the pleasure tips from sweet to overwhelming, your hips bucking desperately into his hand. every muscle in your body tenses as you choke out, “shoto—please, i’m so close—please—”
and then, just as you teeter on the edge, he pulls his fingers out, leaving you empty and aching. the sudden loss makes you sob, a needy, broken sound spilling from your lips. you whine his name, squirming against him, but he only hushes you with a gentle kiss on your temple, his restraint tinged with something wild.
he doesn’t give you time to protest, just sweeps you up into his arms, carrying you down the hall with that effortless strength—princess style, pressed to his chest, your bare skin prickling with every step. he lays you on the bed, his eyes dark with hunger, and you watch him as he starts to undress, each piece of clothing hitting the floor with purpose. his gaze never leaves you, a storm of affection and want blazing in his mismatched eyes.
he climbs onto the bed, body looming over yours, strong hands pinning your wrists above your head, lips meeting yours in a deep, possessive kiss. he makes it clear—tonight, he’s done holding back, and you melt beneath him, more than ready to be completely, utterly undone.
his body hovers over you, lean muscles and flushed skin, eyes flicking down with a hunger you haven’t seen in him before—not quite like this. you catch the glint of precum beading at his tip, a raw need that tells you just how much he wants you, how much he’s been holding back. your chest tightens with heat, arousal blooming low and bright, every inch of you aching for him.
he pauses, meeting your gaze, and asks softly, “are you okay?”
you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you, breathless and a little wild. “yeah. i’m more than okay.” you think, for a split second, that this will be one of those nights—gentle, sweet, his usual quiet worship. maybe rough shoto is just a fantasy. and maybe that’s enough, because god, he loves you in ways that make the world spin—
you barely finish the thought before he’s got your ankle in a firm grip, yanking you toward him, the strength in his hands making your breath catch. with one smooth, unyielding motion, he flips you onto your stomach, guiding you up on all fours—leaving you bare, exposed, the sheets cool against your knees and elbows. the shock of it sends a thrill up your spine, your heart pounding as you realize—maybe you were wrong!
his palm presses at your lower back, pinning you in place, and you hear the rough edge in his voice as he leans in, lips brushing your ear: “don’t move.”
there’s nothing gentle now—not with the way his hands grip your hips, the way he settles behind you, all heat and tension and want, about to finally show you just how deep his need for you goes.
he drags the thick, slick head of his cock up and down your entrance, teasing, making you gasp and arch back into him—every nerve in your body strung tight, desperate for more. the anticipation has your pulse pounding in your ears, hips wiggling, breath coming out in little broken huffs. he holds you steady with those big, strong hands, the weight of his grip promising you’re not going anywhere.
for a moment you almost laugh, your mind racing—so this is it, the thing all those spicy romance novels go on about. rough shoto. god, please let him break your back only in the figurative way. not in the actual way that requires a hospital trip. not everyone gets a big beefy boyfriend who can manhandle them like this. please give you strength!
you push back onto his tip, shameless and needy, and he groans—a deep, raw sound that vibrates through his whole body. his hips jerk forward instinctively, the head of his cock nudging just inside, stretching you open so perfectly your toes curl. his hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place as he grinds forward, just enough to make your breath catch.
“you feel so good,” he rasps, voice all rough and greedy, and you can feel him trembling, barely keeping himself in check.
then, finally, with one smooth, rough snap of his hips, he buries himself inside you, the stretch and heat making you cry out, your hands clutching the sheets as he fills you—every inch, every throb, every slow, relentless drive of his hips. you clutch the sheets and let him take you, his thrusts rough and relentless, making the bed creak and your breath stutter out in ragged sobs of pleasure. every push stretches you wide, every pull leaves you empty and aching for more, the rhythm hard and fast—enough to have you tearing up, tears pricking at your lashes from the overwhelming sensation, the perfect fullness, the way his body fits yours like you were made for this.
your moans spill out raw and hurried, broken up by hiccups of laughter and gasps, each thrust wringing out a new whimper, a new plea. you don’t even try to hold back—“shoto, oh god, you’re so deep, so good—i’m your slut, i love being your slut—”
his hips stutter for a split second, and you feel the twitch of his cock deep inside you at the words, the effect it has on him obvious. his voice comes out strained, low and heated as he snaps, “don’t call yourself that…” but there’s no bite to it—just the way his fingers dig into your hips, his pace somehow getting even rougher, every movement desperate to fill you, claim you, drive you both out of your minds.
you sob his name, babbling, breathless, “shoto—please, more, don’t stop—” and he grunts in response, the sound torn from his chest, sweat dripping down his back as he fucks you like he’s never wanted anything more in his life. and god, you’re not sure if it’s the drinks or the man or just the way he loves you, but you know one thing for sure—nothing in the world has ever felt this good,
you push back to meet every thrust, hips rolling in time with his, both of you moving in sync—messy, wild, desperate. his body covers yours, chest pressed to your back, his breath hot at your ear as he drives into you, deep and rough, his control fraying with every needy sound that leaves your lips. your skin sticks together with sweat, the air thick with the scent of sex and perfume.
he leans over you, one arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other braced by your head as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, swallowing every broken gasp and moan you offer up. his hips snap against you, the sound sharp and obscene, the feeling enough to have your legs shaking beneath him.
you can’t help yourself—every time you cry out, you tell him again, “i’m your slut, shoto, i love it, i love being yours, want you to fuck me like this forever—” and each time, he groans, hips slamming harder, his cock twitching inside you, the effect making him lose the last bit of his composure.
his voice is ragged, shuddering, “yeah? you like that? you want me to fuck you like this—” he punctuates each word with another deep, punishing thrust, leaving you gasping for air and clawing at the sheets. “all for me, all mine…”
he kisses the side of your face, thrusts never slowing, and you realize you’re both so far gone, bodies burning and moving as one, losing yourselves in each other—nothing outside this bed, this moment, his hands on you, his name tangled with every moan you give him, your world reduced to his touch and the dizzying rush of being ruined so good by the only man you’d ever let see you like this. his hips don’t let up, pounding into you with a rhythm that makes your mind blank and your whole body tremble. suddenly, his palm presses between your shoulder blades, and you feel that familiar, almost electric cold radiate from his skin—his quirk sparking to life.
the cold pulses through you, your muscles going liquid, the pleasure doubling as every nerve ending lights up. just as you’re about to lose yourself in it, he slides his hand down your body, and where his fingers graze your waist, there’s a sudden warmth—heat blooming in teasing, dizzying lines over your skin. your breath hitches, then breaks into a cry, the wild contrast of hot and cold making you arch back, writhing under him.
shoto hums, deep and smug in your ear, loving every sound you make. he toys with you, heat stroking your inner thigh, icy fingers pinching at your nipple, the temperature play pushing you higher and higher. every new touch has you sobbing his name, not knowing whether to shiver or melt, your senses tangled up in the way he handles you, worships you, ruins you all at once.
his thrusts only get rougher as you fall apart, pleasure sharpening with every wild wave of warmth and cold, and you know you won’t last long—not when he’s using everything he is, everything he can do, to make you his.
he can’t hold back anymore—your body clenching around him, the heat of you, the way you call his name, it pushes him right to the edge. with a broken groan, he buries himself deep, hips grinding in tight, desperate circles as he cums hard, spilling himself inside you. his mouth finds yours, catching your gasps in a hungry, messy kiss, his body trembling as he rides out every last pulse, cock twitching, the pleasure wrung from him so completely he feels weightless.
he stays pressed close, hips snug against your ass, his arms curled around your waist, holding you tight as if letting go would send him drifting out to sea. you feel him soften inside you, still twitching with aftershocks, and the hot mix of you both begins to slip down your thighs, making a sticky mess on the sheets beneath you.
your breathing comes in tandem, ragged and slow, sweat cooling on your skin as the world finally settles around you both. you manage a soft laugh, half-delirious, and shoto buries his face in your neck, mumbling something about how perfect you are, how much he loves you, words muffled against your skin. you both just lie there, tangled and sated, letting the comfort of each other and the soft hush of the night carry you away.
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after you both finally peel yourselves from the wreckage of tangled sheets and sticky skin, the shower is nothing but giggles and soft kisses—shoto pressing your back to his chest under the spray, hands gentle, almost reverent again, as if he hadn’t just made you see stars ten minutes ago. by the time you’re both clean and swaddled in towels, your bodies ache in that sweet, sleepy way that means you’ll sleep well tonight.
but shoto is in a mood, buzzing with a quiet, excitable energy. he’s the first to flop into bed, sheets rustling as he tugs you close and arranges you right where he wants you: head pillowed on his chest, one of his arms tucked beneath your shoulders, the other presenting you with your drink and a bowl of snacks like he’s some champion waiter.
he’s already flicking through streaming apps with the remote, pausing only to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “so,” he says, voice soft but full of curiosity, “how did you like my friends?”
you snuggle in, drawing lazy circles on his chest, your heart light. “they’re amazing. i love them. i was so nervous, but they made me feel like i belonged.” you grin up at him, teasing, “and now they know you’re not a pathological liar who made up a girlfriend.”
he snorts, smile crooked, brushing his lips against your forehead. “mineta almost fainted. izuku still looked like he was going to cry.”
the night settles in soft around you, movie menu glowing blue in the dark, your bodies warm and tangled beneath the covers. it’s quiet and perfect, shoto humming under his breath as he picks a film, your world shrunk down to the two of you and the promise of snacks, laughter, and a hundred more nights just like this.