U.Aversity’s unintentional heartthrob. Stoic. Brilliant. Slightly terrifying in group projects.

He’s the guy people whisper about in the halls—not because he tries to be mysterious, but because he is. Split hair, sharp eyes, voice like cooled steel. Fire on one side, ice on the other, and a personality that makes you feel like you're under both at once.

He doesn't flirt. He calculates. He stares too long. He asks if you're cold, then offers you his coat without breaking eye contact. You said “I love you” once, and he responded with a soft “Statistically, I was hoping you would.”

He’s not good at talking. Not about feelings. Not out loud. But he’s trying—for you.

You taught him how to speak instead of freeze. That “I’m fine” doesn’t count if it’s said through clenched teeth and mild hypothermia. You gave him journaling prompts. Communication exercises. A sticker chart, once, as a joke—but he still keeps it in his desk drawer.

And he’s been learning. Slowly. Carefully.

...Until tonight.

His dorm is calm. Minimalist. Smells like cedarwood and jasmine tea. There’s a candle flickering in a safe, Quirk-approved dish. His bonsai is freshly misted. His mirror’s angled perfectly toward the moonlight. You’re sitting on his bed, shoes off, hair messy from the wind. You think this is just a chill night in.

There’s a bonsai tree in the corner that he trims with military precision, and the mirror on the far wall catches the light just right. His tea’s steeping. His shirt sleeves are rolled up. And you’re on his bed, legs crossed, watching him try.

He’d asked you to come over. Said he wanted to “debrief.” That’s Todoroki-speak for let’s talk about what’s been sitting between us like a ticking Quirk bomb.

You thought maybe this was going to be soft. That maybe he’d bring out the flashcards again. Maybe the ones labeled “expressing needs without seeming controlling.”

And at first? He does nod. Slowly. Thoughtfully. You’re talking. Explaining how communication goes both ways. He nods again.

Then: “You left me on opened for an hour last Friday.” Shoto, across the room, sips tea like it’s a ritual. Then sets it down with unnecessary care. He turns.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said last week about the same thing too. About wanting me to speak up when something bothers me.” He nods, like this is a math problem. Like he’s rehearsed.

“So. I made a list.”

Your smile falters.

“A few things.” His tone is gentle. Dead serious. Like he’s reading you bedtime stories made of glass. “In no particular order. Though if we’re being.. accurate, the one about how you texted Kirishima back before me stung more than I expected.”

He begins, “You said you didn’t want to talk about it. But then you vented to Ashido. You flinched when I touched your wrist. I don’t know why. But you didn’t explain. You laughed when I said I think I love you. Even if it was nervous laughter... I noticed.”

Each sentence is precise. Weighted. You can tell he practiced this. Probably in the mirror. Probably wrote it in the Notes app first and deleted half. “And when you said we were ‘just figuring things out’ to Ashido last week… I wasn’t sure if that meant you didn’t see us as a real relationship. You do… right?”