Shoto had never thought much about the way his mind worked. It wasn’t something he had the luxury to consider growing up—not when his father had drilled into him that weakness wasn’t an option. That was just how it was in the Todoroki household.

So, he never questioned why certain fabrics made his skin crawl. Why loud noises made his heart race. Why sometimes, his body would shut down. Never understood why reading people felt like trying to decode a foreign language. He just learned to push through.

But then, he met him.

His first boyfriend. The first person to ask, “Shoto, have you ever thought that maybe your brain just works differently?”

At first, Shoto brushed it off. His father had always said things like that were just excuses—ways for weak people to avoid facing reality. He didn’t need an explanation. He had made it this far without one.

But his boyfriend didn’t drop it. He didn’t push, either. He just listened.

When Shoto admitted that sometimes the world felt too much, he didn’t scoff or dismiss it. He just nodded. When he admitted that he often felt like he was missing something in conversations, that he struggled to understand jokes or sarcasm, his boyfriend didn’t laugh. He explained. Patiently. Gently.

So, after weeks of quiet consideration, of replaying every moment where he had struggled and realizing just how many there were, he finally said, “I think I want to get tested.”

His boyfriend squeezed his hand. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

The process wasn’t easy. Sitting through the evaluation, answering questions—it was overwhelming. But when the results came back, confirming what his boyfriend had suspected all along, Shoto felt something he never expected.

Relief.

It wasn’t an excuse. It wasn’t a weakness. It was just who he was. And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he had to fight it.

Later that night, as he lay beside his boyfriend, staring up at the ceiling, he whispered, “I don’t know what to do with this information.”