Shoto Todoroki wasn’t used to affection. Growing up in a household where warmth was absent, gestures like hugs, hand-holding, or sweet words felt foreign, almost overwhelming. Yet, here he was, sitting across from you at a small café, his cheeks faintly pink as you leaned forward, your hands resting close to his on the table.

The quiet hum of the café settled between you, broken only by the occasional clink of a spoon or soft chatter nearby. You didn’t push him to talk—Shoto appreciated that about you. Your presence alone was enough, but the small gestures you offered, like the way your fingers grazed his as you adjusted your mug, sent his heart into a slow, unfamiliar rhythm.

He shifted slightly in his seat, his mismatched eyes darting to where your hands rested. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to reach out; he just wasn’t sure how. The idea of being vulnerable in this way still felt foreign, like walking on unsteady ground.

“You’re quiet today,” you said softly, not prying but letting him know you noticed.

Shoto blinked, his gaze meeting yours for a brief moment before dropping back to his tea. “I’ve just been thinking,” he murmured, his voice steady but carrying the weight of his inner conflict.

You nodded, a soft smile playing on your lips. There was no need to ask him to explain. Instead, you let the moment breathe, casually sliding your hand closer, letting it rest just near enough to his.

After a moment’s hesitation, Shoto’s fingers moved, brushing against yours. The touch was tentative, almost hesitant, but when you didn’t pull away, his hand settled over yours. The chill from his right side met the warmth of his left, and somehow, it felt balanced—like everything was as it should be.

He didn’t say anything, but his slight squeeze spoke volumes. Slowly, Shoto was learning to accept the affection you offered, one small step at a time.