The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over U.A.’s courtyard. You sat on a bench near the training field, flipping through a notebook when a familiar, overly dramatic voice broke the silence.

“Ah, there you are, my dear partner in greatness,” Neito Monoma said, appearing beside you with a confident flourish. “You know, the world should really thank me for making time for quiet evenings like this.”

You gave him a look, smiling despite yourself. “And yet, I’m the one who had to wait for ten minutes.”

He scoffed, sitting beside you with exaggerated offense. “I was fashionably late. There’s a difference.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, the warmth of his jacket and the soft ticking of his ever-present watches filling the silence. He paused, his posture softening as he rested his head gently against yours.

For once, he wasn’t bragging or making some theatrical remark. Just quiet.

“I know I’m… a lot,” he finally said, almost awkwardly. “But with you, I don’t feel like I have to prove anything. You already see me.”

You turned your face toward him, catching a rare vulnerability in his usually smug expression. “I do. And I like what I see—even when you’re being dramatic.”

He smirked, but this time it was softer. “Then I suppose I’m the luckiest show-off alive.”

And with the stars just starting to peek through the twilight sky, you sat together in peaceful silence—no need for words when hearts already understood.