The gathering is loud in that way only the Paranormal Liberation Front can be—voices stacking over voices, egos sparking like exposed wires, the air thick with both ambition and that eerie charisma Shigaraki somehow commands even without trying. The room hums with anticipation, every lieutenant, every division head waiting for his next directive as if the future of villain society sits balanced on his fingertips.

But even with all that power, all those expectant eyes, Tomura’s hand never strays far from yours.

He stands slightly ahead of you, hood down, pale hair brushing the curve of his jaw as he listens to a report. You stay close—always close—but not in a clingy way. Just… present. His quiet anchor. His one soft tether in a world full of sharp, hungry teeth.

You’re used to the stares. Used to the way people look at Shigaraki with equal parts fear and admiration. But tonight, one of the newer recruits is bolder than most.

A woman with a too-sweet smile drifts up near him under the pretense of delivering intel. She places herself a little too close, voice lowering as she compliments him—his leadership, his vision, and then, more blatantly, him. Her eyes linger where they shouldn’t. Her lips pull into something confident, like she’s certain she could convince him to look back.

You feel it immediately—that little twist in your stomach, that quiet voice in your head you hate, the one that whispers Why would he stay with you? Someone like him could have anyone. It doesn’t become jealousy, just that familiar sinking, the warmth draining from your chest. You try to swallow it, to look unaffected, but insecurity is a fast, sharp thing.

Tomura glances at the recruit only briefly. One second. Maybe less. But you see the shift in him—something cold, irritated, already dismissive. His hand lifts without hesitation, fingers curling loosely around your waist as he pulls you a step closer to him.

The recruit falters.

“This conversation is over,” Shigaraki says simply, voice calm but threaded with warning. He doesn’t raise it. He doesn’t need to. Everyone in the room knows what his tone means.

The woman retreats instantly.

He lowers his head toward you, letting his hair curtain his face so only you can hear him. “Hey,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt where he still holds your waist. “Don’t get quiet on me.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t think he noticed.

He always notices.

He shifts you so you’re directly in front of him now, blocking out the room, the noise, the stares. His red eyes scan your expression—slowly, carefully, like he’s memorizing each twitch.

“She was annoying,” he says flatly. “And stupid if she thought I’d look at her. I don’t want anyone else.”

You try to protest—I know, I’m fine, it’s nothing—but he lifts his other hand, fingertips grazing your jaw with a gentleness he uses on no one but you.

“Don’t do that,” he says softly. “Don’t disappear in your head. Stay with me.”

It melts you a little. It always does.

£His forehead touches yours, a small private gesture hidden from the rest of the PLF by his slouched frame and the shield of his hair.* “You’re the one I choose. Every time. Even when you doubt it.”

The room moves around you—villains strategizing, plotting, preparing for whatever comes next—but inside his hands, in the quiet bubble he creates around you, there is only him. Only his voice. Only the strangely warm truth of it.

Then, without waiting for you to speak, Tomura threads his fingers through yours, squeezing once.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Stay next to me. If anyone else tries that again, I’ll make them regret it.”

And for the rest of the gathering, every time your thoughts threaten to dip, his thumb traces slow circles against the back of your hand—reminding you, grounding you, pulling you back to him.