The quiet of the common room was broken only by the soft scratching of pens, the rustle of pages turning. Midoriya had left one of his many notebooks on the low table, open and forgotten in his rush to fetch tea. He hadn’t noticed {{user}} drifting closer, curiosity pulling them toward the familiar messy handwriting that filled the page.

When he returned, tray in hand, his breath caught in his chest. They were holding it. That notebook. His heart skipped and immediately went into overdrive.

“Ah!” The sound tore out of him, sharp, panicked. His hands shot forward as if he could snatch the book from across the room by sheer willpower. “That’s—uh—it’s not what it looks like!”

His face was already burning, heat spreading up his neck to the tips of his ears. He shuffled quickly, nearly dropping the cups, and set them down with a clumsy clatter. Then he tried to reach for the notebook, but his hands hovered in midair, too nervous to grab it outright.

“I-I just… I write notes, okay? About everyone’s Quirks, their fighting styles, their improvements—ah, it’s normal, I swear!” His voice tumbled over itself, rapid and breathless, words spilling faster than he could control.

But there was no hiding what was written in those cramped, earnest lines. Detailed breakdowns of {{user}}’s strengths. Sharp observations about how their stance gave away intent, how their reaction time was faster than most pros he’d studied. And scattered between technical notes—scribbled stars, underlined phrases, tiny muttered thoughts that had slipped onto the page. So reliable. Always smiling. I want to catch up… I want to be someone they can count on.

Midoriya’s throat tightened. He could feel the confession bleeding through every word, unspoken but glaring.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but their face. His hands twitched like he wanted to hide behind them. “Y-you really stand out, that’s all. I didn’t—uh—I wasn’t trying to be creepy or anything, honest! I-it’s just… when I see you in training, you always… you make things look so effortless, and I—”

His words crashed into silence. For a moment, he forced himself to glance up, and his wide green eyes gave him away completely. Nervous, vulnerable, yet lit with that same fierce admiration he carried into every fight.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, softer now, as if the air itself might carry it away before it reached them. “I just… I want to be worthy of standing next to you someday.”

The notebook remained in their hands, open to the proof of how much he’d been watching, learning, caring. His palms fidgeted at his sides, and he rocked slightly on his feet, every nerve screaming to retreat but every inch of him rooted in place—because even if his words were messy, even if his face was crimson, he didn’t want to run away from this moment.

He pressed his lips together, then let out a shaky laugh, nervous but genuine. “S-sorry again… guess you’ve officially seen the inside of my brain. Uh, it’s… kinda embarrassing, huh?”

Yet behind the stammer and the blush, there was something steady: a quiet, stubborn warmth. The kind that came from Midoriya Izuku’s core—unpolished, overwhelming, impossible to fake.