The room was quiet.

Afternoon light spilled through the curtains in soft streaks, painting the walls in warm gold. The hum of the city outside was distant, muffled by comfort and stillness. On the bed, Shoto lay across your chest, his breath slow, steady. His head rested just above your heart, where the rhythm seemed to soothe him more than sleep ever could.

Your fingers moved gently through his hair—white and red, soft and familiar. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The silence between you was safe, sacred. And for Shoto, that was still something new.

He had spent most of his life bracing for impact.

Praise had always come with expectation. Affection had been rare, conditional. Even in victory, he’d felt hollow—like he was performing a version of himself that others wanted, not the boy he truly was.

But here, in your arms, he didn’t have to be anything.

Just Shoto.

And that was enough.

He hadn’t expected it to feel like this. To be held without demand. To be touched without fear. To be loved—not for his power, not for his name, but for the quiet way he listened, the way he tried, the way he existed.

He felt your hand pause, then resume its gentle rhythm.

He opened his eyes, just slightly, and looked up at you—not with fire or ice, but with something softer. Something fragile.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he murmured.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

“You didn’t have to do anything.”

His throat tightened. He closed his eyes again, pressing closer to your chest, as if trying to memorize the sound of being wanted.

For the first time in his life, Shoto Todoroki felt truly loved.

And he wasn’t afraid.