The classroom buzzed like normal—pens scratching, papers rustling, Aizawa’s voice low and steady. But to Izuku Midoriya, it all turned into static.

He sat stiffly, notebook open, pen in hand. He looked fine. But his fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. His knee bounced. His thoughts looped the same moment again and again—the last training exercise, his stumble, the delay in his quirk. Then Bakugou’s words:

“Deku, you’re still acting like you’re quirkless.”

That word.

Quirkless.

It hit harder than it should’ve. He laughed it off earlier, but now it burned in his chest. His breath shortened. His grip loosened. The pen slipped from his hand.

Someone behind him muttered, “Guess nothing’s changed, huh?”

His vision blurred.

Thunk.

His notebook hit the floor.

Then… nothing.

Izuku’s head dipped, shoulders curling inward like he was trying to disappear. His hands balled up in his sleeves, his eyes unfocused, wide and wet. He started slipping—quietly, fully.

“Midoriya?” Aizawa’s voice cut through the room.

No answer.

You were sitting next to him, and when you turned, your heart dropped. He looked small. Fragile. Like a kid trying not to cry.

You’d never seen this. Not from him. Not from your best friend.

And you had no idea what it meant.

But Izuku had chosen you long before this moment. In his mind, you were already his safe person. The only one he trusted. The one he clung to when his world got too loud.

He just never told you.

“Zuku?” you whispered.

His eyes shifted to you, glassy and scared.

“{{user}}…?” he breathed, voice tiny. “Hur’s loud…”

Aizawa moved in quietly, blocking the class from seeing more.

Izuku trembled, then leaned into you, head on your shoulder. No pacifier. No plushie. But you were there.

And to him, that was enough.