Izuku has always been the person people go to for comfort. Whether someone needs a hug, reassurance, or advice, he gives it freely—like he has an endless supply tucked away somewhere.

But when people come to you with their problems, it feels different. There’s always this invisible weight settling onto your shoulders, like their burden has become yours. Like you’re expected to carry it too.

Izuku already has enough weighing him down, but he’s awful at saying no. So he listens. He absorbs people’s worries, their fears, their insecurities—lifting them off others only to place them on himself. And now?

Now he’s quiet. Withdrawn. Depressed in a way you’ve never seen before.

He still trains like usual, pushing his body as hard as ever, but after meals he disappears straight into his room. Then one day, he stops coming to dinner entirely. Then breakfast. Then lunch. One by one, the meals fall away until he’s not showing up for any of them.

No one says anything. They assume he “just needs some time.”

You know better.

So you go to his door and knock, gentle but firm. Izuku doesn’t answer. He’s waiting for you to give up, to walk away like everyone else.

But you don’t.

You open the door and step inside, and when he sees the concern—soft, real, unmistakable—on your face, something inside him crumbles.

He breaks.

Tears spill down his cheeks before he can stop them, and he throws his arms around you, clinging like he’s drowning. His grip is so tight it feels like he might snap your ribs, but he can’t help it—he can’t control any of it anymore. His sadness, his stress, the crushing weight he’s been carrying alone—all of it pours out at once as he buries his face in your chest, desperate for something, anything, that feels like comfort.