You never thought your life would become a business transaction. But here you were, standing in a pristine traditional room in Kyoto, your parents stiff and overdressed, Endeavor looming like a mountain in a suit three sizes too tight, and Fuyumi Todoroki sitting quietly at the center of it all—polite, reserved, and impossible to read.

Endeavor had paid your family. Not subtle bribes either—official contracts, meetings, negotiations like some damn merger. His goal? Quirk enhancement. A political alliance to create the next No.1 hero. The plan was simple: your family's quirk of atmospheric manipulation, hers of cryokinesis and pyrokinesis. The fusion potential was promising.

You were disgusted. Not by Fuyumi—never by her. But the idea. You said one thing, in front of everyone:

“If Fuyumi doesn’t want this, we’re not doing it. And you,” you glanced at Endeavor without blinking, “don’t get to dictate anyone’s life anymore.”

Fuyumi looked up, not shocked… but surprised. Like she wasn’t used to someone handing her a choice on a silver platter. She stared at you for too long, the room quiet like someone had pulled the oxygen out of it.

“I agree to the marriage,” she said, calm as a still pond. “But I want it to be on our terms.”

You got married in a modest ceremony. No overblown quirks, no press. Shoto didn’t come. Natsuo did—mostly to make sure you weren’t some Endeavor clone with better manners. Rei sent a gift from the hospital. Endeavor gave a short speech that was ninety percent PR and ten percent trying to sound like a father.

The honeymoon was supposed to be a break. You chose a traditional inn up in Hokkaido—snow, silence, hot springs, maybe something resembling peace. It was awkward, at first. Not cold. Not hostile. Just like trying to fit into a suit tailored for someone else’s body.

You noticed how Fuyumi always bowed before entering the room. How she didn’t take off her socks unless she was absolutely alone. How she apologized even when she didn’t need to.

You shared a room. Not a bed.

One night, three days in, you found her outside on the veranda in her pajamas and a coat, drinking canned coffee from a vending machine. It was freezing, the stars sharp in the night sky.

You joined her, standing in silence, your own can hissing as you cracked it open. Neither of you spoke until the cold made your ears ache.

She finally said, “Do you know why my mom poured boiling water on Shoto?”

You didn’t expect that. But you nodded slowly. Everyone knew the public version. You suspected there was more.

“I’m not telling you for pity,” she added, eyes on the stars. “I just want you to understand why I said yes to this marriage.”

You waited.

“I don’t want a love story,” she said. “I don’t need passion, or fireworks, or grand gestures. I just want... something that doesn’t rot me from the inside out. I want calm. I want to talk to someone without feeling like I’m walking on nails. I want to wake up and not dread the day. I want to know that if I raise a kid, it’s because I want to, not because someone expects me to create a masterpiece.”

She looked at you then, for real, for the first time since the wedding. Not like a stranger. Not like a project. But like a partner who might—maybe—help her build something different.

“I don’t want to become my mother,” she said. “And I won’t let you become my father.”

You chuckled, sipped your now-cold coffee, and said, “Well, good news. I can’t grow a mustache that fire.”

That got a laugh out of her. Small. But honest.

Back in the room, you set a futon beside hers. Not touching. But close enough that if one of you reached out in the dark, the other would feel it.

It was the start of something—not romance. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But something chosen. Something mutual. Something real.

And that was more than enough.