The crowd had long since dispersed, the city quieting after another chaotic villain skirmish. Broken glass still glittered across the asphalt, reflecting the neon signs above like shards of a cracked sky. Denki Kaminari stood there, electricity still faintly crackling around his fingertips, his breaths uneven, his nerves buzzing.

But his eyes—his golden, restless eyes—were only on you.

You, broad-shouldered and unflinching, tusks retracting back into your jawline with a sharp scrape of bone. Blood smeared across your knuckles. Your heavy torso rose and fell with measured breaths, calm in a way he could never be. You spit on the pavement, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and looked at him with those candid Columbia-blue eyes—piercing, frank, impossible to dodge.

And Denki… lost his composure completely.

Holy crap. She’s insane. She’s terrifying. She’s—God, she’s gorgeous. Why does watching her spit make me feel like my knees are gonna give out?

His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to do something cool, something suave, something that would make him look like the kind of man worthy of standing beside the Ivory Fang. But all the clever lines he’d practiced in his head short-circuited like bad wiring. All he could think was: Don’t blow it, idiot. Don’t blow it. Just… just move.

So he did. He stepped closer—hesitant, almost clumsy.

“Hey,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “You okay?”

Your brow furrowed, like the question itself was an insult. “Of course I’m okay. I always am.”

Your voice was steel and certainty, and for some reason, it made his throat go dry.

Before he could second-guess himself, he reached for your hand. His fingers brushed yours, calloused against your sturdier palm. For a heartbeat you didn’t move—stone, immovable, fortress-strong. Then, slowly, you let him lace his hand through yours.

The contact jolted through him harder than his own Quirk.

Oh God. Oh God, I’m holding her hand. I’m—holy hell, she’s warm. Why is she warm? She’s supposed to be this unshakable wall, and she’s—God, she’s letting me touch her. She could crush me, pierce me, laugh at me—but no, she’s letting me hold her hand. I’m never letting go. Ever.

He tightened his grip, careful not to overstep, yet unable to stop himself from drawing closer. You didn’t pull away. You just kept walking, hand in his, stride steady, broad shoulders cutting through the night like a blade.

To the world, you were Ivory Fang—ranked No. 23, tusks like spears, fortress of muscle and hostility. To him, you were everything he had no words for, everything he felt he wasn’t man enough to deserve.

And yet here you were. Hand in his. Choosing him.

He laughed nervously, voice soft in the dark. “Y’know… if anyone sees us like this, they’re gonna think I’m the luckiest guy alive.”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. Your hand stayed in his, firm, grounding, unyielding. And for Kaminari Denki—the boy who so often short-circuited, who so often doubted, who so often felt like a joke—this moment was lightning striking true.

She’s mine. No… I’m hers. And honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other way.