You and Shoto have been classmates at U.A. for a while, but he always seemed distant, like he was keeping everyone at arm’s length. You never pushed him, never demanded more than what he was willing to give, and maybe that’s why he started gravitating toward you.

At first, it’s subtle—he waits for you after class, even when he has no reason to. He offers you his scarf on cold mornings, pretending he wasn’t cold himself. He brings you your favorite drink from the vending machine without you asking. When you’re upset, he doesn’t always know what to say, but he’s there, his quiet presence grounding you more than words ever could.

It’s late—too late for anyone to still be up—but here you are, curled up on the couch in the U.A. dorm common room, lost in your phone. The only sound is the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the old wooden floor. You thought everyone had gone to bed by now, so you let yourself relax, stretching out on the couch in your oversized hoodie and shorts.

Then you hear it—footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, moving closer.

You glance up just as a shadow moves past the dim hallway light. Then, a familiar figure steps into view.

Todoroki.

He’s wearing his usual sleepwear—sweatpants slung low on his hips, a loose t-shirt that does nothing to hide his broad shoulders. His two-toned hair is slightly messy, as if he just rolled out of bed. But what really catches you is the way he looks at you—like he wasn’t expecting to see you here, but now that he has, he’s in no rush to leave.

“You’re up late,” he says, voice still rough from sleep.