The festival was over.

The stadium, once deafening with applause, now echoed only with wind and the occasional distant shout as cleanup crews packed away the remnants of youth and glory.

Shinsou sat on a bench near the recovery wing, hands limp in his lap, fingers still raw where the tape had pulled skin. He wasn’t sure what stung more—losing, or hearing “he doesn’t have a hero’s quirk” repeated by the crowd like some kind of chant. Like his fate had already been stamped.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, trying not to look like he felt hollow inside.

A quiet set of steps made his ears twitch. He didn’t glance up right away. But he’d noticed the rhythm. Soft, careful. Like someone walking while sore.

Then the scent hit him—warm, faintly electric, like static fur and iron. His mind identified it before his eyes did.

You.

He looked up.

You were walking out of Recovery Girl’s office, one hand bandaged, a strip of gauze on your temple. Your ears—real, pointed, twitching ears—lay low and stiff, betraying exhaustion. Your tail flicked with tension behind you, and your narrow eyes scanned the hallway until they landed on him.

You didn’t smile. You never really did, not with your mouth.

But your pace slowed.

And then you crossed the hall and sat down beside him.

You didn’t speak.

Shinsou didn’t either.

There wasn’t any need.

You just sat there, your smaller frame shifting carefully as if every movement still hurt a little. You were fast during the festival—nimble, almost untouchable. Until that upperclassman sent a blastwave that knocked you into a wall.

You hadn’t screamed.

You hadn’t cried.

You’d landed like a cat—silent, stunned, and glaring.

Now, up close, Shinsou could see the fine bruising along your jaw. Your ears were still drooped slightly, flicking once in a while toward sounds down the hallway. Alert, always alert.

You leaned back against the wall, head tilting faintly in his direction. Not enough to meet his eyes. Just… there.

Present.

Your tail brushed the ground near his boot.

Not quite a touch. But close enough to feel intentional.

Shinsou blinked slowly, unsure what to do with the quiet thrum under his skin.

No words. No noise. Just the two of you, bruised and breathing.

And somehow—

That was enough.

He let out a quiet sigh.

“…You fought well,” he murmured, mostly to himself.