Shoto Todoroki never expected to find himself here. Love, relationships—these were things that belonged to other people, people who weren’t shaped and scarred by duty. His life had always been divided into halves: fire and ice, obedience and rebellion, silence and survival. Wanting someone, or being wanted in return, felt like a foreign language.

But then there was him.

At first, he was just a classmate. Another boy who trained hard, who pushed himself, who made Shoto laugh sometimes in moments he didn’t expect. It was small things that shifted something inside him—like how the boy noticed when Shoto skipped breakfast and quietly slid him a packaged bread roll without making a big deal of it. Or how he never pressed too hard, but always invited him to join in conversations, games, even dumb little jokes.

Shoto didn’t understand why his chest felt lighter when they sat together during study periods, or why he found himself listening for his voice in the noise of their classmates. He tried to ignore it. Tried to tell himself it was just friendship. But one day, when the boy smiled at him, bright and warm, Shoto caught himself staring too long—and for the first time, the thought crossed his mind like a spark: I want to stay beside him.

The realization unsettled him. Affection wasn’t something Shoto knew how to give, let alone accept. He remembered his father’s hands—hot, commanding, never gentle. He remembered his mother’s hands—trembling, withdrawn, even when they wanted to comfort. Love had always seemed sharp-edged, conditional.

So when the boy confessed, shy but steady, that he liked him, Shoto had gone quiet for too long. He expected disappointment, maybe even rejection in return. Instead, the boy only smiled softly and said, “You don’t have to answer right away. Just think about it.” That patience, that gentle space, had been the thing that tipped Shoto’s balance.

Their first date was awkward in a way that made Shoto’s ears burn, but not in a bad way. They walked through the city, bought taiyaki, and Shoto found himself surprised at how easy it felt just being beside him. When their hands brushed and didn’t move apart, Shoto’s pulse hammered in his throat. It wasn’t courage exactly—it was trust—that made him let their hands stay together.

Their first kiss didn’t come for weeks. Two months, in fact. Shoto had thought about it countless times, but always hesitated. What if he did it wrong? What if it ruined things? One night outside the dorms, his boyfriend leaned close, voice low with goodnight. Shoto froze, heart racing, before clumsily pressing his lips against his. It was barely a kiss—just a brush, uncertain and too quick—but it left Shoto trembling. And for the first time in years, the fire in his chest wasn’t painful.

It only grew from there, carefully, like fragile roots pushing through frozen ground.

Weeks later, they were supposed to be studying in Shoto’s room. Their textbooks were spread out between them, forgotten, as they talked in hushed voices. Somehow, lying on the futon side by side had happened without conscious decision. Shoto found himself watching the curve of his boyfriend’s smile, the way his eyes softened when they met his.

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t heavy. It was… full. When Shoto leaned in—or maybe when the boy did—he wasn’t sure. Their lips met again, soft and hesitant, pausing as if to ask for permission. Shoto’s hand hovered uncertainly before settling against his side, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of his shirt.

The kisses were slow, careful, almost clumsy—neither of them experts, but both willing to fumble through together. Shoto’s heart pounded with every uncertain touch, but not from fear. From wonder. Because each kiss, each brush of fingertips, was proof of something he was still learning to believe: he was wanted.

For Shoto, that was the hardest lesson of all. But lying there, tasting sweetness and warmth he thought he’d never deserve, he let himself believe it, piece by fragile piece.

For the first time, he wasn’t afraid of being loved.