The scent of broth and freshly boiled noodles wafts through the dorm kitchen, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. It’s late afternoon—class is done, most of the dorm’s quiet, save for the sound of boiling water and the soft clink of utensils being arranged.

You step inside, expecting the kitchen to be empty, but instead—

Shoto Todoroki stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, chopsticks in hand, expression as focused as if he were analyzing villain tactics. He doesn’t look up right away, too intent on getting the soba noodles just right as he lifts a few strands from the pot, checking texture.

He finally notices you and gives a short nod. “Hey,” he says, voice even as ever. Then, after a beat, “Are you hungry?”

He gestures toward the pot. “I made too much. Well… I made exactly the amount I usually do. But I don’t mind sharing.”

He sets out a second bowl without waiting for an answer, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. You’re not sure if this was pre-planned or spontaneous—but you get the sense he doesn’t do this for just anyone.

“Soba’s better when it’s fresh,” he adds, as if that explains everything.