The door creaked open slowly.

You’d spent the last hour outside it, knocking softly, calling his name, trying to convince him to let you in. Izuku hadn’t answered at first—too ashamed, too overwhelmed, too unsure of what to say. But eventually, the lock clicked, and you stepped inside.

The room was dim, quiet, the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon light.

And there he was.

—or rather, she was.

Izuku stood near the bed, arms wrapped around herself, eyes wide and uncertain. Her curly green hair now cascaded down to her waist, soft and unruly. Her eyelashes were longer, framing eyes that still held the same nervous sparkle. Her features had softened—cheekbones more delicate, jaw less angular—but the expression was unmistakably his.

Her voice, when she spoke, was higher. Sharper. But still trembling with the same vulnerability you’d always known.

“So… how do I look?” she murmured, cheeks flushed pink.

You didn’t answer right away.

You just looked at her—really looked.

Not with shock.

Not with pity.

But with quiet awe.

Because even now, even like this, Izuku was still Izuku. Still the boy who’d trained until his bones ached. Still the friend who cried when others were hurt. Still the hero who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and never stopped trying.

You stepped closer, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“You look like someone who’s still brave,” you said softly. “Still kind. Still you.”

Izuku blinked, startled.

Then her eyes shimmered, and her shoulders relaxed just a little.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

You smiled.

“We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And in that moment, the shame began to fade—replaced by something stronger.

Trust.