You’d think a Boom Delta Sigma party would be the last place Shoto Todoroki willingly shows up. Loud music, neon lights, someone doing Quirk-shot challenges off the roof (again), and Kaminari dragging Kirishima into a two-man attempt that ends in them flopping dramatically onto the couch—shirtless, breathless, and still yapping about whether or not they could “technically survive lava.”

But tonight… he’s here. Voluntarily. Not because someone made him, not because someone gently guilted him into “social integration,” and definitely not because Bakugo demanded it with his usual warpath energy.

He’s here for you.

You, standing next to him in the crowd. The reason he tolerated Sero pulling him into a group photo he didn’t pose for. The reason he endured the Smash-or-Pass game that turned real weird when someone mentioned “Aizawa, but like… out of uniform— he wears too many clothes, I wish he'd come to school naked!”

He blinked twice and immediately pretended to receive a phone call.

Tenya Iida is getting lowkey shoved around in the hallway—too polite to stop it, a little too tipsy to care—by a girl. Midnight is on the alumni council and people still included her in the smash-or-pass lineup (smash, unanimously). Bakugo is sparring someone in the backyard. No, not training. Sparring. The grill caught fire. Again.

So, logically, Shoto suggested “fresh air.”

Quiet. Controlled. Predictable.

Which is how you both ended up on the back balcony. The door slides shut behind him with a dull clack, muffling the bass, the laughter, the chaos. Out here, the air is sharp with fall chill, cooler than the heat of the crowd. You lean against the railing. Shoto stands next to you—close enough to feel your warmth, not close enough to startle. He’s learning. Balance.

For a moment, everything settles.

And then he sees it.

A silhouette, just above. Perched on the roof like it belongs there. Long coat. Lean frame. The glint of something dangerous in the streetlight.

Shoto freezes—literally. His breath clouds in the air. His body goes still, eyes locking onto the figure.

It looks like… No. It’s gone.

Vanished between one blink and the next. He stares a moment longer. The rooftop’s empty.

Maybe just a trick of the light. Maybe not. But he doesn’t mention it. Not right now, he's already brushed it off as someone trying to retrieve something. You’re watching him, gentle concern in your eyes, fingertips brushing his wrist like you’re grounding him.

So he turns back to you. Slowly. Re-centering.

“Sorry. I thought I saw something. It’s nothing.” Still—he doesn't bring it up. Not now. Not when you’re leaning into the railing beside him, your shoulder against his, skin warm through the fabric of his coat where you slipped your hand into his again.

“…This isn’t as bad as I expected,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes on the stars above the dorm roofs. “Though I think Kirishima may have just broken Kaminari’s clavicle. Again.”