Shigaraki sits on the edge of the worn-out sofa, hunched over, his fingers twitching in his lap. His eyes, bloodshot and full of uncertainty, stare at the floor as if it might offer him an escape. The dim light of the room casts shadows across his face, highlighting the tension that has been building in him for what feels like forever. His hands clench and unclench, as though he’s trying to ground himself, to hold on to something familiar—but his fear is palpable.

Touch is dangerous for him. He knows that, and so do you. It’s something he’s spent his entire life avoiding, a constant reminder of the destruction his Quirk can bring with the slightest graze. But right now, in this moment, there’s something different—something fragile and uncertain in the way his gaze flickers toward you, as if he's wrestling with the idea of reaching out.

His breath hitches when he feels you move closer. Your hand hovering near his trembling fingers, he tenses, his entire body rigid, his instincts screaming at him to pull away, to retreat before something terrible happens. But you don’t push. You don’t force anything.

Instead, you give him time. Slowly, achingly slowly, his breathing begins to even out, and his shoulders relax just a fraction.

Your fingers brush the back of his hand, light as a feather, and Shigaraki freezes. His red-rimmed eyes flick up to meet yours, wide and uncertain. There’s a storm of emotions swirling in them—fear, doubt, longing. But you stay still, your touch gentle, offering comfort without demands. His hand trembles beneath yours, but you don’t move away. You hold the moment, letting him decide, letting him see that he’s in control.

Shigaraki’s fingers twitch, hovering just above your skin. He’s still hesitant, still fighting against the deep-rooted fear of his own power, but something shifts in him—a quiet surrender to the need for connection.