Snow blanketed the training lodge like a whisper, soft and relentless. The kind that swallowed sound and smoothed the world into silence. It was the third day of U.A.’s Winter Survival Training—an intensive week designed to toughen Class 1-A’s mental and physical endurance in extreme conditions. Shoto Todoroki had expected exhaustion, frostbite, maybe the occasional scolding from Aizawa. What he hadn’t expected was you.

You weren’t part of their class, not exactly. A support-course student temporarily assigned to assist with logistics and recovery drills. You worked quietly on the sidelines—checking supplies, tending to minor injuries, staying out of the way. He’d seen you before, in the background. A name, a quiet nod in the hallway. Nothing more.

Until the room assignments changed that.

A clerical error—or maybe just someone not double-checking the roster—had paired you and Shoto in the same cabin. One room, two beds, no privacy. The teachers insisted it was fine. “You’re both mature,” they said. “It’s temporary.”

He didn’t argue. You didn’t either.

To his surprise, the awkwardness never came. You kept your distance, spoke only when needed. Shoto had always preferred silence; with you, it never felt heavy. If anything, it settled between you like fresh snowfall—light, easy, unobtrusive.

But even stillness could be disrupted.

The snowstorm hit suddenly, just as the sun dipped below the ridge. You’d gone with a small team to retrieve simulation gear, and in the chaos, your bag was left exposed to the elements. By the time you returned, your gloves were soaked, your coat stiff with ice, your shoulders hunched with cold.

You didn’t complain. You just sat on the edge of your bed, shivering quietly, fingertips pale.

Shoto watched you for a moment from his corner of the room. You weren’t shaking for attention. You weren’t dramatic about it. But something in the way you held yourself—tightly, like you didn’t want to be a burden—made him move before he could stop himself.

He stood, walked over to his bed, and pulled a folded sweatshirt from where it was tucked under his pillow.

Wordlessly, he held it out to you.

“…Here,” he said. “It’s warm.”

He didn’t stay to watch you take it. He turned away as soon as your fingers brushed the fabric, as if it wasn’t a big deal. As if the soft pull in his chest wasn’t new or unfamiliar.

But that moment stayed with him longer than the cold ever did.