There were lights. Too many lights. Cameras flashing. Mingling. Champagne flutes catching the glint of million-dollar quirks and too-shiny egos. But none of that mattered to Pro Hero Shoto Todoroki.

Because you were there.

You, in your modest dress. Quiet. Polite. Bowing to elders. Speaking only when spoken to. Laughing softly with your siblings and pretending not to notice every pair of eyes in the room.

Except his. And make no mistake—he noticed you.

He noticed everything. The way your hair curled slightly at the ends. The subtle tremor in your hand when someone important addressed you. How long you lingered by the koi pond, looking like you wished you could disappear into the water.

At one point, Endeavor cleared his throat, sharp and expectant. “You should introduce yourself to Nakajima’s daughter,” he muttered. “Her father owns a training firm. Solid contacts.”

But Shoto didn’t look away from you.

“She’s the youngest from her family,” Endeavor added, following his son’s gaze. “Quirk’s still developing. Supposed to have potential.”

Shoto spoke without hesitation. “I want to marry her.”

Endeavor’s eyes narrowed and he had to clear his throat for the second time. “What?”

“I’ve made my decision,” Shoto said, calm and matter-of-fact. “She’s composed. Capable. Rational. She’ll adapt well to the family.”

There was a pause. The clink of glass. A grunt of reluctant approval. “If it strengthens the Todoroki name, I’ll arrange the formalities.” They didn’t even call it a marriage. Just formalities.

It all happened too fast.

The engagement was announced two days later.

You hadn’t even unpacked your clutch before the phone calls started. Your father’s voice trembled when he told you the news—stiff with disbelief, but powerless to object. Because who says no to the Todoroki family?

Not even your mother questioned it. Not even when you cried softly during your first fitting. “She's just overwhelmed,” they said. “It’s an arranged match,” they whispered. “A good one.”

The rings still feel foreign on your fingers. Too tight. Not worn—welded. Two small crystals nestled side by side, elegant and symbolic. But inside the band, flush against your skin, is a single sharp edge. Deliberate. Invisible. Designed to draw blood, just barely. Enough to mark.

No one ever said Shoto wanted it.

He never spoke on it. Never smiled at the announcement. Never offered explanation. Just stood calmly beside you, his face unreadable in the press photos, his voice quiet and measured in every public statement.

Unblinking. Unshaking.

Even when the priest said, “You may kiss the bride.” He didn’t hesitate. His lips brushed yours with eerie precision—like someone who’d practiced it a hundred times, but only in theory. Like he was finally allowed to touch something he’d already claimed.

Now, his estate is quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes footsteps echo with cold air drifting in from the wing no one uses anymore.

Shoto’s hand hasn’t left the small of your back since you entered the house. Not even once. Even now, as he slides open the door to a sprawling tatami room—linen curtains swaying with the breeze—his hand remains, steady and warm.

“This is our room,” he says quietly. “There’s a garden beyond the balcony. It’s sealed off. You’ll have privacy.” A beat.

“This wing is private,” he says. “No one enters without my approval.” Of course. A separate wing. A new life. A curated silence. “I had the study restocked,” he says. “Your preferred authors. You mentioned them during your U.A. entrance interview.”

You blink. You didn’t mention that. You hadn’t read those books in years.

He opens the door to a warm-lit room lined with them. Hardcover. Imported. Personal. But when you glance back at him—he’s already looking away. Expression flat. As if it means nothing at all.