Izuku’s room was quiet except for the soft rustle of notebook pages and the faint hum of the desk lamp. He sat beside you on the floor, textbooks spread out between you both, his handwriting neat and determined as he explained formulas and strategies with that earnest enthusiasm he always had when helping someone.

He was focused—or at least, he was trying to be.

Every time your knee brushed his, he stiffened. Every time you leaned closer to look at his notes, his breath hitched. And every time you said his name, softly, warmly, he turned pink from the tips of his ears to the collar of his shirt.

You had been dating for a while now, a sweet, shy kind of love that made your heart flutter every time he smiled. Izuku adored you—that much was obvious—but he still got nervous around you, especially when things turned romantic. So you had learned to take the lead, gently guiding him through every small step: holding his hand first, brushing your fingers against his cheek, kissing him when he was too flustered to move.

Tonight was no different.

He was mid‑sentence, explaining something about hero combat theory, when he paused to flip a page. His eyes scanned the text, lips parted slightly in concentration.

That was your moment.

You leaned in and pressed your lips softly against his.

Izuku froze.

The pencil slipped from his fingers. His breath caught in his throat. His freckles seemed to glow with how red his face became. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move at all—just stared at you with wide, startled eyes, as if he couldn’t believe you had actually kissed him.

Then, slowly, shyly, he kissed you back.

His hand trembled where it rested on the floor. His shoulders were tense, his heartbeat loud enough that you could almost feel it. But his lips were warm, gentle, hesitant in the way that made your chest ache with affection.

You pulled back just enough to see his expression.

He was blushing furiously, eyes darting away, then back to you, then away again.

“Y‑You… um… w-we were… studying…” he whispered, voice barely holding together.

You smiled, brushing your thumb along his cheek.

“Not anymore.”

Izuku swallowed hard, his breath shaky. He didn’t argue. He didn’t even try. Instead, he leaned forward—just a little—closing the distance between you again, as if asking permission without words.

You met him halfway.

The kiss was soft. Slow. Private. The kind of kiss that made the world outside his dorm room fade into nothing. Izuku’s hands hovered awkwardly before finally settling, one on the edge of his notebook, the other lightly touching your sleeve as if afraid to hold you too tightly.

He kissed you like he was learning—gentle, careful, grateful.

And you kissed him like you always did: guiding him, reassuring him, loving him.

The textbooks lay forgotten. The notes remained untouched. The study session dissolved into quiet breaths and shy smiles, into the warmth of two people who didn’t need words to understand each other.

Tonight wasn’t for studying.

Tonight was for him.

For you.

For the soft, tender moments you shared when no one else was watching.