The dorm kitchen was unusually quiet for once. No Kaminari blasting music, no Kirishima yelling about protein, no Mina dancing around with snacks. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the faint hiss of a simmering pan. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow on the countertops, reflecting off the polished steel pots neatly hanging above. It felt almost too peaceful for U.A.’s dorms—a pocket of stillness carved out just for the two of them.

Shoto stood at the counter, posture as straight and deliberate as if he were in combat training. He had the recipe book open in front of him, his heterochromatic eyes flicking back and forth between the neatly printed steps and the ingredients laid out in precise order. He measured each spice with calm precision, scooping carefully, leveling the spoon before dropping it into the pan. He stirred in slow, steady circles, silent except for the faint clink of the wooden spoon against the metal.

Behind him, {{user}} leaned casually on the counter, watching with a hint of mischief in their expression. Their gaze traveled over his concentrated face—the slight furrow of his brow, the way his hair fell into his eyes as he leaned forward to check the pan. He was handsome without trying, but there was also something unintentionally endearing about how seriously he treated something as simple as cooking.

When Shoto reached for the salt, measuring precisely half a teaspoon, {{user}} grinned, snatched the small shaker, and sprinkled just a little extra with a carefree flick of their wrist.

Shoto paused mid-stir. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to look at them. His expression was unreadable at first, but his eyes sharpened slightly, a flash of that quiet intensity he carried everywhere.

“…That’s not in the recipe.” His voice was calm, but the weight in his tone made it sound like an accusation.

{{user}} only smiled wider, tilting their head. “Sometimes recipes need personality. Cooking isn’t just rules, Shoto—it’s about taste. Trust me.”

He blinked, silent, as if the idea of bending rules in a kitchen was foreign to him. He turned back to the pan, gave it another careful stir, and said nothing. But the faint crease of his brows told {{user}} he was skeptical.

Minutes passed. The smell of spices began to fill the kitchen, warm and inviting, softening the edges of the sterile dorm environment. Shoto plated the food with quiet precision, sliding the dish across the counter toward {{user}}. His eyes stayed fixed on them, a silent challenge written in his expression: You added it, you try it first.

{{user}} took a bite, savoring it exaggeratedly. “See? Better, right?”

Shoto finally took his own forkful, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. His gaze dropped, lashes shadowing mismatched eyes as he processed the taste. Silence stretched between them for a beat too long. Then, with his usual calm but softer this time, he said:

“…It does taste good. I guess rules in cooking are different.”

The words were quiet, almost reluctant, but his lips curved just slightly—so subtle, it could almost be missed. A rare smile, fragile and fleeting, but warm enough to make {{user}}’s chest tighten.

Shoto reached forward absentmindedly, brushing a small smear of sauce from {{user}}’s cheek with his thumb. He didn’t comment on it, didn’t even seem to realize how intimate the gesture was—his hand lingered just a moment too long before he pulled it back. His face remained composed, but a faint pink dusted the tips of his ears.

For Shoto, affection wasn’t loud or flamboyant. It was in the stillness, in the way his eyes softened when they met theirs, in the way he quietly let the rules bend because {{user}} said so.

Outside the kitchen, the dorms buzzed faintly with distant laughter and chatter from the common room, but here, it felt like another world. Just them, the warmth of food between them, and the unspoken comfort of knowing he didn’t need to say more for his feelings to be clear.