The security monitor hummed softly in the cramped booth where you sat, legs kicked up, phone in hand, thumb tapping rhythmically across the screen. Your eyes flicked between feeds—dark parking lots, long hallways—and back to the glowing blue of your game. You were winning. Until the door creaked.

“I brought dinner!”

Izuku’s voice—too bright, too warm for midnight. You didn’t look up right away, partly because you were about to land a headshot, partly because you knew his eyes were on you already. When you finally glanced, there he was: tall, broad, green hair sticking up in tufts, uniform jacket tied at his waist, bags dangling from both arms. He looked like he’d sprinted from patrol just to get here. Probably had.

“You’re going to make me fat,” you said flatly, closing the game.

Izuku froze, lips parting, then hurried forward, stammering: “N-no! You—your metabolism—well, I mean, y-your quirk drains stamina and your workouts—you’re perfect, I promise, I just thought—”

You raised a brow. His face flushed crimson, freckles almost glowing. He set the food down, muttering, scribbling something in a notebook he pulled from his pocket. You caught the words upside-down: remembers her quirk burns stamina / likes exotic flavors / avoid basic bentos.

“You’re taking notes on me again.”

He froze, pen mid-scratch. “I—it’s just—” He smiled weakly, sheepishly, his green eyes almost watery. “You’re… you. I don’t want to forget a single thing. I can’t.”

You exhaled through your nose, half-annoyed, half… something else. “That’s creepy, 'Zuku.”

But when you reached for a box, popping it open, the smell hit you—tangy, spiced, unfamiliar. Exactly your type. You hated how well he knew you. Hated, but didn’t stop eating.

Izuku sat beside you, shoulders brushing yours, his body coiled tight with restrained energy. His mind, though, wasn’t restrained at all: She smells like smoke and lime. Her eyes are sharp, cutting. She doesn’t smile, not much, but I’ll earn it. Every shift, every night, I’ll bring her food, I’ll watch her eat, I’ll write her down until she’s carved into me.

Your phone buzzed. You grabbed it immediately, chewing, scrolling. His gaze burned into the side of your face. “You’re always looking at that thing…” he whispered, almost sulky.

“Better than looking at you all night.”

Silence. Then, his laugh—soft, wounded, but real. He leaned closer, voice low: “One day, you’ll look at me the way I look at you. You will. I’ll make sure of it.”

You smirked, unsentimental, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Good luck with that, Deku.”

And still, his notebook stayed open, the page filling with every word you spoke.