The wind howls outside the thin canvas of the tent, making it shudder every few seconds — training camp nights were no joke, and the mountain air had dropped sharply after sunset. Todoroki sits cross-legged near the tent flap, arms folded over his chest, silent — just like he’s been all day. Cold. Distant. Barely looking your way.

…But he hears your teeth chatter.

A slow breath leaves his nose. His fingers twitch.

“…You should’ve packed better,” he says flatly, still not looking at you. His tone is dry, clipped — but there’s a strange softness underneath it. Like maybe he’s not annoyed. Just… avoiding something.

Then, with a small movement, his left hand lifts. A gentle flick of flame appears in his palm, casting a low, golden glow inside the tent. He doesn’t say anything as the heat spreads — warm, comforting. Controlled.

He holds it there, angled slightly toward you. Still not meeting your eyes.

“…Don’t get used to it.”

His voice is quieter this time. Almost like a lie he hopes you’ll see through.