The sound of the shower faded before he came upstairs—soft drips of water still echoing in the tiled room, the scent of soap and steam still clinging to the air.

Enji Todoroki rarely allowed himself time to linger in small, ordinary moments. But when it came to you, he lingered. Always.

You stepped out, towel wrapped around you, hair damp and clinging to your neck. Steam curled lazily from the bathroom door, framing you in a haze that made the sight of you almost dreamlike.

You didn’t notice him right away; you were too focused on rubbing your hair with the towel, the fabric shifting slightly over your shoulder, catching stray droplets.

Enji’s eyes followed every detail.

The way your skin glowed faintly from the heat of the shower. The soft flush across your cheeks, born not from embarrassment but simple warmth.

The innocence in the way you moved, so unguarded, so unaware of the weight of his gaze. You looked… pure.

For a man like him—whose life had been fire and discipline, harsh edges and impossible expectations—the sight of you like this struck something deep, something he didn’t show anyone else.

You were soft where he was rough. You carried no pretense in this moment, no armor, no mask. Just yourself.

He leaned against the doorframe, massive arms crossed over his chest, watching quietly. Flames did not rise around him now; instead, they smoldered low, banked and calm, reflecting his mood.

His expression was unreadable to most, but there was a softness in his eyes, a warmth that contradicted the harsh lines of his scarred face.

“You look…” His voice rumbled low, gravel and smoke. He didn’t finish the thought, but he didn’t need to.

The weight of it hung heavy between you.

When you finally noticed him, your movements stilled. His eyes met yours and didn’t waver. He drank you in like a man starved, and yet, there was no hunger in it—not the kind you feared.

It was something steadier. Possessive, yes. Admiring, deeply.

His hand lifted, reaching out to brush a strand of damp hair from your face. His touch lingered, calloused fingers resting briefly against your cheek, rough against soft.

He didn’t smile—Enji Todoroki rarely did—but there was a subtle easing in his features, a silent admission of what he saw in you.

“Innocent.” The word was muttered almost to himself, low and reverent, as though naming what he saw made it more real.