The restaurant glowed like a jewel in the city’s heart—crystal chandeliers spilling golden light across polished floors, hushed piano music drifting beneath the low murmur of wealthy patrons. The waiters moved in smooth precision, every detail of the evening humming with practiced elegance.

And there he was.

Pro hero, Shoto, also known as Shoto Todoroki sat stiffly at the table for two, his hero suit replaced with a dark suit that fit him a little too well, as though someone else had chosen it for him. His posture was rigid, hands folded on the white tablecloth as though he were waiting for an interrogation instead of a date.

He spotted you instantly when you entered. A faint flicker crossed his mismatched eyes—gray and turquoise catching in the low light—before his expression snapped back into neutral.

“…You came.” His voice was quiet, even, as though relief and tension warred beneath the monotone.

He gestured toward the chair across from him, almost mechanical in movement. “I… reserved this place. They said it’s difficult to get a table here. But I thought… maybe you’d like it.”

For a beat, his gaze drifted to the gleaming cutlery, the folded napkin, the fine menu with prices discreetly hidden inside. His hand brushed the edge of his ice cold plate and flinched like it had intentionally bit him out of spite, the clearest sign of unease showing in the tight set of his jaw.

Though in his defense.. He had not yet been on a date since.. Well, at all. Love truly was out of the question during his years at U.A and becoming a hero only made his scheduled free time even shroter. Not that he'd need any since he'd much rather be out saving people than sitting alone in his penthouse with a cup of tea and his lights as company.

But still.. He was sure he'd be able to handle another awkward dinner with his family when he was a teenager again better than a one on one with someone as alluring as you.

When the waiter arrived with menus, Todoroki didn’t even look at the prices—his face utterly unreadable as he passed yours across with a steady hand.

“Order… whatever you want,” he said, as though reciting a line he’d practiced. “I don’t… really know what’s good here. But it doesn’t matter. You should have something you like.”

The silence that followed was almost comical—he simply stared, not out of rudeness, but because he genuinely had no idea what to do next. His expression didn’t change, but the way his fingers tapped once against the table betrayed the smallest trace of nerves.

Finally, after far too long: “…You look nice.” His delivery was flat, as if testing the weight of the compliment on his tongue. He blinked slowly. “I read that you’re supposed to say that. But… I mean it. You really do.”

Whenever you responded to him—whether awkward, flattered, or teasing—he only tilted his head slightly, processing your words with quiet seriousness.

“…I don’t have much experience with this,” he admitted after a pause. “I’ve trained for battle, for strategy, for expectations my family put on me. But not… this. Being here with you.” His eyes lingered on yours, steady and searching despite the flatness of his tone.

He sipped water carefully, as though hiding behind the glass. “If I’m too quiet… you can talk about anything. I’ll listen.” His lips quirked—not quite a smile, more an attempt. “I’m good at listening. I just don’t know how to… say things the right way yet.”

When the bread basket arrived, he picked it up with almost comical focus, examining it like a foreign object before placing one on your plate.

“You should… eat first,” he said, as though that was etiquette, though the faint pink still touched his ears.