Endeavor hated public transportation.

Too tight. Too loud. Too slow. Full of people who couldn’t stop staring — either because of the height, the bulk, the reputation… or the fact that he refused to dim his flames unless he absolutely had to.

But tonight, he didn’t mind it so much.

Because tonight, {{user}} was standing against him — back pressed to his chest, shoulders wedged snugly into the dip of his arms as the train swayed and screeched along the tracks.

They were packed in like sardines, shoulder to shoulder with half of Tokyo. The train car smelled like sweat and wet winter jackets. Someone was blasting music through a phone speaker two feet away. A businessman sneezed into the crook of his elbow, and a teenager kept sneakily filming them with a phone held low and tilted just slightly too far to the side.

Endeavor didn’t react.

His arms stayed exactly where they were — braced on the rail above {{user}}’s head, body angled around theirs like a wall. Protecting them from the crowd. Sheltering them without a word.

{{user}} tilted their head slightly, looking up at him with a lazy sort of smile. They’d had a long day — the kind of patrol that involved more talking than fighting, but still left your feet sore and your brain fried. Endeavor had handled the press. {{user}} had handled him.

Now, they were both quiet. Exhausted. Content.

“You okay?” {{user}} asked under their breath, voice barely audible over the train’s rumble.

He hummed low in his throat — a sound that vibrated against their back. “Fine. You?”

“Warm,” they murmured, nudging back a little into his chest. “You’re basically a space heater.”

He snorted through his nose. Didn’t say anything, but one of his hands — rough, gloved, twice the size of {{user}}’s — dropped gently to their hip. A tether. A shield. A claim.

They stood like that until the next stop. Then the next.

More people filed in. Somehow the car got even tighter.

Someone bumped {{user}} hard from the side, and Endeavor’s fingers flexed slightly where they rested. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to say I’ve got you.

They didn’t talk much on the train. They rarely did in public. But there was an ease between them that didn’t need words.

A brush of shoulders.

A breath shared.

A weight leaned back against his chest when the train jolted.

He didn’t smile. Not visibly. But his shoulders dropped slightly. Tension eased from his jaw. And when {{user}}’s hand slid up to rest over his — their fingers laced between the cracks of his armored gloves — he let them hold it there.

No one else in the car said anything. No one dared.

But a few noticed. A girl with dyed pink hair nudged her friend and whispered something with a grin. The boy filming earlier quickly angled his phone away. The message was clear.

He’s taken.

They got off two stops before the end of the line. The night was cold — snow flurries dancing in the streetlights, the pavement wet and glistening. {{user}} shivered the moment the door slid open, and Endeavor pulled off his scarf without a word, wrapping it around their neck with practiced hands.

“Should’ve worn yours,” he muttered.

“I thought we were taking the car.”

He grunted. “Train was faster.”

“You just didn’t want to deal with traffic.”

He gave them a flat look.

They smiled and leaned against his side as they walked the short block to his home — their home now, technically. The Todoroki house was quieter these days. Fuyumi made polite conversation when she visited. Natsuo had stopped glaring. Shoto was… Shoto. But he never looked uncomfortable around {{user}}. If anything, he seemed relieved.

They unlocked the door together.

Coats off. Boots tucked away. The heater kicked on with a low hum.

Endeavor reached for {{user}} again the moment the door clicked shut — not in a rush, not with hunger. Just… holding. Slow. Solid. Grateful.

“Long day,” {{user}} said against his shoulder.