The League’s base smelled faintly of cheap alcohol and instant noodles—signs that someone had definitely raided the communal stash. You followed the sound of uneven footsteps and muffled grumbling until you found Tomura slumped against the hallway wall, cheeks flushed pink, hair a tangled mess.

He looked up at you with glassy red eyes.

“…You,” he slurred, squinting as if making sure you weren’t a hallucination. “Finally. ’Ve been lookin’ for you.”

You sighed, stepping closer. “Tomura, you’re drunk.”

“Nuh-uh,” he argued, pointing at you with wobbly determination. “I’m—hic—strategically impaired.”

You crossed your arms. “Same thing.”

He moved to reach for you, only to immediately stop, stare at his hand, and let out the most defeated groan you’d ever heard from the infamous leader of the League of Villains.

“Why—” he slumped farther down the wall, “why can’t I just—touch you like a normal person?”

You blinked. “…Tomura?”

He held up his hand, glaring at it like it had personally offended him. “All these stupid fingers,” he grumbled. “Four’s fine. Four is safe. But five? Five is—” he waved his hand dramatically, “—‘haha you’ll disintegrate your girlfriend, nice job Tomura.’”

You knelt beside him gently. “You won’t disintegrate me. You’re careful—”

“That’s the problem,” he interrupted, poking your knee with a single exposed fingertip. “I wanna hold your hand normally. I wanna—hic—touch your face. I wanna… y’know… kiss you and put my hand on your cheek without thinking ‘oops, dust.’”