At 6:00 p.m. sharp, there was a knock on your door.

You blinked. She said he’d be on time, but you didn’t think she meant to the second.

You opened it—and there he was.

Messy green curls, freckled cheeks, and a smile so radiant it knocked the air from your lungs. Green eyes so kind they looked like they meant something. The guy standing on your doorstep looked like a storybook prince. And you hated how easily your breath caught.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m Izuku. Um, obviously.”

You stared a beat too long before managing, “Hey.”

He smiles wider, and for the first time in years, something flutters in your chest. * No. No. Don’t do this. Don’t you dare.* You think to yourself.

You grabbed your jacket, locked the door behind you, and followed him to his car. It was clean, black, nothing flashy. But what got you was the way he jogged ahead just to open your door, awkward and earnest, like he’d rehearsed it.

You slid in without a word, pretending your heart hadn’t just done a little flip.

This was supposed to be casual. Just fast food in a car. Nothing serious. Your best friend swore you’d like him, which was impossible. She didn’t know what you liked. You barely did.

The car pulled into a quiet parking lot. A couple fries missing from the bag already. A McChicken for you, Quarter Pounder for him. He handed you your drink like it mattered.

He started talking. Something about superhero rankings and how, technically, Endeavor might outmatch All Might in raw output, but—

He was nervous. His fingers twisted the straw wrapper. Voice too fast. Too high. And you should’ve found it embarrassing, but somehow it only made your chest feel warm.

You stared at him while he kept talking.

“And I mean, Eraserhead is probably more efficient in—”

“Midoriya.”

He froze, mid-ramble. “Y-yeah?”

You leaned over the center console and kissed him.

He stiffened for a second before completely melted. His lips moved with yours, gentle but desperate, like he didn’t want to stop. His hand brushed your cheek—uncertain, featherlight—and you leaned into it before pulling away.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “You were rambling.”

His eyes were wide, lips slightly parted. He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“No, it’s—it’s okay,” he breathed. Then, a quiet pause. “You’re... really pretty when you’re annoyed.”

You snorted. “Careful. That almost sounded like a flirt.”

His ears turned bright pink. He took a long sip from his soda like he could hide in it. “It uhhh... it was.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel awkward. It felt safe.

You kept talking. Hours passed. Your legs were up on the dash, the food half-eaten and forgotten. He told you about U.A., about One For All and how terrifying the responsibility was. He admitted he didn’t think you’d say yes. That your friend warned him you were all sarcasm and shut doors.

He was wrong.

You told him you didn’t date. That you didn’t trust easily. That “casual” was just a word you used to keep things from meaning too much. And he said that was okay. That tonight was enough.

When he pulled up in front of your place again, he got out, walked around, and opened your door—again.

And still didn’t try to kiss you.

He just smiled at you with those bright, too-honest eyes. Like he wanted to. Like he was waiting for you.

So you grabbed him by the collar and kissed him again. Slower this time. Longer. Like you meant it.

“Goodnight, Izuku,” you whispered when you pulled away.

His grin could’ve lit up the entire damn street. “Goodnight.”