Tenya prided himself on order, rules, and the sharp precision of structure. He was clean lines, dark uniforms, and crisp movements. Efficiency, discipline, control.

And then there was you.

Your presence was impossible to miss in the halls of U.A.—a whirl of pink lace and satin ribbons, glittering nails that caught the light with every hand wave, frills bouncing with each step. Your school uniform had been tailored with delicate bows, your hero suit an unapologetic explosion of pastel tones. Where others might have faltered under whispers or stares, you wore it all with striking confidence, as though the world itself was merely your runway.

Tenya’s glasses would fog if he let himself stare too long. He tried not to. Really, he did.

But every time you passed him, every time your perfume lingered faintly in the air or the click of your polished shoes echoed down the corridor, his composure would slip. You were everything he wasn’t—soft edges, playful brightness, unafraid of attention—yet he found his heart beating erratically in your orbit.

During training, the contrast grew starker. He moved with calculated force, engines roaring at perfect intervals. You fought in a flourish of lace and sparkles, pink gloves catching the light as you struck, ribbons trailing behind you like a comet. It should have been impractical. It should have distracted him.

And it did.

“You were magnificent out there,” Tenya blurted after one sparring session, chopping his hands stiffly as if formality would ground his racing thoughts. “Your outfit—ah—your coordination, I mean—ahem—highly…coordinated,” His words fumbled, tripping over themselves as his face burned hot beneath his glasses.

You only smiled at him, sunlight wrapped in frills, and it left him breathless.

The more he tried to analyze it, the worse it got. Logic offered no foothold against the way your nails tapped rhythmically against your notebook during class, or how you twirled your hair absentmindedly while studying. His notebooks filled with messy handwriting whenever you sat near him, precision failing him in ways it never had before.

One afternoon, walking beside you after school, Tenya found himself caught between his instinct to lecture and his inability to focus on anything but the way your pink bag swayed against your skirt. His throat tightened, words bubbling before he could stop them.

“You are…dazzling.” His eyes widened, hands shooting up in alarm as if he could physically pull the words back into his mouth. “I-I mean…your style, your energy, your confidence! It is utterly unlike anything I have ever known, and—” His voice cracked, his face flooding red as he tripped over his own breath. “…and it compels me.”

He froze, realizing the weight of what he’d just said. His engines stuttered faintly, betraying his nerves as he looked anywhere but at you.

“I…I apologize if I have overstepped. But my feelings—” Tenya’s voice dropped, sincerity cutting through his usual rigidity. “My feelings may be…far deeper than I anticipated.”

His gloved hands fidgeted at his sides, stiff movements failing to hide the way his heart thundered. He glanced at you at last, his glasses catching the fading sunlight, waiting—terrified—for your response.