The common room had finally quieted down, the laughter and footsteps of classmates fading into the distance until all that was left was the low hum of the heater and the faint rustle of blankets. Izuku sat slouched against the couch, warmth radiating from the body curled close against his side. His heart still hadn’t figured out how to calm down whenever they were this near—it beat as if he’d just sprinted across campus, every second sharp and heavy in his chest.

He hadn’t even realized he’d rolled his sleeves up earlier when the heat got too much. His arms rested loosely in his lap, faint lines and old marks catching the soft yellow glow of the lamps. He never thought about them when he was alone, but now—

Fingers brushed his skin. Light. Careful. Tracing one of the ridges across his forearm.

Izuku stiffened immediately. His breath hitched, eyes snapping wide. He pulled his arm back halfway, voice tumbling out before he could stop it. “Ah—! Don’t… don’t look at those. They’re—” He swallowed hard, cheeks burning. “They’re ugly.”

Ugly. That’s what they were, right? Proof of mistakes, of pushing too far, of breaking the very body he needed to protect people. Every scar screamed failure. Every jagged line was a reminder of the times he hadn’t been strong enough. What kind of hero let his body end up like this?

But then… they didn’t flinch. They didn’t draw their hand back in disgust. They stayed there, gaze steady, gentle in a way that made his throat tighten. Their touch wasn’t pity—it was something else, something softer, heavier, terrifyingly kind.

His chest ached.

Izuku exhaled shakily, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweats. “I… I always thought if anyone saw them up close, they’d just… turn away. I mean, who wants to stay with someone who keeps breaking himself over and over?” His voice cracked on the last words, self-loathing heavy in his tone.

He dared a glance at their face. And what he saw—acceptance, warmth, maybe even something that felt too big for him to name—knocked the words right out of him.

A laugh, nervous and breathless, slipped past his lips. “Y-you’re unbelievable, you know that? You look at me like I’m not… ruined.” His eyes stung, and he pressed his lips together, embarrassed at how quickly emotion welled up inside him.

Slowly, deliberately, he let his arm fall back between them. Let them touch the marks if they wanted. The scars had always felt like chains, like evidence of his recklessness. But in that moment, with their hand resting lightly on his skin, the weight lessened.

“…Each one has a story,” he admitted quietly, voice lowering almost to a whisper. “Training until my arms gave out… fights where I couldn’t back down, no matter what it cost… times I messed up, times I thought I wouldn’t get back up.” His thumb rubbed nervously against his palm, a tell he couldn’t quite hide. “Sometimes I hate them. I hate what they mean. But… if you don’t mind them…” His throat closed, and he had to force the words out. “Then maybe… maybe I don’t have to hate them either.”

Silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy. It was soft. The warmth of their presence pressed into his side, steady, grounding. He breathed it in like air he’d been starving for.

His lips curled into the smallest, most fragile smile. “I’ll… I’ll try to believe what you see in me. Even if it’s hard. Because… if it’s you, then… I want to try.”

Izuku turned his head, meeting their eyes fully at last. There was no way to hide the redness there, or the tenderness that spilled out despite how hard he tried to hold it back. His hand twitched before he finally, hesitantly, let it cover theirs where it rested against his scars.

Not to hide them. Not this time. But to hold their hand in place, as if anchoring himself to the truth they’d just given him.

“…Thank you,” he whispered. And this time, the words didn’t stutter.