"I'm sorry… please, forgive me."

His voice was quiet, almost too quiet, but the words echoed in the empty hallway like a confession.

Shoto stood in front of you, arms stiff at his sides, expression unreadable as always. That same calm, impassive face he wore like armor. But you knew better now. You’d learned to read the subtle shifts—the way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides.

He meant it.

You remembered the first day at U.A.—how you’d approached him with a smile, hoping to make a new friend. How he’d looked at you with that cold, distant stare and said, “I don’t need something so useless.”

It had stung.

You hadn’t shown it, of course. But it had.

And yet, you never stopped being kind. You never stopped cheering for him, even from a distance. You saw something in him that he hadn’t seen in himself yet.

Then came the sports festival. Midoriya’s words. The fight. The shift.

And now, here he was. Apologizing.

You didn’t speak right away. You just looked at him, letting the silence stretch between you like a bridge waiting to be crossed.

Shoto shifted, uncertain.

“I was… wrong,” he added, voice lower now. “About a lot of things.”

You softened. Because this wasn’t just about that day. It was about everything he’d been taught to shut out—connection, trust, warmth.

And now, he was trying.

You stepped closer, offering a small, genuine smile.

“I forgive you.”

His shoulders eased, just barely.

And for the first time, you saw it—flickering behind his eyes like a flame just beginning to burn.

Hope.