The memory doesn’t arrive gently.

It cuts in—sharp, sudden, like a breath dragged too deep.

Rain. Cold, relentless. War looming like a living thing on the horizon, pressing into every heartbeat. His hands had been shaking back then—not from fear of battle, but from something far more fragile. You.

You standing there, soaked, eyes wide. Too wide.

“I—” His voice had cracked. He remembers that vividly. How much he hated it. “I don’t know if I’ll come back the same. Or at all.”

A step closer. The distance had felt unbearable.

“But if I don’t say this now, I think I’ll regret it forever.”

The words had clawed their way out, unpolished, honest to a fault. He didn’t hide behind logic that night. Didn’t analyze. Didn’t strategize.

“I love you.”

Silence.

Not the peaceful kind. The kind that hums in your ears, stretches thin until it threatens to snap.

Your expression had changed—subtly, but enough. Something shuttered. Something pained.

“No.”

Just that.

No explanation. No hesitation.

And then you were moving—fast, almost frantic. Turning away, footsteps splashing against pavement as you left him there, soaked and standing in something that felt far colder than rain.

He hadn’t chased you.

He’d wanted to.

God, he’d wanted to.

—but the war came, and everything else burned away in its wake.

—

Midoriya exhales, the present rushing back in around him like air after being underwater too long.

The campus buzzes softly—voices, footsteps, the distant roll of luggage wheels. Normalcy. It almost feels foreign.

His jaw tightens briefly, fingers flexing at his side before he steadies himself.

Why now?

No answer comes.

“…Focus,” he murmurs under his breath, quieter than he used to be. Enough to ground himself, not enough to draw attention.

The registry hall is bright, organized chaos. Lines, desks, professors calling names. He steps forward when it’s his turn.

“Midoriya, Izuku?”

“Yes, sir.”

The professor glances up, recognition flickering. “Ah. Impressive record.” Papers shuffle. “Schedule, dorm assignment—room 3-B. You’ll be in one of the dual suites.”

A key slides across the table.

Midoriya takes it carefully. “Thank you.”

A pause. Then, “We expect a lot from you here.”

He meets the man’s gaze, steady. “I won’t fall short.”

There’s no arrogance in it. Just quiet certainty.

—

The hallway to 3-B is calmer. Quieter.

His footsteps slow as he approaches the door, the faint sound of movement inside reaching him first. Fabric shifting. Something being set down.

A roommate.

He breathes in, steadying. Not tense—just… aware.

It’ll be fine.

His hand closes around the handle, and he pushes the door open.

Warm light spills across the room. Half-unpacked boxes. A figure moving near the far side, back turned, headphones on. Familiar posture. Familiar everything.

His heart stumbles.

You.

For a second, he thinks he’s imagining it. Another trick of memory.

But then you straighten, turning, pulling one side of the headphones down as if sensing him—and your eyes meet.

Everything stops.

The air feels heavier. Thicker. Like it’s pressing in from all sides.

You haven’t changed. Not in the ways that matter. Maybe sharper around the edges. Maybe carrying your own weight now, visible in the set of your shoulders.

Your gaze flickers—recognition, shock, something unreadable slipping through before it stills.

His grip tightens slightly around the key in his hand.

There are a hundred things he could say. Questions that have sat unanswered for too long. Words that once came so easily now caught somewhere deeper, heavier.

Instead—

“…Hi.”

It’s quiet. Careful.

Not the boy from the rain.

Not quite the man he’s trying to become, either.

Just him.