The rooftops were slick with evening frost, a pale glow spilling across the city. Patrol had been quiet—until you summoned them. Your shadow crows ripped into the sky, their black wings cutting across the neon signs. You stood with one hip cocked, headscarf pulled low, retro coat clinging to your frame, long hair wild against the wind. Your right foot dragged faintly with every step, a sound Shoto never failed to hear—even when the city roared.

“You’re wasting stamina,” Shoto said quietly, turquoise eye tracking the swarm as they spiraled. His tone was flat, but his gaze burned like the fire tucked beneath his frost.

You spat to the side, blunt as ever. “And you’re wasting breath pointing it out. You know they listen better than most heroes in this damn city.”

He didn’t flinch at your bite. In fact, he liked it. Your truth, your tactlessness—it was a knife, and he was the boy who kept leaning into it. His hands flexed at his sides, steam hissing faintly from one palm, frost crackling in the other.

“I’m not worried about the city,” he murmured, stepping closer, so close his scar caught the streetlight. “I’m worried about you.”

Your brown eyes locked with his, sharp and steady. “Don’t be. I’m not porcelain. I’m not your mother.”

The words landed hard, heavier than your crows’ wingbeats. For a heartbeat, silence. The kind that cracks a man open. Todoroki’s jaw tightened—but instead of retreating, he stepped until his chest brushed your shoulder, until your smell—popcorn, balsam, dust—filled his lungs. Obsession coiled in him like fire under ice.

“You’re not porcelain,” he said finally, voice low, stubborn. “You’re mine.”

You scoffed, but you didn’t pull back. Your crows wheeled overhead, blotting the moon for a second, and in that darkness he wrapped a hand around your scarf, tugging it just enough that the fabric shifted against your throat. Not possessive—no, not exactly. But grounding. Claiming.

“Then keep up,” you muttered, lips quirking. “The city won’t wait for your dramatics, Frostfire Prince.”

His heterochrome gaze softened, just barely. The corner of his scarred mouth twitched like it might smile—but instead, flames flared against frost, a halo in the winter air.

“I’ll keep up,” he promised. “Always.”

Above, your crows screamed. Below, frost spread. And in between—your rebellion and his obsession locked into permanence.