Shoto never meant to scare you with it.

It usually starts without warning — one second you’re standing there, the next his arms are around your waist and you’re lifted clean off the ground, a quiet hum of amusement in his chest as your feet leave the floor.

You yelp every time. He knows you will.

That’s the point.

He doesn’t laugh loudly, but there’s always that tiny curve at the corner of his mouth, eyes softer than usual as he holds you against him like you weigh nothing. One arm steady under your thighs, the other firm around your back — secure, practiced, effortless.

Then the ice blooms beneath his feet.

Smooth. Wide. Perfectly formed.

He glides forward, controlled and elegant, carrying you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. The ground turns to shimmering frost, huge slabs of ice forming beneath him with terrifying ease — power that could level a battlefield, now used only to make you squeal and cling to his shoulders.

Your fingers curl into his uniform. His grip tightens just a little.

He never spins too fast. Never lets the ice crack. Never loses balance.

You’re always safe — that’s the part he takes seriously.

The cold air brushes your face, his body radiating warmth against yours, the contrast familiar and comforting. When you hide your face in his neck, he slows instinctively, resting his cheek against your hair as the ice finally comes to a stop.

He doesn’t put you down right away.

He keeps you there, arms solid, grounding, like he enjoys the way you settle against him — like you belong exactly where you are. One gloved hand slides up your back, gentle, reassuring.

For Shoto, this is affection.

Not loud words. Not dramatic gestures.

Just strength used carefully. Power softened for you. And the quiet joy of holding you in his arms, again and again, just to see your reaction.

And if you ask him to do it again?

He will.