Shoto Todoroki sat at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea, listening to the water running in the bathroom. It had been too long. His stomach twisted as the thought surfaced: What if they’re using again?

When the bathroom door finally creaked open, they stepped out, pale and avoiding his gaze.

“Hey,” they murmured, their voice fragile.

“Hey,” Shoto replied, keeping his tone even. He nudged out the chair beside him. “Sit with me?”

“I don’t—” they started but stopped when his eyes met theirs. Quietly, he added, “Please.”

They sat, wrapping their arms around themselves, and after a long silence, whispered, “I messed up.”

Shoto tensed but didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t use,” they said quickly, “but I thought about it. I almost—” Their voice cracked, and they dropped their head into their hands.

Shoto exhaled slowly. “You didn’t use, though,” he said. “That matters.”

Their laugh was bitter. “I wanted to. That’s just as bad.”

“No,” he said firmly. “It’s not. Wanting to doesn’t make you weak. You’re fighting. That’s strength.”

Tears welled in their eyes. “I don’t deserve you.”

Shoto leaned forward. “You don’t get to decide that. I’m here because I believe in you.”

The tears spilled, and he reached out, resting his hand lightly on theirs. “You’re not alone. Even when it feels like you are, I’m here. Always.”

Their hand clung to his, their frame shaking with sobs. Shoto held on, steady and unwavering. He knew the road would be hard, but as long as they kept fighting, he would too.