The day had been busy. Patrols, reports, the endless monotony of paperwork. In the rush of it all, you’d left the house in such a hurry that one crucial detail slipped your mind—your ring.

The band Enji Todoroki had placed on your finger when the quirk marriage was arranged. To you, it was an oversight. To him, it was unacceptable.

Enji noticed immediately. Not because you flaunted your hand in front of him, but because he made it his business to notice.

His sharp eyes, trained to catch the smallest of flaws in combat, had caught the absence of the ring before you’d even left the house.

At first, he said nothing, his massive frame leaning against the doorway as you slipped on your shoes. His silence was heavy, simmering, and when you finally left, he allowed it—for the moment.

Hours later, while you walked through the city, the presence of Endeavor himself was impossible to miss.

The crowd parted instinctively at the sight of him, his flame beard burning low, his towering frame radiating an authority that demanded attention.

You didn’t even need to turn around to know he was there. His heavy footsteps fell into rhythm behind you, closer, closer, until his shadow swallowed yours.

And then his hand—broad, calloused, impossibly warm—closed firmly around your wrist.

“Stop.”

His voice was deep, commanding, with no room for argument. He turned your hand over in his grip, his gaze narrowing as his thumb dragged slowly across the bare skin of your ring finger.

The absence was glaring to him, like a brand of defiance.

“You forgot.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation, heavy with disappointment, laced with something darker—possessiveness, maybe even jealousy.

His flames flickered higher along his shoulders, not out of anger but sheer agitation.

With his free hand, he reached into his coat pocket. The glint of the ring caught the sunlight as he held it between his fingers. He had carried it with him, all day, knowing he would find you. Knowing he had to.

He didn’t ask if you wanted it back. He didn’t scold further.

Instead, with surprising gentleness for a man his size, he slid the band onto your finger. The cool metal met your skin, snug, unyielding. His thumb brushed over it once, a possessive final touch, as though sealing the act.

His eyes lifted to yours then, smoldering—not with fire, but with a sharp intensity that pinned you in place.

The kind of look that stripped you bare, that made you acutely aware of the weight of his expectations.

“This stays on.” His tone left no room for argument. It wasn’t merely about tradition or appearances. It was about ownership, about loyalty, about the unspoken bond he demanded the world recognize.

Satisfied only when the ring gleamed properly on your hand again, he released your wrist. But the warmth of his grip lingered, his presence towering and inescapable.

And as he turned to walk beside you, silent and imposing, it was clear: Enji Todoroki would never let you forget who you belonged to.