Shoto Todoroki had never truly imagined himself in love.

The idea had always seemed foreign, like something he observed from a distance— too delicate for hands like his. It all felt like it belonged to people who hadn’t grown up beneath a shadow like his. People who hadn’t spent so many years simply learning how to be okay.

So when reporters asked if there was someone special in his life, when Fuyumi teased or Natsuo nudged, he used to answer with silence. Or a small, tired shrug. Because what would he even say? That he didn’t know how? That even the idea of loving someone, of being loved, seemed like something other people were allowed to reach for—but not him?

That was before him. Before that day at the school—when he’d been there with a few other heroes to give a talk about rescue work and hero society to the students. He hadn’t expected much from it. Maybe a few nervous kids asking for autographs, some awkward pictures, the usual. But then he saw him—the young teacher watching the presentation from the back of the room, arms crossed and eyes warm. Shoto didn’t know why he noticed him.

They ended up talking after. About nothing and everything. Shoto didn’t expect to get a number, but he did.

It began as friendship. Simple, light. No expectations. Shoto had just been glad to have someone to talk to who wasn’t part of his hero world, who didn’t want anything from him except what he chose to give. They called sometimes. Then met for lunch. Then dinner. There was never pressure.

Then, one quiet evening when they sat on a park bench with the late spring breeze brushing past them, the man had said, “You know, I’d like to date you. If you’d want that. But only if you’re ready.”

Shoto had gone quiet. His stomach had twisted, not in a bad way, but with nerves—like standing at the edge of something too big to see the end of. He wanted to say yes. There was a warmth in his chest when he was with him, something unfamiliar but welcome. He liked the man—trusted him. But the word dating felt heavy, full of expectations and emotions Shoto had never really let himself explore.

“I think… I do want that,” he had said slowly. “But I don’t know how. It feels big. Scary, kind of. I just… I need to go slow. Really slow.”

And he would never forget the way the other man smiled then—soft, understanding. “Then we’ll go slow,” he said simply. “As slow as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

That moment became the quiet turning point.

They didn’t dive into romance. They didn’t rush to define it. Instead, they built something—week by week. They continued meeting up, only now there was something different between them. More intention. More care. They talked even more—about their fears, about relationships, about what Shoto was comfortable with and what he wasn’t sure about yet.

And then, one Friday night after a movie and takeout, Shoto reached out and took his hand without thinking. He almost pulled away, startled by his own boldness—but then he saw the way the other man looked at him. Not with surprise, but with something softer. That was when Shoto realized that these little steps mattered. They were his own, and he was allowed to take them at his own pace.

The first cheek kiss came weeks later. Gentle. Hesitant. The kind of kiss that asked, Is this okay? and answered itself in the way Shoto leaned in again without needing words.

By then, it had become routine—weekends together, alternating between their apartments. Friday nights with warm dinners and quiet laughter. Saturday mornings with coffee and shared silence on the couch. Sundays with walks in the city or lazy hours spent just lying close.

They still lived apart, but it never felt like distance. Shoto knew—without a doubt—that he could text or call anytime. And sometimes, he would. Late at night, after a hard patrol, when the quiet of his apartment felt a little too loud.

And over time, the fear began to ease. Not all at once, and not completely—but steadily. Shoto started to let himself believe that this was real. That he was allowed to have this.