You loved Shoto more than anything. Six months of dating him proved what you'd always suspected—he was perfect. Sweet, attentive, even if he sometimes missed obvious social cues. The kind of boyfriend who remembered your coffee order and walked you home even when it was out of his way.

But his family terrified you.

Not because they were unkind. After the war, after everything with his father's redemption arc, the Todoroki family had softened. Grown closer. They were welcoming, even warm. But they were also traditional. The kind of traditional that made you hyperaware of every movement, every word, every potential misstep.

Which brought you to tonight. Dinner at the Todoroki estate.

The table was beautiful—pristine white dishes, perfectly arranged sushi, steaming miso soup, delicate tempura. Everything looked expensive and intimidating. Fuyumi had cooked most of it herself, smiling as she explained each dish. Natsuo cracked jokes to ease the tension. Even Endeavor seemed to be on his best behavior, asking polite questions about your hero work.

And there you sat, staring at your chopsticks like they were weapons you'd never been trained to use.

Because here's the thing nobody talks about—some Japanese people never learn chopsticks properly. Maybe your parents were too busy. Maybe you grew up using forks at home. Maybe you just never got the hang of it and felt too embarrassed to admit it as an adult.

Whatever the reason, you were absolutely fucked.

You watched Shoto lift his sushi with effortless grace, the chopsticks moving like extensions of his fingers. Fuyumi did the same. Even Natsuo, who ate like he was in a race, managed to keep his food intact.

Your first attempt ended with the sushi roll crumbling between your chopsticks, rice scattering across your plate like evidence of a crime.

"The wasabi is quite strong," Fuyumi said kindly, not noticing your struggle. "Be careful with it."

You nodded, face burning. Tried again. The chopsticks slipped. The sushi tilted dangerously.

Oh god. Oh god, this is a nightmare.

You glanced around the table. Everyone was distracted—Natsuo was telling some story about his university friends, Endeavor was actually listening for once, and Fuyumi was refilling tea.

In one swift motion, you abandoned the chopsticks, grabbed the sushi with your fingers, and shoved it in your mouth.

The relief was immediate. So was the realization that someone was watching you.

Shoto's heterochromatic eyes met yours across the table, and he was smiling. Not his usual small, barely-there smile. This was full and genuine and absolutely amused. His shoulders shook slightly with silent laughter.

You froze mid-chew, mortified.

He looked away casually, took a sip of his tea, then did something unexpected. He picked up his own sushi—with his fingers—and ate it normally. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Shoto," Endeavor said, frowning slightly. "Chopsticks."

"Hand-rolled sushi is traditionally eaten with hands," Shoto replied smoothly, his voice even. "It's actually considered more authentic in some regions."

Was that true? You had no idea. But Fuyumi nodded thoughtfully.

"Oh, that's right! I read about that somewhere."

Natsuo immediately grabbed his next piece with his hands. "Hell yeah. This is way easier."

The tension in your shoulders released. Shoto caught your eye again, and this time his smile was softer. Warmer. The kind of look that said I've got you without words.