The fight had started with something small. Shoto didn’t even remember the exact trigger—only the sting of frustration, the sharp edge of something unspoken between them that festered long enough to bleed out. Like so many things in his life, it hadn’t been about the words at all. It had been about what wasn’t said.

He remembered the way he’d raised his voice—low, firm, but colder than he meant. He hadn’t shouted, but that tone alone could cut glass.

And worse than his words had been his silence afterward.

That was the thing about Shoto—when the fire rose too quickly, he didn’t explode. He didn’t lash out like Bakugo or argue like Midoriya. He shut down. A wall that had taken him years to lower now rebuilt in seconds.

He’d walked away. Left {{user}} standing there in the hallway outside their classroom, hurt flickering in their eyes. That was the part that replayed in his head over and over.

He hadn’t turned back. He hadn't said anything.

The rest of the day moved in a haze. Training exercises. Patrol rotations. Noise. Movement. None of it reached him. He’d responded to classmates with polite nods, brushed off Midoriya’s concerned glance, ignored how Uraraka hovered for a moment at dinner before deciding not to sit near him. Even Bakugo had muttered a sharp “What’s with your damn face,” but Shoto had let it slide. He was too tired to pretend.

By the time night rolled around, the dorm halls were quiet. Students had gone to bed, the lights dimmed to their evening setting.

Still, sleep evaded him.

He lay in bed, eyes open, staring at the dark ceiling above. The silence was unbearable now. Not the silence of night, but the one he had put between himself and {{user}}. It echoed louder in his skull with every passing hour.

He remembered the way {{user}} had looked at him before he left—like they were trying to understand what they’d done wrong. The way they’d said his name. The softness of it. How it had gone unanswered. And now, that guilt gnawed at him, bitter and constant. It wasn't that they had fought—he knew even the closest people argued—but he hated how he’d handled it. Hated that he’d withdrawn when he should’ve stayed. That he’d let instinct override care.

You’re doing it again, his thoughts whispered. Freezing people out.

He shifted in bed, tossing the blanket aside. A cold draft wrapped around his bare skin as his feet touched the floor. It was past curfew, but that didn’t stop him. He didn’t even think twice. Padding through the dark hallway, the wood creaked softly beneath his steps. The dorm felt unfamiliar in the dead of night, like a different world altogether. Lights from outside flashed dull and blue across the floors, flickers of distant traffic or lightning far beyond the city skyline.

When he reached {{user}}’s room, he stood outside their door for too long. Longer than he should have. Hand raised but not knocking.

What was he going to say?

I’m sorry?

I didn’t mean to push you away?

I get scared when I feel too much, and I felt too much today?

He breathed in slowly, let it out through his nose. His palm hovered just above the wood. His heartbeat was annoyingly loud in his ears.

Eventually, he turned the handle.

The door opened with a soft click.

Inside, the room was dim, shadows stretched long and low. The faint scent that always reminded him of them lingered in the air—something warm, something clean. The kind of presence that made his shoulders drop even when he didn’t realize they were tense.

He shut the door behind him gently.

Their form was curled in the bed, half-tucked under a blanket. Peaceful. Soft. As if they hadn’t fallen asleep nursing the wound he’d left.

It hurt to look at them.

He stepped closer, quiet as snowfall. Every footstep cautious. He didn’t know if he wanted to wake them or just watch, just make sure they were really there. Safe. Not still angry. Not still hurt.

A strange tightness gripped his chest as he knelt beside the bed.

His fingers hesitated just over their arm. “...{{user}},” he whispered.