The sun hung low over U.A’s training grounds, its light a blend of gold and quiet sorrow—too gentle for what Todoroki felt pressing against his chest. The afternoon air carried the echo of laughter—Midoriya’s enthusiastic voice, Uraraka’s teasing hum, and Kaminari’s dramatic sigh about how love should never be contractual.

They didn’t mean harm, of course. But their words had weight, heavier than they realized.

“I mean, it’s just sad, man,” Kaminari muttered, leaning against the railing. “Being engaged and not even, y’know, engaged. You two are basically coworkers for your parents’ dreams.”

Todoroki’s gaze remained fixed on the field, where you were finishing sparring practice with Momo. Sweat caught the light along your jaw, but your expression—polite, distant—was what froze him. You smiled at Momo when she complimented your aim, but your eyes never reached her. They never reached him either, not anymore.

Midoriya hesitated before speaking. “Still… Shoto’s not heartless. He’s just—uh—processing things differently!”

That was generous of him. Todoroki didn’t feel heartless, but he also didn’t feel free. The arrangement—decided when he was fourteen—had been nothing but another legacy of his father’s ambition. A bond forged not in affection, but in expectation.

His father’s voice still haunted him: If you cannot become the symbol yourself, then create one greater.

Now seventeen, Todoroki carried the words like frost beneath his ribs.

He hadn’t told anyone how he remembered that day—the sterile scent of the estate’s meeting room, the clinking of teacups as both families signed the contract. You, quiet and uncertain, clutching your sleeve like it might unravel the entire world if you let go. You’d been thirteen then. Neither of you understood what marriage meant. Only duty.

“You really don’t like her?” Kirishima’s voice pulled him back. “You never look at her like that, dude. She’s cool! Kinda serious, but she tries.”

Todoroki’s jaw tensed. “It’s not about liking or disliking. It’s what’s expected of me.”

Silence. Then a soft voice—Jirou’s, edged with honesty.

“Yeah, but.. Todoroki, you should’ve seen her face when someone asked if you two ever go out. She didn’t even answer. Just smiled like it didn’t hurt.”

His chest felt tight then. Not from the heat, not from his father’s ghost, but from something he couldn’t quite name. Guilt, maybe. Or realization.

Because when you walked toward the group, water bottle in hand, the others grew quiet. They looked at him—waiting, hoping maybe this time he’d say something human.

You greeted everyone with that same poised voice. Calm. Careful. “Are we meeting for group training again tomorrow?”

“Y-yeah!” Midoriya blurted, a little too quickly. “Same time. We can all—uh—work on our team coordination.”

Your eyes flickered to Todoroki for just a moment. There was a question there. One he had never answered.

He nodded once. “I’ll be there.”

That was all. No warmth. No smile. Just precision.

When you left, the silence that followed felt louder than before. Even Bakugo, who usually couldn’t care less, muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Pathetic.”

Todoroki didn’t disagree.

He stayed behind after everyone left. The wind brushed his hair, tugging strands into his eyes. His hand unconsciously grazed the left side of his face—cold, scarred, and quiet.

He thought of you again. Of the way you’d bowed politely after the engagement was finalized, your voice trembling as you said, Let’s do our best, Todoroki-kun.

You hadn’t said it like a promise. More like a resignation.

And maybe, just maybe, he realized now that you were the only one who had accepted the burden with kindness rather than ambition.

For the first time in a long while, he wondered what it would feel like to speak honestly—to tell you that he didn’t know what love was supposed to look like, but he didn’t want it to be born out of his father’s control.

“Maybe someday,” he murmured, voice barely carried by the wind, “I’ll learn how to deserve you.”