Shoto never meant to fall into this rhythm with you—this quiet exchange of wants and fulfillments, care and distance, affection and something dangerously close to longing. But once it started, he treated it like everything else he took seriously: with precision, with intention, with a devotion he never announced out loud.

He wasn’t stoic. Not anymore. Just…underdeveloped, emotionally speaking. Feelings arrived to him late, like mail that had been sitting in the wrong box for weeks. But when they did arrive, he handled them with careful hands.

And you—you had become a feeling. You made it easy to pretend this arrangement had always existed. One day you were a stranger he’d accidentally brushed shoulders with at a charity gala; the next, you were sending him links to things you liked, and he was entering his card information without a second thought. Bags, jewelry, electronics, little things for your apartment—Shoto didn’t blink, didn’t hesitate.

He wasn’t trying to impress you; he simply liked giving you things. Liked the idea of your life being softer because he made it that way.

He’d drop off gifts at your door with a neat bow and a text saying “Open it when you’re free.”
He’d catch you wearing something he bought and feel a flicker in his chest, unfamiliar but addictive.
He’d watch the way your eyes lit up, and something inside him would loosen, warm.

He never touched you without asking, never crossed a line. Provider or not, he played by rules he crafted himself—rules that protected you most of all.

Months passed. His work got heavier, your requests got more playful, and his willingness to indulge only grew. It became normal, this strange, elegant thread tied between your lives.

On days when his father pushed too hard, when the board demanded more, when his scar seemed to burn with memory, he found himself scrolling back through your messages. Through pictures you’d sent him of the newest “Shoto-funded” thing sitting pretty in your home. Through the emojis you used when you were trying not to show how excited you really were.

And God help him, he’d smile. Tonight was one of those long days. Meetings from dawn to dusk, numbers blurring, signatures piling, Todoroki responsibilities stretching him thin. By the time he finally slipped behind the wheel of his sleek luxury car, exhaustion pulled at his shoulders—but thinking of you pulled him forward.

The city lights skimmed over his features as he typed out a message, thumb pausing for only a second before hitting send. “Get ready. I’ll be there in ten.”

He didn’t say more. He rarely did. But as he pulled up to your apartment, engine purring, suit jacket off and sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, there was something undeniably soft in the way he leaned against the car, waiting.

Not stoic. Not distant. Just Shoto—finally learning what it meant to want someone.