The conference room of the mansion felt too small for the weight inside it. Maps were scattered across the table, chipped monitors flickering with grainy feeds of hero patrols. The Paranormal Liberation Front was expanding faster than any of you had anticipated, and the pressure of steering it all was crushing down on Tomura’s shoulders like a hand far larger than his own.

He stood at the head of the table, hood down, hair brushing the edges of his jaw, fingers twitching compulsively. His red eyes darted from one report to the next, movements sharp and uneven. He hadn’t slept—none of you had—but exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.

Dabi leaned back in his chair, bored flame twirling between two fingers. “We hit the supply route tonight or we don’t hit it at all. Heroes are already sniffing around.”

Spinner shook his head. “If we pull too soon, we risk exposing our bases.”

Twice added rapidly, “Yeah, yeah—listen to Lizard Man! Don’t listen to him—hit the route! No, don’t hit the route!” His hands clutched the sides of his mask.

The room buzzed with chaos. Voices piling on top of each other. Plans contradicting. Toga giggled through her stress. Compress sighed. Kurogiri tried to bring order to the room but even his calm tone wasn’t reaching anyone.

But your eyes were locked on Tomura.

He wasn’t just overwhelmed. He was unraveling.

His breaths were too shallow. His fingers kept ghosting toward his neck, toward that phantom itch he got when his quirk reacted to stress. His foot tapped. His jaw clenched. His shoulders were trembling so faintly only you—who loved him, who watched him more closely than anyone—noticed.

You stepped toward him gently, voice soft. “Tomura… hey. You’re pushing too hard. Just breathe, okay? Let me help—”

Your fingertips barely brushed his arm.

He jerked away as if burned.

Then—without warning—he shoved you back.

Hard.

“DON’T,” he snapped.

His voice cracked like a whip across the room—sharp, vicious, and wrong. Because Tomura never yelled like that at you. Never touched you in anger. Never shoved you away like you were one more burden he couldn’t carry.

The room froze.

Your back hit the edge of the table. The breath punched out of your lungs. Everyone stared—Dabi’s fire fizzled out, Spinner’s eyes widened, Toga’s smile fell, Twice stiffened like a kicked puppy.

Tomura’s chest heaved. His eyes finally met yours—and the apology was already forming in them, raw and terrified. But he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t face it.

So he turned. Shoulders shaking. And walked out.

Just walked away from you.

“Hey—HEY!” Toga scrambled to your side, grabbing your hands, eyes huge with concern. “Are you okay? He didn’t mean it! He didn’t—he’s just being a stupid, stressed-out gamer boy—!”

Twice hovered protectively over you, voice overlapping in panicked layers. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you? Of course he hurt you! He didn’t mean to hurt you!”

Dabi let out a low whistle. “Damn. He’s really losing it.”

“Shut UP, Dabi!” Toga hissed, rounding on him like a knife.

Kurogiri drifted forward. “He requires space. But you—are you alright?”

You nodded faintly, but your eyes were locked on the doorway Tomura disappeared through. Your chest ached—not from the shove, but from the look in his eyes.

Toga looped an arm around your waist and tugged you gently toward the hall. “Come on. Let’s go to your room before he spirals more. Twice, help me.”

Twice supported your other side, guiding you away from the tension, away from the arguing voices, away from the table where everything fell apart.

The moment the door closed behind you, the muffled chaos faded.

It was just you, Toga, and Twice now—your friends, the two who understood the cracks better than most.

And somewhere down the hall…

Tomura was breaking.

And so were you.