The cafeteria buzzed with the usual lunchtime chaos—clattering trays, hurried chatter, the occasional laughter piercing the background—but to Izuku, it all seemed muted around {{user}}. He slid into the bench beside her, tray in hand, trying to appear casual, though his green eyes never left her plate.

Her movements were smaller than usual; each bite seemed measured, hesitant, almost absent-minded. The way she pushed the food around rather than picking it up made a familiar knot tighten in his chest. He had watched her train, spar, and push herself to the limits countless times, always burning with that quiet determination that left him in awe. Yet today… she seemed subdued. Almost like a dimmed version of herself.

“Hey… you’re not finishing your food. Did something happen earlier?” he asked, his voice low, careful, threading concern between words. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

He watched her hand pause over her fork, unsure, as if weighing whether to respond. His notebook lay forgotten at the corner of the table; all his attention had shifted to her subtle cues—the slight slump in her shoulders, the way her eyes flickered toward the floor instead of meeting his gaze, the faint tension in her jaw.

Izuku’s mind raced, cataloging every small detail. Earlier that morning, she had been slower during drills, her quirk movements a fraction less sharp, a fraction less confident. It hadn’t been dramatic, not enough for anyone else to notice. But he had. Always. Always noticed. And it worried him, not just because of her abilities, but because he cared more than he thought he could admit without stumbling over words.

She finally looked up at him, her expression a mix of hesitation and faint acknowledgment. A flutter of relief ran through him. He didn’t need her to explain fully—he understood that sometimes, even the strongest people carried weights they couldn’t share yet. His fingers itched to reach out, a gentle, almost protective gesture, but he stopped himself, respecting the space she might need.

Instead, he leaned just slightly closer, a soft presence beside her, letting her feel the quiet reassurance in his proximity. “I’m here,” he added, almost as a whisper only for her ears. “Whatever it is… I’ve got you.”

He remembered the first time he’d truly seen her determination, back in their early days at UA—how she had pushed past exhaustion in training, how she had refused to give in when others would have faltered. That memory anchored him now, giving him courage to be patient, to wait and support without forcing her to speak.