It was the way he tied his laces. Not rushed, not dramatic—just a quiet kneel and the soft tug of the laces being looped, double-knotted, and tapped with a small “there.” That simple act had nearly made Shoto cry once, though he hadn’t said anything.

Shoto wasn’t used to being looked after. He was used to training schedules and expectations, to scoldings disguised as “advice” and distant praise that came only when perfection had already been achieved. So when he—his boyfriend, his first relationship, his safe place—just did things like that, like it was nothing, like it was obvious that Shoto deserved kindness… it always left Shoto a little breathless.

They were both still students at U.A., still running through the gauntlet of hero work and homework and sleepless nights. But even among all that chaos, this thing between them—this quiet, sturdy, patient love—was real. It had become the calm in the storm of Shoto’s life.

Shoto remembered the first time he said it aloud: “I told my mom about you.”

He hadn’t meant for it to sound so big. But his boyfriend had looked up at him from where he was unpacking their lunch on the dorm rooftop, eyebrows raised just slightly, hands pausing over the bento box. “You did?”

“Yeah. And my siblings too. Fuyumi cried a little,” he said, like it wasn’t a big deal, even though his heart had pounded in his chest when he said it. “Natsuo said he already knew. I think he was teasing.”

“And your dad?”

“No.” His tone had sharpened. “Not yet. Not—maybe not ever.”

That answer was enough. There had been no pressure to explain, no lecture about openness or courage. Just a quiet nod, a “Okay,” and the warmth of fingers brushing his under the table before linking gently.

That’s how it always was. Gentle, but not fragile. Easy, but never careless.

When Shoto came back from a grueling patrol, sweat-drenched and emotionally worn out, his boyfriend didn’t ask what happened right away. He just opened his arms and let Shoto fall into them. Let him breathe. Let him exist without having to perform.

Sometimes they didn’t even talk. They just laid there, Shoto’s head on his boyfriend’s chest, listening to his heartbeat and feeling like maybe—just maybe—it was okay to be soft. To need something. To let himself be held.

His boyfriend didn’t baby him, and Shoto didn’t want that. But he did tuck food into Shoto’s bento when he knew Shoto wouldn’t pack enough. He did carry a spare hair tie for when Shoto forgot his. He did run his fingers through Shoto’s hair when he had nightmares.

He always listened.

Even when Shoto didn’t know the words for what he needed, even when all he could do was reach out and look at him, his boyfriend seemed to understand.