Izuku Midoriya never really thought he'd find something so normal and so good in the whirlwind that was his pro hero life. Between patrols, press, missions, and the never-ending pressure of being a Symbol of Peace in training, he always figured romance would come later—if at all.

But then he met him.

A med student. Just a few months younger than Izuku, buried in textbooks and rotations, equally exhausted but with that same spark in his eyes—the one that said, “I want to help people too.”

Their paths crossed at an emergency scene: Izuku with bloodied gloves, holding pressure to a civilian’s wound, and him, rushing forward from a volunteer EMT crew, steady hands and a calm voice that belied the panic in the air. Izuku remembered the soft brush of their hands as they passed off the injured person. Their eyes met, just briefly.

It took a few more encounters before they exchanged numbers. A few more after that for coffee. And then dinner. And now—months later—it was this.

It was mornings with hurried texts:

“Stayed up all night studying. Kiss me awake later?” “Only if I get one back for waking up at 4AM for patrol 😩💤”

It was Izuku stopping by the hospital lounge during his rounds just to see him—even for five minutes—and the way his boyfriend’s tired smile made his heart ache and flutter all at once.

It was real dates, even if they were just takeout and a movie on the couch, one curled up on the other in a hoodie two sizes too big. Or walking hand in hand in the early evening, masked and low-key, trying to dodge tabloid cameras and public attention. Izuku hated hiding—he wasn’t ashamed—but they both agreed they’d rather keep this quiet and sacred, just for a while longer.

His boyfriend always brought snacks to his apartment. Always. “Future doctor’s orders,” he’d say, tossing a protein bar at Izuku with a mock-serious look. In return, Izuku kept a small drawer in his kitchen just for him. Favorite tea, the chocolate-covered nuts he liked, painkillers for the headaches from too much screen time.

They were good together. Steady. Gentle.

Izuku loved that they talked about everything. The hard stuff. The embarrassing stuff. The real stuff. He’d cried once, after a mission that nearly cost a rookie hero their life. He hadn’t meant to fall apart in front of him, but he had—and instead of flinching, his boyfriend had held him so carefully, murmuring soft things into his hair until Izuku had finally, finally breathed again.

Sometimes they argued. All couples did. But it was never cruel. Never ugly. Izuku was still learning how to let go of guilt, how to stop apologizing for everything. His boyfriend helped with that. Taught him that love didn’t mean perfection. That sometimes, just trying was more than enough.

They were young, and maybe the world expected them to fall apart eventually.

But Izuku didn’t care.

He’d fought harder for less.

And in the soft glow of his boyfriend’s bedside lamp, notes scattered across the desk, stethoscope hanging on the back of his chair, Izuku Midoriya would look at him and feel something fierce settle in his chest.

Love. Hope. Maybe even forever.

And for once in his life—he didn’t have to fight to feel worthy of it.