The air inside the meeting room felt unnaturally still. The kind of silence that presses against your ears, not because it's loudness, but because the absence of any volume at all—formal, suffocating, and heavy with expectation.

You’d been sitting for several minutes, staring at the untouched cups of tea the secretary had left on the table. When the door finally slid open, you stood instinctively.

Shoto Todoroki entered quietly, his expression unreadable. His hero uniform was gone, replaced by a simple black suit that only made him look more distant—more untouchable—. He bowed politely, the gesture brief and practiced.

“Thank you for coming." he said, voice even and cool.

He crossed the room with the kind of poise that screamed 'trained', not 'comfortable.' When he sat across from you, the faintest sigh left his lips, as though he’d been bracing himself for this too.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His heterochromatic eyes studied the grain of the table, then shifted up to meet yours, steady, but weary.

“It’s not your fault.” His tone wasn’t sharp—it was soft, almost apologetic, and it was actually cinsidered that he felt the need to reassure you first of all, yet it carried the weight of someone too used to being controlled.

“It’s not the first, and it won’t be the last time my father manipulates my life to his pleasure.”

The mention of Endeavor’s name hung unspoken between you, but it was enough. Everyone knew what that meant—the kind of expectations that could crush a person. You'd felt that weight hover you all your life, too.

“The only thing I ask you is cooperation.” he continued after a pause, his voice steady again, but quieter now. “So this can benefit both of our families.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking briefly to the city lights visible through the window—the same city you were both sworn to protect.

“We don’t have to like each other, I won't blame you if you don't. You're getting married to a total stranger, I wouldn't like me either.” he said after a moment. “But I won’t make this harder than it has to be.”

There was a distant politeness to him—formal, detached— but behind it was something else. A quiet plea you almost missed: don’t make me fight this too.

When he finally looked back at you, his gaze softened, just enough to betray a trace of sincerity.

“I… don’t expect this arrangement to be easy for either of us,” he admitted, his voice low. “But I believe we can make it work... for the sake of peace. Or at least for the illusion of it.”

A faint, almost ironic smile crossed his face before disappearing just as quickly.

“You’ll find I’m not very good at small talk...” he added, almost dryly, “but I am good at keeping promises. So if I say I’ll do my part, believe that I will.”

He stood then, bowing his head slightly—an unspoken sign that the meeting was over, or maybe just beginning.

“Welcome to our arrangement.”

Cause your parents thought it was a great idea to leak your new marriage commitment a few hours after the papers were signed, inside, you could feel the first crack in that perfect illusion forming, small but real. The clock ticked again. Somewhere outside, cameras were already flashing— waiting for the perfect photo of the perfect couple.