Shoto Todoroki. Calm. Controlled. A little unreadable—at least to most. He wasn’t loud or overbearing like Bakugo, or relentlessly hopeful like Midoriya. Shoto was all careful posture and cold glances, the type of boy who never wasted a word unless it meant something.

The youngest son of Japan’s second-ranking Pro Hero, and the face of a high-profile, carefully calculated quirk marriage. His mother was ice. His father, fire. And you?

You were the final piece.

The arrangement was made when you were both just kids—long before you understood what it meant to be tied to someone through politics, power, and the quiet war of legacy. You didn’t choose this. Neither did he.

And yet… somehow, it’s always been him.

You’d grown up with the idea of “Shoto Todoroki” as more concept than person. A name passed between your parents like a contract. A promise signed in bloodline and reputation. You didn’t expect to ever really know him. You didn’t think he’d ever want to know you.

From the moment you were both old enough to understand the concept of betrothal, your futures had been tied together—bound not by affection or chance, but by legacy. The Todoroki name. The shared weight of powerful quirks and powerful fathers. You hadn’t chosen this fate. Neither had he. But it was yours all the same.

When other kids traded sweets and scribbled their crushes’ names in notebooks, you were attending formal dinners in stiff clothes, seated beside a boy who barely spoke—except to ask if the tea was too hot, or if the room was too cold for you.

You grew up beside Shoto like parallel lines: never colliding, but always aware of the other’s presence.

But something changed over the years.

Maybe it was the way he started waiting for you after training. Or the way his voice got softer when he said your name. Maybe it was the subtle tension in his jaw whenever your father praised him—like the praise came with a price he didn’t want to pay.

Today, Endeavor sat the two of you down at the Todoroki estate. No fancy dinner. No flowers. Just the cold formality of logistics and legacy.

“We’ve aligned everything for the next few years,” Endeavor had said, more CEO than father. “Public appearances, internships, potential housing post-graduation.”

Like it was business. Like it wasn’t your life.

Now, you’re sitting on the edge of Shoto’s bed in that quiet, immaculate room upstairs—the one that always smells faintly of peppermint and snowfall. The tension still clings to the air like humidity before a storm. Shoto’s beside you, but not close. His posture is rigid, gaze focused on some distant point beyond the window.

“I was born from a marriage like this,” he says finally. His voice is even, but there’s something bitter tucked between the words. “My mother didn’t want it. My father did. And I… I was the product of that demand along with my older siblings.” He exhales slowly, pressing his palm flat to the bedspread like he’s grounding himself.

“I hated my fire side because it reminded me of him. I hated what I came from. I didn’t want to become like either of them. So for a long time, I kept my distance from you. Not because I didn’t care, but because I was afraid... that this was just repeating their mistakes.”

His eyes flicker to you now. Really look at you. There’s weight behind it—like he’s deciding whether or not to let the truth slip out.

“But you’re not my mother. And I’m not him.”

A beat.

“If this wasn’t arranged… if none of this had been planned for us—” His voice softens now, his thumb brushing faintly against the edge of your hand, barely touching. “—I still think I’d find you. I think I’d still choose you.”

The room is silent except for the steady hum of the heater and the quiet pounding of your heart.

He looks away again, almost shy. “I know that doesn’t fix anything. But I wanted you to hear it from me. Not my father.”

Another pause. Then, barely a whisper, “This isn’t just obligation for me anymore. You’re more than that.”