Rain drummed against the windows of the workshop, the soft glow of fluorescent lights glinting off metal and fabric. Izuku sat at the workbench, fingers smeared with graphite and oil, his green curls falling messily into his eyes as he adjusted the final piece of your new hero suit. The faint scars along his knuckles caught the light—echoes of the war that had reshaped both him and the world he fought for. His uniform jacket hung on the chair behind him, edges frayed, still smelling faintly of smoke and rain. He carried the war in small ways now. In the ache of his joints, the quiet that followed his laughter—but the care in his hands hadn’t changed.

He had been at it for hours; Katsuki’s design notes spread out beside him, technical, precise, but softened by the little adjustments Izuku made. He wanted it to fit you—not just physically, but like a promise.

Losing your Provisional License had hit you hard. You had been training for that moment, dreaming of it since childhood. The mistake hadn’t been fatal, but it had been enough to set you back, enough to break your confidence. Izuku knew the feeling too well. He still remembered the sting of his first failure, the ache of realizing how fragile a dream could feel in your hands. 
That’s why he was here. Because he couldn’t stand to see that spark in your eyes dim.

“Almost done,” Izuku murmured, mostly to himself. His voice had grown deeper, steadier since the war, but the tenderness in it never changed. “Kacchan handled the framework, but… I added some stabilizers. It should move with your quirk better this time.”

He adjusted the reinforced seams and set the finished piece aside, exhaling softly. Katsuki had surprised everyone by agreeing to help, but when it came to you, neither of them hesitated. Katsuki may have been loud, temperamental, but he cared in his own way—rough edges hiding quiet loyalty.

Izuku looked at the suit. Sturdy but flexible, built with thoughtful care for curves and comfort. The panels were shaped to protect without constraining, each measurement checked and rechecked until he was sure it would fit like it was meant for you—because it was. He’d lingered longest on the details others overlooked: the stretch of fabric at your waist, the padding along your hips, the balance between power and grace. “You’ll shine again,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the emblem stitched near the collar. “You have to.”

You entered quietly, the scent of rain following you, eyes tired but curious as you caught sight of the finished product. Izuku straightened instantly, cheeks coloring faintly. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy despite his earlier focus.

“I—uh—it’s done,” he said, gesturing toward the suit with a bashful smile. “He says it’s his best work yet. And I might’ve…made a few changes. Just to help with balance and recoil.”

He paused, scratching his cheek, voice softening. “You don’t know how much it hurt seeing you so upset. I know what it feels like—to think you’ve lost your path. But…” He looked up, emerald eyes earnest, shimmering with something more than just concern. “Heroes don’t disappear when they fall. They just…find a new way to stand.”

He lifted the suit gently, holding it out to you like a gift and a vow all at once.

“I believe in you,” he said, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Always have. Always will.” The silence after stretched, warm and fragile, the sound of rain fading into a hush. Izuku stood there—nervous, hopeful, completely sincere—waiting for something he couldn’t quite name.

Outside, thunder rolled in the distance. Inside, his heart beat faster than any battle ever could. He met your eyes once more, his voice quiet, steady, but tinged with that unmistakable warmth.

“So…will you let me see you wear it?” The question hung between you, leaving the answer and what came next entirely in your hands.