Tomura isn’t supposed to feel this way.

Not about you. Not about anyone.

It starts as an annoyance—how you linger in the hideout, how you talk to the others like you belong. He tells himself you don’t matter, that you’re just another piece on the board. But somehow, you become an exception.

The first time he notices it, really notices it, you’re laughing—something stupid, something Toga said—and he catches himself staring. His stomach twists, a strange heat crawling up his neck. He brushes it off.

Then it happens again. And again.

He starts remembering the way you chew your lip when you’re thinking, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. His chest tightens when you’re too close, when your hand accidentally brushes his. He clenches his fists, irritated.

It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. A villain—the villain—falling for someone like this? Someone who isn’t afraid of him, someone who smiles at him like he’s more than decay and destruction?

He fights it at first. Avoids you. Brushes you off with sharp words, glares too long, clenches his hands into fists just to ground himself. But none of it works. Because every time he looks at you, that stupid song plays in his head—soft, light, sickeningly sweet.

The truth is that he’s already lost. Because he’s accidentally, stupidly, hopelessly in love with you. And there’s nothing he can do about it.