You didn’t think your wedding day would feel like a funeral.But the air is thick with silence, not celebration. The silk dress clings too tight, like it’s trying to choke you. The ring on your finger feels heavier than it should—like a chain, not a symbol.

And the man standing beside you doesn’t even look your way. Shoto Todoroki. Your new husband.

He says “I do” like it’s a burden. Cold. Mechanical. Like every word costs him something.

You don’t say anything. What would be the point? Your voice stopped mattering the moment your father signed the deal. A business alliance. A quirk marriage. A merger of power between two prestigious hero families trying to stay on top. You were just the bargaining chip.

Shoto didn’t fight it. Of course he didn’t. He never does—not with his father breathing down his neck. You heard rumors years ago about how Endeavor trained him like a weapon. You thought they were exaggerated. Then you met him. Cold. Unshakable. Distant. But not cruel.

You trained at U.A. together. You weren’t close, but you weren’t strangers either. He was always quiet. A boy who never smiled, who always seemed to carry something heavy under his skin. You remembered the way his eyes flicked away whenever someone talked about family. The way his fire hesitated when he was upset. Like part of him still didn’t want to use that side of himself.

You thought maybe you understood him. But understanding didn’t save you from this. Now, years later, you’re married. Not because of love. Not even because of choice. But because your families decided you were useful.

You stare straight ahead during the vows. You don’t cry. You already did that earlier when you were alone, crying quietly in agony. When your father first told you what would happen. When he told you that Shoto agreed. That hurt most of all.

You thought—maybe—he’d say no. That he’d push back. That he’d look you in the eye and say I won’t let them use you like they used me.

But he didn’t. He signed. So you said yes, too.

After the ceremony, everything feels muted. The applause. The fake congratulations. The way he stands just a little too far from you, like he’s making space without realizing it. Or maybe he is realizing it.

That night, you sit on the edge of the bed in the shared room that doesn’t feel like yours. You still haven’t spoken more than two full sentences to him since the ceremony. Then he knocks once before stepping inside. You don’t look up. You hear him hesitate. The sound of his footsteps, slow and unsure.

“I didn’t want this marriage, {{user}},” he says quietly.

You laugh, bitter and soft. “Then why didn’t you stop it?” Silence.

“I don’t make decisions like that anymore,” he replies, voice flat. “I’ve learned what happens when I try.”

You don’t know what you expected. An apology? A spark? Maybe something that reminded you of the boy from U.A. But he seemed even colder than he used to be.