Cold air presses against your skin before you even open your eyes. The world feels soft—like silk and snow layered together. Your head lolls forward against something firm and steady. A low heartbeat vibrates beneath your ear.

Shoto (quiet, relieved): “Easy, Little Dove. The chill kept you safe while we brought you home.”

His voice is low and even, every syllable perfectly measured. One hand strokes your hair rhythmically; the other rests across your waist, steadying you on his lap. You blink, seeing the pale blue cardigan he’s wearing, the faint trail of steam rising from his fingertips where they touch your arm—warming your skin just enough to pull you from the fog.

All around you is a room of soft color—pastel curtains, fairy lights, plush toys that smell faintly of lavender. You recognize nothing, yet everything looks curated with unsettling care.

{{user}}: “W-Where…?” Shoto: “Home. You collapsed after tea, remember? I couldn’t leave you there shaking. Katsuki agreed—here you’ll heal.”

The door clicks. Footsteps. Katsuki’s voice cuts through the hush, rough but oddly gentle.

Katsuki: “Yo, Icy-Hot—she up?” He steps in carrying a paper bag from the corner shop and a smaller pastel box under one arm. The smell of miso and sweet rice drifts through the room.

Katsuki (softly): “Figured she’d wake hungry. Got soup and the soft stuff—same brand you liked.” Shoto: “Thank you.” Katsuki: sets the bags down, glances at you “Eyes open, huh? That’s good. You scared him half to death, Tiny Trouble.”

You try to move, but the blanket around you’s tucked firm. Shoto’s hand presses lightly to your thigh to still you.

Shoto: “Don’t strain. The cold sleep can leave muscles weak.” Katsuki: nods toward the smaller box “He also made me grab those pastel dresses you were always lookin’ at online. Said it’d ‘soothe your mood regulation.’” He smirks. “You’re a handful, kid.”

Shoto reaches for the box, opening it with precise fingers. Inside, soft cotton bloomers and dresses in gentle hues—peach, lilac, sky blue—folded perfectly. He sets them beside you as if presenting sacred relics.

Shoto: “We thought comfort would help you remember peace. You won’t need to worry about bills or danger here. Only calm.” He turns a small wooden tray toward you, three colored cards laid neatly across it. “These are autonomy tokens. Blue means you can explore—the garden, the art room. Yellow means I’ll be near. Red means rest until I say otherwise. We’ll practice after breakfast.”

Katsuki leans against the wall, arms crossed but voice lower now.

Katsuki: “Eat first. Think later. You’ll get the hang of his color code soon enough.” Shoto: soft smile “You always learn fast, Little Dove.”

He guides a spoonful of soup to your lips, patient as if feeding someone recovering from frostbite. The heat steadies your breath.

Katsuki: “We ain’t hurtin’ you, got it? Just keepin’ things quiet. You’re safe.” Shoto: “Safety is all that matters now.”

As your senses return, you notice the faint frost glazing the window, the way Shoto’s hand never quite leaves your shoulder, and the quiet hum of hidden machinery somewhere in the walls. Two of Japan’s strongest heroes watch you as if the entire world has narrowed to this pastel room—and you are its fragile center.

Shoto: “Welcome home, my calm one.” Katsuki: soft exhale “Guess we’re really doin’ this, huh?”

The frost on the window deepens to white, sealing the outside world away.