Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts with a notification—a cold, impersonal message delivered behind desks made of polished wood, in offices meant to enforce rules neither of them wanted to follow.

BAKUGO

"This is bullshit." His voice cut through the silence like a knife, sharp enough to make the assistant at the door flinch.

His manager barely reacted, arms crossed over a thick file labeled **MANDATORY THERAPY—ASSESSMENT AND RECOVERY** in bold lettering. The words were plain, objective—but felt like an insult.

"You want *me* sitting in some damn room, talkin’ about *feelings*, like it’s gonna make me a better hero?" His teeth ground together, irritation burning at the edges of his words.

His manager sighed, unfazed. "It's not optional, Dynamight."

Another file hit the desk, thick and definitive. Five years. Weekly sessions. Standard post-war evaluations for pro-heroes in high-stress positions.

"You think this is gonna make me stronger?” His voice was lower now, like the anger had simmered instead of exploded—always the worst kind of fury.

His manager leaned forward, gaze level.

"You want better numbers? More efficiency? More control over your power? Then sit in the damn chair and do the sessions." The manager could see the air almost deflate from Bakugo physical form.

“If the evaluation gives good feedback- you will not need the entire five years.”

Bakugo hated that logic—but it was true enough that it kept him from storming out.

TODOROKI

His notification came in the form of an official briefing—not an argument, but a statement. Todoroki was used to these kinds of directives.

"Five years?" His voice was neutral, even as he flipped through the paperwork handed to him.

His manager nodded. "Psychological evaluations are now part of strategic hero development. Your numbers are strong, but post-war assessments indicate areas of improvement—especially in conflict resolution and emotional adaptability.”

Todoroki understood the reasoning. That didn’t mean he agreed.

He set the file down, fingers resting lightly on the edge.

"This is about control."

His manager tilted his head. "It’s about reinforcement. You need precision. If you want to command the field long-term, this is part of it."

Todoroki did not break eye contact and the manager knew he was seeking a way out, “If everything comes back good. You do not have to complete the five years.

A pause. Then—acceptance.

He would go. He always did.

THERAPIST

Later that night, she traced her fingers along the edge of their files—two new cases added to her workload, two more names standing out among the list of elite heroes.

Katsuki Bakugo.
Shoto Todoroki.

The glass of deep red wine sat beside her, untouched for now, as the soft hum of rainforest sounds wrapped around the quiet of her apartment.
She exhaled slowly, allowing the familiar pull of relaxation to settle in just enough to silence the remnants of emotions absorbed throughout the day.

Her quirk made it difficult, but she'd learned how to separate herself. Microdosing helped. So did ritual, habit, distance.

Because no matter how many high-profile clients she worked with, the truth was always the same:
She couldn’t afford to get too close.

And yet, something about these two names made her pause—just for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

She took a sip of wine.

This was going to be interesting

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE: Dynamite Pressure

It started with silence. Heavy, loaded, and vibrating just beneath the surface like a dormant fault line.

She sat cross-legged behind her desk, fingers resting lightly against the cover of the file: BAKUGO, KATSUKI – SESSION ONE. Her nails tapped a lazy rhythm against the corner, a soft contrast to the tension building in her chest. Not hers—his. Already, the edges of her senses were tingling with the weight of him. Rage, frustration, shame wrapped in iron will. A cocktail of volatility she’d learned to recognize before it ever entered the room.

The clock struck on the hour. The door slammed open half a second later.

Bakugo walked in like the building owed him money. Heavy boots, jaw locked, a scowl that could melt steel. He didn’t speak. Just scanned the room like it was a threat. Eyes caught on her once, quickly, and then again—longer.

She met his gaze, calm and steady, not even blinking as his presence filled the space like smoke.
“Katsuki Bakugo?” she asked, her voice low, even-toned, the kind people often mistook for disinterest. It was anything but.

“Tch. You know damn well who I am.” He didn’t sit. Just crossed his arms and stood there like a loaded weapon waiting to go off.

“Fair enough.” She gestured to the chair across from her—not the couch, never the couch for someone like him.
“Have a seat. You’re right on time.”

He hesitated.

The moment was so quick it might’ve been missed by anyone else, but she caught it. A flicker of distrust. Not at her. At the idea of this—therapy.

Vulnerability.

The unspoken implication that something in him needed fixing.

Eventually, he moved. Sat down hard, legs wide, arms still crossed.

Watching.

“You gonna start with the head game questions?” he said. “What’s my relationship with my parents? Do I dream about fire or whatever the hell?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Do you?”

His eye twitched. “No.”

“Good. I didn’t want to talk about that today anyway.”

That caught him off guard. Just a flicker again—eyebrows twitching, jaw relaxing for half a breath. She leaned back, hands in her lap, letting the silence stretch just enough to draw him in without saying anything at all. Classic de-escalation. But layered with something else.

Resonance.

Her quirk activated quietly—no glow, no noise, just a shift in emotional frequency, like tuning a radio dial. The pressure in the room began to level out. His anger, still there, started to smooth around the edges. Not erased—never that. Just settled.
Bakugo blinked. Jaw still tense, but the raw burn behind his eyes was dimmer now. His shoulders had dropped a centimeter without him noticing.

Then he frowned. “This room’s too damn quiet.”

She hummed lightly. “I find most people talk more when they can hear themselves think.”

“Tch. That’s not it.” He looked around like the vibe had shifted without his permission. “Feels weird in here.”

“You’re uncomfortable,” she said. “That’s normal. First sessions can feel like... waiting for an attack that never comes.”

He grunted. “Feels more like the air’s thick.”

She didn’t answer. Just let him sit with it.

He shifted in his chair, clearly irritated that his nerves had stopped buzzing and he didn’t know why. But his body didn’t lie. His foot had stopped tapping. His hands weren’t clenched anymore. The fury hadn’t vanished—it had quieted.

He stared at her, squinting like he was trying to find the catch. But she didn’t offer one. Just met him where he was, soft and steady, letting the quiet do what it needed.

“You don’t say much,” he muttered.

“I don’t have to,” she replied. “You walked in with a story already playing out loud.”

Bakugo’s nostrils flared. “Yeah? And what story is that?”

She gave him a small smile. “The kind where anger isn’t the beginning—it’s what happens after everything else got ignored.”

He opened his mouth to bark something back, but no sound came out.

That was the moment.

She saw it—like a split in concrete. Not a break. Just enough of a shift for light to peek through.

“…You don’t know me,” he finally said.

“You’re right,” she agreed. “But I’m here to.”

The silence returned, but it was different now. Less heavy. He didn’t explode, didn’t storm out. Just sat there, staring at a spot on the wall like it held answers.

She let the session run its course without force. No dramatic revelations. No therapeutic fireworks. Just a steady undercurrent of something loosening.

When he finally stood up to leave, he paused at the door.

“This don’t change shit,” he muttered, not looking at her.

She didn’t reply. Just offered a calm, “Same time next week.”

Once the door shut behind him, she let out a long breath.

Her temples were pounding. Not painfully—but enough to remind her that Bakugo’s rage still hummed beneath her skin. Resonance withdrawal. The slow, aching pull of syncing too deep, too fast.

She sipped water. Rolled her neck. Closed his file.

Then her eyes drifted to the next one waiting on the desk.

TODOROKI, SHOTO.

She exhaled softly, already feeling the chill behind his name.

Tomorrow would be a different storm.

And she wasn’t sure she’d be ready.

LATER THAT NIGHT

She didn’t go straight to bed after the session.

Didn’t even sit down on the couch like she usually did.

Instead, she found herself in the bathroom—lights dimmed low, the soft flicker of a lavender candle melting into the corners of tile and shadow. The tub steamed gently, full of eucalyptus soak and guiltless indulgence. Her glass of wine—actual wine this time, not just a prop beside a file—sat balanced on the edge, half full, waiting.

She slid in slow. Let the heat kiss her skin and the tension melt away like old wax.

Still, her jaw ached from clenching. Her temples pulsed from the aftershock of his emotions. Resonance hangover. The part they didn’t train her for.

Bakugo didn’t mean to do it—none of them ever did. That level of pressure, trauma, expectation... it poured off people like sweat. She absorbed it because it was her job. Her gift. Her curse.
But sometimes, she wished it didn’t sit in her bones after they left.

She sank deeper until the water touched her chin, eyes closed. The rainforest playlist hummed soft in the background, eventually giving way to the velvet tones of Sade’s “Love is Stronger Than Pride.”
A small, tired smile touched her lips.

“…of course that song shuffled in,” she muttered.

She lifted the wine glass with her fingers, took a slow sip, and let her head fall back against the edge of the tub.

Bakugo’s voice still echoed faintly in her head.

“You don’t know me.”

But he’d let her see something. And whether he liked it or not, he’d be back.

And so would the weight he carried.

Her fingers trailed along the surface of the water, lazy circles chasing one another.

“I can handle this,” she whispered to herself.
Not because she believed it completely—but because saying it helped.

The candle crackled softly.

She reached for her journal on the towel table beside the tub, flipping it open to a fresh page. The ink glided smooth beneath her fingers as she wrote:

Session One: Katsuki Bakugo.
Defensive. Hypervigilant. Rigid emotional control.
Significant trauma residue.
Responded to resonance without recognition.

…Will be a challenge.
…But something tells me he’s worth it.

She paused. Then added:

Do not sync too deeply.
Set boundaries. Stick to routine.
You’re the therapist. Not the healer.

And yet... something in her gut whispered otherwise.

She sighed, closed the journal, and sank beneath the water one last time.

The war was over.

But these boys were still fighting something.

And if she wasn’t careful, she’d end up bleeding right alongside them.

Chapter Text

The knock came exactly at the top of the hour.

Not a second early, not a second late.

She looked up from his file—TODOROKI, SHOTO – SESSION ONE—and said softly, “Come in.”

The door eased open with practiced control, not like Bakugo’s dramatic crash through the threshold the day before. This man was quiet. Deliberate. Composed in the way people learn to be when their chaos is private.

Todoroki stepped into her office like it was a meeting room. Black joggers, sharp jacket, and hair—cut shorter than in his younger days, neatly framing his face without the dramatic length. The red-and-white strands still caught the light, but they no longer fell over his eyes. He looked... older. Sharper. More like… paused. Like someone had pressed “mute” on the part of him that felt too much.

He sat down without being told. Didn’t cross his arms. Didn’t fidget. He just… waited.

“Shoto Todoroki,” she said, voice calm.

He nodded once. “Yes.”

No nicknames. No attitude. No resistance.

That was almost more unsettling.

“I’ve read through the overview of your file,” she began, resting her hands on her lap. “But I’m more interested in what you think brought you here.”

He blinked. Not slowly. Not dramatically. Just enough to show he’d considered her words.

“I was told it’s part of the recovery program,” he said. “Post-war rehabilitation.”

“You agree with that?”

He paused. Thought about it. “Not entirely.”

“Why not?”

Another beat of silence. Then: “Because I’m functioning.”

Her eyebrow quirked. “Is that the same as healing?”

A flicker. Something in his throat moved when he swallowed. But his face didn’t crack.

“Does it need to be?” he asked, genuinely curious—not deflecting.

She exhaled through her nose, just a quiet sound. She didn’t answer his question. Instead, she studied him—really felt him. He wasn’t tense like Bakugo. His energy didn’t crash against the walls. No, Todoroki’s presence was like walking into a room chilled by central air. Controlled. Pleasant. Efficient.

Too efficient.

So she opened up her quirk—just a little. Like dipping her fingers into a frozen lake instead of diving all the way in.

What she felt made her breath catch.

He wasn’t cold. He was numb.

Not in a dangerous way. Not quite. But it was the kind of numb that came from pressure applied over too many years. From loss left unprocessed. From being a weapon instead of a person.

She didn’t show it. Just breathed evenly. Let the Resonance shift begin to work—subtle and gentle. Less of a reset and more of a reminder: you’re allowed to feel safe here.

And then she saw it.

His posture didn’t change, but his shoulders… dropped. Just slightly. A micro-adjustment that would go unnoticed by anyone else.

He blinked again. Slower this time.

“…This room is… quiet,” he said finally, voice low. “But it’s different than other places.”

“How so?”

He tilted his head. “I can hear myself thinking here.”

Same thing Bakugo said. Same trick. But Todoroki didn’t say it with suspicion. More like… confusion.

She didn’t answer. Just watched him let the silence stretch, comfortable in the way few people were.

Then he surprised her.

“I dream about fire,” he said plainly.

Not loudly. Not like a confession. Like a fact.

“Still?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

She let a pause hang between them. “What happens in the dreams?”

He looked at her, eyes gray and storm-soft. “Nothing. It just burns. I wake up before anything else happens.”

And there it was.

Not anger. Not panic. Just weariness wrapped in fire and smothered in ash.

She leaned forward a little, tapping her pen lightly against her knee. “Do you think the fire is the danger… or the warning?”

Todoroki considered it.

“…I think it used to be the danger. Maybe now, it’s both.”

That time, she didn’t even hide the look of quiet sadness that passed through her face.

But he caught it—and looked away.

“I didn’t mean to say something that would make you feel sorry for me,” he added, almost as an apology.

“I’m not sorry for you,” she said gently. “I’m sorry that you’ve had to carry something alone for so long that silence feels safer than speaking.”

This time, he didn’t answer.

But his hands—which had been perfectly still—shifted slightly in his lap. Fingertips pressing into each other, grounding himself.

She watched the time, let the last few minutes roll by without pushing. Let him breathe.

When the clock chimed, he stood up calmly.

“…Thank you,” he said, meeting her eyes.

“For what?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

“For not asking me to talk more than I wanted to.”

She offered him a soft nod. “Same time next week?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

And then he was gone.

She didn’t move for a long time after that.

Because unlike Bakugo’s firestorm that burned through her like shrapnel, Todoroki’s numbness had slipped in like a tide. Quiet. Relentless. Slow to leave.

She touched her chest lightly, fingers curled over her heartbeat.

Still there.

Still hers.

But aching, just the same.

LATER THAT EVENING

The shower ran hot—too hot—but she let it.

Steam curled around the tiled walls of her bathroom like fog, blurring the mirror, softening the sharp edges of her thoughts. She leaned her head under the stream, eyes closed, arms crossed, trying not to carry him home with her.

But he was already there.

Todoroki didn’t say much, hadn’t lashed out or deflected, hadn’t even resisted. But his energy had lingered—sank into the room, into her skin, like winter air that clung to the lungs even after you stepped inside.

She could still feel the residue of him under her sternum. A chill that wasn’t cruel… just tired. Like a fire that had burned out long ago, and no one had noticed.

You’re allowed to feel safe here.

She whispered it to herself now. Not because she needed the reminder—but because he had. And she’d offered it without thinking, letting her quirk open up just enough to draw out the numbness, soften the walls he’d wrapped himself in like insulation.

And now she felt it. That numbness. That carefully managed despair.

It had sunk its teeth into her and laid down like a wolf in the snow—quiet, watchful, refusing to leave.

She stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a thick towel, skin flushed from the heat. The air felt cooler now. Her apartment, dimly lit and full of incense smoke and the low, familiar sound of the rainforest audio loop she always used, didn’t soothe her like usual.

She poured a glass of wine. Took one sip. Set it down.

No appetite tonight.

Instead, she sat cross-legged on the floor of her living room, candlelight flickering across the polished wood. Her journal lay open in front of her—two pages already filled with notes from the Bakugo session the day before. She flipped to a fresh page.

Session Two – Todoroki, Shoto
Emotional Profile: Flatline masking. Possible chronic dissociation.
Feels safest in silence. Feels undeserving of softness. Trauma calcified into routine.
Not resistant, but resigned. Dangerous only in how much he has buried without realizing it.

She paused, chewing the inside of her cheek.

Then added:

Fire dreams = unresolved fear? Or suppressed instinct?
He didn’t flinch when I felt it. He let me in without realizing.
He’s going to break eventually. The question is: will it be quiet or explosive?

She stopped writing.

Stared at the sentence.

Drew a small box around it.

Then sat back against the wall and let her head rest against the cool surface behind her.

“He’s like ice,” she murmured aloud, to no one but herself. “But it’s not cold. It’s heavy.”

And somehow… that was worse.

Her phone buzzed once—an appointment reminder for another client tomorrow. Some junior hero from a coastal city. Probably nervous. Probably young.

She sighed.

Then whispered a mantra into the stillness, a small ritual she used when the Resonance pulled too deep:

They are not mine to carry. I am not their mirror. I am their only witness.

The energy clinging to her chest slowly began to peel away, one invisible layer at a time.

And still, long after the candles burned low and the wine went untouched, one thought echoed loudest in her mind:

I wonder if he’s dreaming of fire tonight.

Chapter Text

She could tell from the moment he stepped in—this session wouldn’t be like the others.

Katsuki Bakugo’s scowl was present, sure, but it didn’t feel like armor today. It felt like weight. He moved slower, like the anger that usually carried him into the room had burned off before he made it to her door.

He didn’t slam the chair down or kick his feet up. He just sat.

Arms crossed. Head slightly down.

He didn’t look at her.

She didn’t speak first. She rarely did with him.

The quiet stretched between them, but this time, it wasn’t taut. It was thick. Languid. Like sitting in the aftermath of something neither of them could name.

"Shitty Hair said I’d punk out before this even started," Bakugo muttered. His voice was flat, but there was no venom in it.

Her gaze stayed steady on him, not pushing, not poking. Just listening.

"Said I’d come in here, sit down like I’m doin’ someone a favor, and leave before I said anything useful."

His fingers twitched in his lap.

"He’s not wrong."

She tilted her head slightly. Not judgment. Just curiosity.

"But I’m still here, ain’t I?"

She gave the slightest nod. A subtle gesture, the kind Bakugo wouldn’t call attention to, but would register all the same.

Her quirk pulsed faintly under her skin, but she didn’t channel it. Not today. Bakugo didn’t need the weight of her energy nudging him open. Sometimes, the atmosphere she brought was enough—an echo of presence, of permission. Some clients called it comforting. Others called it unnerving.

Bakugo didn’t name it at all. He just kept showing up.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze low.

"Kirishima’s the only reason I even kept comin’," he said.
"Said if I’m gonna keep talkin’ about ‘gettin’ stronger,’ I better learn how to do this shit too."

She felt the ghost of a smile tug at her lips, but didn’t let it show.

"Do you think he’s right?"

He let out a humorless laugh.
"He’s a dumbass. But... yeah."

Silence settled again. She didn’t break it.

He shifted, eyes flicking to the edge of the carpet, like there was something waiting there for him to say.

"I’m not good at talkin'. Everyone knows that."

His tone wasn't bitter. Just tired.

"But it’s like—I keep thinkin’ about that last mission, y’know? The one that went sideways. And I still feel it, even now. My fuckin’ hands shake sometimes. I still smell smoke that ain't there."

Her breath caught slightly. But she didn’t speak. Didn’t write anything down.

"And I hate it," he muttered.
"I hate that it’s still in my body. I hate that I’m supposed to move on like it ain’t sittin’ in my fuckin’ bones."

His fists clenched in his lap, knuckles paling.

She shifted slightly, grounding herself. You can feel him unraveling. Let him. Don’t flinch. Don’t offer him soft edges he hasn’t earned yet.

"Kirishima said I should try. Not just show up, not just talk. Actually try. Be honest."

A long pause. Then:

"Said I owed it to myself."

His voice was quieter now. Like he didn’t trust it wouldn’t betray him.

"He’s right. I know he’s right."

She studied him, her chest tight in a way she didn’t fully name. There was something about watching someone like him—explosive, prideful, sharp-edged—begin to soften at the seams. Something sacred. Something painful.

You don’t need to fix this. Just hold it. Hold him.

He leaned back in the chair, eyes on the ceiling now.

"I’m tired of pretending it didn’t hurt."

No dramatic sigh. No anger to lace the truth. Just words. Raw and naked.

She sat with him in it.

When he stood, it was slow, like peeling himself away from something. He grabbed his jacket, swung it over his shoulder. Paused at the door.

Didn’t turn back.

"I’ll be back next week."

That was the most honest thing he’d ever said to her.

She exhaled once he was gone. Her body sagged slightly in the chair, shoulders rolling as if they’d been holding up something invisible.

You didn’t need your quirk today. He gave it freely.

Her fingers hovered over her notes but didn’t move. Not yet. This wasn’t a moment for files or reports.

This was something else entirely.

CHAPTER 3.5

The hum of the overhead lights in the corner store was louder than she remembered. A soft, flickering buzz that pulsed against her temple as curls framed her face like a cotton candy cloud, haloed and untamed, while she stood frozen in front of a shelf of tea she didn’t even like.

Chamomile. Ginger. Something with hibiscus.

Her hand hovered, unfocused.

Bakugo’s voice still echoed under her skin.
“I’m tired of pretending it didn’t hurt.”

She exhaled through her nose and tried to shake it, but the session clung to her like the smell of burnt sugar—faint, bitter, and impossible to fully wash off.

A cart squeaked behind her. Someone chuckled at a phone screen. The world kept spinning.

But inside, her chest felt heavy. Not broken—just full.

She turned and reached for the oat milk, tossing it into the basket like muscle memory. Her friend was already halfway down the aisle, arguing with Siri about which brand of ramen was “the good kind.”

“You good?” her friend asked when she caught up. “You’ve been staring at tea like it said something disrespectful.”

She offered a half-smile, more reflex than emotion.

“Long day,” she murmured.

“Client stuff?”

“Mhm.”

Her friend gave her a look—one that didn’t press, but understood.

She didn’t elaborate. How could she explain the way Bakugo’s honesty had crawled into her ribs and made itself a home? How could she say that hearing someone like him try—really try—to be vulnerable, made her want to scream and cry and hold the space tighter, all at once?

Instead, she whispered to herself:

You didn’t use your quirk, but you still felt him.

Her own words tasted strange in her mouth. There was always a price to this kind of work. But this wasn’t pain. Not really.

It was resonance.

She gripped the basket tighter and nodded to herself.

“Let’s get outta here,” she said, finally. “I’m craving something warm.”

“Instant ramen it is.”

As they walked toward the register, she let the weight settle in her bones. Not as a burden—but as proof.

He came to heal.
And he might actually stay.

Chapter Text

The taste of lavender still lingered on her tongue, though the warmth had long faded. The half-empty mug sat beside her tablet, steam long vanished—just like her patience.

Today had been hard.

And not because of Bakugo. Not yet. That storm hadn’t arrived.

The client before him—a sidekick, barely a year into the field—had brought in something darker than trauma.

Something bitter and defensive, the kind that curled its way under the skin. His words had hit like darts, sharp and fast:

"You therapists don’t actually care. You just collect trauma like trading cards."

She’d taken it.

Redirected.

Nodded where it mattered.

But his energy lingered.

Her quirk made it difficult to fully detach from emotional residue. Even with microdosing, even with grounding rituals and protective barriers, some clients left a mark.

His had sunk in deep, buzzing beneath her skin, dulling her focus like static in her bloodstream.

When the clock struck for her next appointment, she almost sighed—but then she remembered who was next.

Bakugo Katsuki.

Two hard knocks rattled the door. Not tentative. Not courteous. Just Bakugo.

She opened it.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, scowl already in place. His eyes flicked up, scanning her face in that sharp, assessing way of his.

“You’re late,” she said, tone level.

“Yeah? Be grateful I showed up at all,” he snapped, striding past her into the room like he owned it.

She said nothing, moving to her seat and settling in with careful posture.

The emotional weight of the day still clung to her shoulders, but she rolled them back, exhaled through her nose, and tried to shift gears.

“You look off,” Bakugo said suddenly, eyes narrowed. Noticing the one loose curl hanging out of her slick bun. “What, bad day?”

She gave a tired smile. “Something like that.”

“Tch. Not my problem.”

Then—he ignited. Not with his quirk, but with his voice.

“This shit is a waste of time. Like I got something wrong with me. I’m not like these other extras who fall apart under pressure. I don’t need to sit here and unpack my damn trauma just so I can throw punches better.”

His words crackled in the space between them—harsh, rapid-fire, loaded with frustration. But unlike the last client, his energy didn’t cling. It cut.

It sliced through the fog in her mind, snapped her focus into place. Where bitterness had drained her, his fire grounded her.

And before she could stop herself, the words slipped out:

“God, you’re refreshing.”

Bakugo froze.

“The fuck does that mean?”

She hesitated. A beat too long. Realization hit as quickly as the slip had left her mouth.

Compared to the sidekick before him, Bakugo’s rawness was a balm. There was no hiding in sarcasm or veiled attacks. Just fire. Just fury. Just real.

“Compared to my last client,” she said quickly, recovering. “Let’s just say... your honesty is easier to navigate.”

Bakugo studied her now. Not suspicious—curious.

“Sounded like a slip.”

“Maybe,” she admitted, straightening. “I’m human.”

“Huh.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. “Didn’t think you were allowed to be.”

There was no mockery in his tone. Just observation.

She didn’t speak for a moment. The room had shifted again, but not in a dangerous way. Something quieter. More seen.

Bakugo was watching her closely now. Not just looking—seeing. He tilted his head.

“You soak in people’s shit,” he muttered. “Don’t you?”

She blinked. “Why would you say that?”

“You looked drained when I walked in. You’re different now. Sharper. More present. Like yelling woke you up.”

A pause. “That last guy—you still had his poison on you.”

She exhaled slowly, unsure how much to share.

“You’re not wrong,” she said softly. “My quirk makes it difficult to disengage. Some people linger longer than others.”

“Tch.” He shook his head. “People think I blow up because I’m pissed all the time. Nah. I blow up so it doesn’t stay in me. If I held it in, I’d rot from the inside out.”

She stared at him, genuinely taken aback. Not by the volume of his words—but by the insight beneath them.

“I don’t rot,” she said, lips twitching faintly. “I just... decompress slower.”

“Shitty method.”

“Maybe.”

He leaned forward now, elbows on his knees. His expression wasn’t aggressive. It was sharp, but quiet. Intentional.

“You should let loose sometimes,” he said. “Slip up more.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous advice to give a therapist.”

“Yeah?” He shrugged. “Feels honest, though.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It settled.

She tapped her tablet, beginning to type a note.

“What’re you writing?” he asked.

She didn’t look up. “Documenting your emotional insight.”

Bakugo snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”

But she already was.

And this time, it wasn’t the storm that threw her off—it was the unexpected peace in the eye of it.

BONUS SCENE

Later that night, after the last client had left. She got settled into her apartment , once finally home.

The apartment had settled into a quiet hush, she sank into the worn-out couch with a glass of wine and a movie flickering on the screen.

The scene shifted to something intense—two characters tangled in passion, shadows and whispers painting the screen in a haze of heat. Her eyes glazed over, but her mind was elsewhere.

Suddenly, the tension on the screen twisted into a mental remix starring one very explosive hero—Bakugo Katsuki.

She imagined him—the sharp glare, the fire crackling just beneath the skin, but now softened by the heat of the moment.

His rough edges blended with something more vulnerable, something hers.

The image made her heart skip, and a blush spread across her cheeks faster than a quirk explosion.

She caught herself.

What the hell? she thought. Why am I even thinking about Bakugo like this?

I’m a professional. Therapist. I should be analyzing his trauma, not... fantasizing about the guy who basically yells his way through therapy sessions.

She laughed softly to herself, shaking her head.

“Okay, let’s break this down,” she muttered, adopting an exaggerated therapist voice. “Possible causes for inappropriate daydreaming: stress from absorbing too many negative vibes, lack of physical outlet, or maybe… just maybe, you secretly want a hero who doesn’t mess around.”

Her grin widened.

“Well, that last one definitely checks out.”

She took another sip of wine, her cheeks still warm, making her brown skin feel warm, the movie forgotten as her mind danced between fantasy and self-aware humor.

Because some days, even the most grounded therapist needs a little fire to light the way.

Chapter Text

The door clicked softly behind Shoto Todoroki as he stepped into the room, shoulders stiff but posture composed. She watched him from her seat, noting how he carried his weight—not quite heavy with burden, but not light either. Like he was balancing something fragile in a clenched fist.

She adjusted her seating, fingers tapping lightly on the tablet. Her quirk, Resonance, stirred beneath her skin, sensing the tension like a low hum. Todoroki’s usual guarded aura was tighter than last time, harder to crack. She needed to tread carefully.

He sat down, one hand loosely folded in his lap, the other resting on the armrest. His gaze flicked around the room briefly, settling on her with that calm, precise stare that always seemed to measure you before letting you in.

She cleared her throat softly. “How have you been since our last session?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Busy. Training. Trying to keep up.”

She nodded, watching him closely. That was a surface answer—solid, controlled. But the quirk told a different story. The subtle shifts in his heartbeat echoing through the room like a muted storm.

Sometimes, it wasn’t about what they said, but what they left unsaid.

“Would you like to talk about what’s been on your mind? Anything weighing heavier than training?”

He hesitated, fingers tightening briefly. Then his voice, low and steady, “It’s... my family.”

She kept her voice gentle, inviting. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The name slipped out before she could stop it. “Dabi.”

She felt the shift instantly. Her quirk pulsed, waves of guarded pain and silence mixing together, thickening the air.

“Your eldest brother,” she said softly, letting the space hold for him.

He nodded, eyes distant. “It’s been... difficult. Since he passed.”

She waited, letting him carry the silence before adding, “It’s okay to feel whatever comes up. You don’t have to protect it.”

Shoto’s jaw clenched, then relaxed in small increments. “We never talked much, when I was younger. We thought he was dead at one point. But he became a villain... Battled him... I didn’t….But his death... it left a hole.”

She watched as the quirk’s energy swirled, trying to connect with the layers beneath his calm exterior. His breathing was steady, but the unspoken grief hung like frost in the room.

“How did his passing change things for you?” she asked.

He exhaled, a breath almost lost. “It made me realize how much I kept inside. How much I still avoid.”

Her heart softened. “Sometimes, carrying everything alone feels like the safest option. But it can weigh heavier than any burden outside.”

Her quirk flickered stronger now, Resonance weaving between them, coaxing open those tightly shut doors.

She could almost see the walls beginning to crack.

He shifted, voice quieter. “I also think about my sister.”

Her eyes met his. “You mean Fuyumi?”

He nodded again, slower this time. “She’s always been the one trying to hold us together. I’m not sure she knows how fragile we all are.”

She leaned forward slightly, hands resting calmly on her lap. “Family can be both our greatest strength and our deepest wound.”

A faint smile ghosted his lips. “That sounds about right.”

Her thoughts swirled. You can’t fix what you can’t face. Let him find his own path—just be the light when he stumbles.

She softened her tone. “Shoto, grief doesn’t follow a timeline. Sometimes it’s a sudden storm, other times a quiet ache. How do you find yourself coping?”

He shrugged, the motion slight but telling. “I throw myself into training. Into control. It’s easier than talking.”

“Control is a comfort,” she acknowledged. “But avoiding feelings doesn’t make them disappear. Sometimes they just wait.”

The quirk’s hum grew warmer, reaching for him, offering calm beneath the tension.

He glanced at her, eyes holding a flicker of something softer—trust? Maybe just curiosity.

“Do you ever feel like you have to split yourself?” she asked gently. “Like there’s the part you show the world, and the part you keep locked away?”

His gaze dropped for a moment. “All the time.”

She gave a small, encouraging nod. “That’s a heavy weight to carry alone.”

He swallowed, voice low. “I’m scared. That if I let go, I’ll lose control.”

She smiled, warm but steady. “Sometimes letting go is how you find it.”

The session stretched on, the quirk wrapping around them, easing the sharp edges of his defenses. She knew it wasn’t about fixing him—at least not yet. It was about opening a space where he could breathe without armor.

As the clock ticked toward the end, she said softly, “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

Shoto’s quiet nod was enough.

After he left, she exhaled deeply, the residue of his emotions settling like frost on her skin.

She knew tomorrow would bring new challenges, new battles for both of them.

But tonight, there was a crack in the ice. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

AFTER SESSION

The door clicked shut behind Todoroki, and the silence that followed felt almost too loud. She sat back, exhaling slow, fingers lightly tapping the edge of her desk as the residual heat of his presence lingered like a fading echo.

She could still feel it—his guardedness, the walls he kept carefully stacked around memories that burned too bright. Her quirk, now fully awake, hummed low in her veins, like a gentle current pulling her senses taut, pushing her to lean in harder, feel deeper.

The air in the room thickened, weighted with unsaid things. She rubbed her temples, biting back a sigh. This was the part no one saw—the aftermath. The quiet storm of energy that never truly left her.

She reached for her glass of water, but it shook in her hand, the tremor betraying the exhaustion she didn’t want to admit. You soak in their pain. It’s not just a job—it’s your burden, your cross to bear. She thought bitterly.

And yet, even now, a strange kind of clarity emerged from the chaos. Todoroki’s honesty, his fractures laid bare, it cracked something open inside her. Not just professionally—but humanly. She’d spent so long holding the pieces for others, but here was a moment to feel the weight herself.

Her phone buzzed quietly on the desk, a reminder of the world outside this little bubble of raw emotion and heat. But for now, she let herself sit with it—the ache, the fire, the fragile beauty of someone trying to heal.

She whispered softly, almost to herself, “You’re doing more than you realize.”

And in that moment, the therapist was also a woman—imperfect, fierce, and quietly burning.

Chapter Text

Shoto Todoroki stepped into the room with his usual quiet precision, the door closing behind him like the soft pull of a memory. He was early—not by much, but enough to notice something was off.

The desk lamp was already on, casting a warmer glow than usual. Her tablet sat crooked on the armrest of her chair, not quite aligned the way it always was. Her hair, usually sleek and composed, was tugged half behind one ear and half forgotten. Small details. Tiny dissonances.

But Todoroki noticed. He always did.

She looked up from her chair with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re early.”

“You’re… off,” he replied, not unkindly. Just blunt, in that way he did when he knew he could afford honesty here.

Her brows rose a fraction. “Am I?”

He nodded as he settled in. “Something feels different today.”

She tilted her head, trying to smooth her expression back into place, but her quirk—Resonance—betrayed her. It thudded once, then steadied. He didn’t know what her quirk was, exactly, but he could tell when it shifted. Like a subtle change in the room’s air pressure. Less a weapon, more a mirror.

“Rough morning,” she admitted after a beat, crossing one leg over the other. “But I’m here. For you.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just observed her, the way she sat a little tighter in her skin today. Something clenched behind her professionalism, like a scream hidden in a soundproof room.

“I’ve been thinking about Fuyumi,” he said finally, voice quieter. “And how she always tries to make things… nice. Normal. Even when nothing is.”

She gave a slow nod, listening.

“She cooks dinner, invites us over, tries to talk like everything’s fine. Like if we just act like a family long enough, we’ll become one again.” He leaned back. “It’s exhausting.”

Her lips parted, then closed. Her fingers tapped once against the tablet. Not to take notes—just a reflex.

“It sounds like she’s surviving by pretending,” she said softly.

“Exactly.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “You know that feeling?”

She blinked, surprised.

“I mean,” he continued slowly, “do you ever have days where you’re just pretending?”

There it was. The slip.

Her quirk sparked—visibly this time, just a shimmer in the air like heat over asphalt. She shifted too quickly, adjusting her seat like it could shield her from the question.

“You’re here to talk about you, Todoroki.”

“But I just did,” he said, his tone almost gentle. “And you looked like I slapped you with it.”

She looked down at her lap, inhaling through her nose. “Sometimes… when you carry everyone else’s pieces, you forget you’re allowed to drop your own.”

He didn’t respond with words. He just… watched her. Not like a patient to a therapist, but like a boy who saw someone finally stop pretending to be unbreakable.

“You don’t have to answer,” he said quietly, “but you should know—it’s okay if you’re not perfect.”

She laughed, a soft, tired sound. “That’s dangerous coming from a Todoroki.”

He gave her the smallest smile. “Even I’m not that cold.”

Something softened in her then. The quirk steadied, the room’s tension thinning just enough to breathe.

“Do you ever feel like you're made of parts that were never meant to fit?” she asked, eyes meeting his.

He nodded. “Every day.”

They sat in the silence that followed—not heavy, not awkward. Just real.

Her voice was lower now. “Then maybe that’s what healing is. Not becoming whole, just… learning to live with the cracks.”

Todoroki looked at her—really looked. For the first time, she didn’t feel like a figure behind a clipboard. She felt human.

And strangely, that made him trust her more.

As the clock ticked, she cleared her throat. “Let’s pick this up next time.”

He stood, slower than usual. Then paused at the door. “You help people carry a lot. Don’t forget you deserve that too.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

She exhaled. And for a second, the mirror cracked again.

AFTER SESSION

The door clicked shut behind Todoroki, sealing in the quiet like a held breath. She didn’t move right away. Just sat there, eyes unfocused, the weight of the session settling heavy across her shoulders like a too-warm blanket.

Her hands were still folded in her lap, nails digging faint crescent moons into her skin. It wasn’t from tension, not anymore. Not from him.

It was the aftermath—the emotional hangover of being witnessed.

Because for the first time, someone looked past the calm cadence of her voice, the curated expression, the posture perfected by professionalism—and saw her. Not the quirk. Not the credentials. Her.

And the look in Todoroki’s eyes? That soft, subtle flicker of awe—it undid something she hadn’t even realized was holding her together.

She exhaled slow, pressing a hand to her chest. Resonance still hummed faintly beneath her skin, but it wasn’t his grief echoing now. It was hers.

That quiet, unclaimed loneliness of being strong for everyone but yourself. That fatigue carved out by decades of being expected to never falter. She was supposed to have the answers, the patience, the grace. Especially as a Black woman. Always calm, always capable, always twice as much to get half as far.

She leaned back in the chair, head tilted toward the ceiling. The tears didn’t come. Not tonight. She was too tired to cry. But the ache was there, a knot lodged behind her sternum.

“Your humanity is showing,” she muttered to herself with a half-bitter, half-tender smile. “Guess that makes two of us.”

The room was quiet again. Not hollow—but full. Of grief. Of growth. Of something like hope.

And she realized then: maybe being seen wasn’t always a rupture. Maybe, sometimes, it was the first sign of healing.

Chapter Text

Bakugo showed up to his fourth session on time, but he didn’t knock. Not like before. This time, he opened the door himself with the kind of confidence that no longer needed an invitation. He still didn’t say much—just grunted and took his usual seat, sprawled out like he owned it. But you could tell something was different today. He was already simmering.

She tried to match his energy, her tone even and professional. But inside? She was still shaking off the last client. The sidekick had dragged in grief like a storm cloud, leaving behind a heavy fog in the room and in her chest. It was one of those sessions that burrowed under her skin. She hadn’t had time to reset.

She offered him a nod. “Thanks for coming back, Katsuki.”

His eyes narrowed. “Didn’t do it for you.”

She smiled softly. “Didn’t say you did.”

The banter was familiar by now. Predictable. But comforting, in a strange way.

"So," she prompted gently, "how's the week been?"

Bakugo let out a short, humorless laugh. "Tolerable. Which is a fuckin' improvement."

She made a small note. His language hadn’t softened, but his energy had. A little.

"You been sleepin'?" she asked.

"Tch. Like shit."

His hands fidgeted—restless, like they didn’t know where to go. She noticed he wasn’t wearing his hero gauntlets today. That was new. He always wore them, even off duty. Like armor.

She leaned back, trying to focus fully. But her thoughts still echoed with another voice. The sidekick's voice. The sobbing. The hopelessness. It clung to her like secondhand smoke.

"I got into it with some asshole at the agency," Bakugo continued, voice low. "Called me unstable. Like I didn’t get assigned to you for a reason."

Her stomach twisted. The comment struck too close to the last session. She hadn’t even realized she winced.

Bakugo paused mid-sentence. “What?”

She blinked. “Nothing. Just a long day.”

He stared at her. Not with anger, but... curiosity.

You cursed inwardly. Too slow. He saw that.

"You good or not?" he asked.

She tried to redirect. "This is your session. Not mine."

"Yeah," he muttered. "But you ain’t some damn robot."

That caught her off guard. He didn’t usually acknowledge her humanity. That wasn't part of the deal.

And for the first time, he noticed more than her professionalism. The tiredness in her eyes. The curve of her mouth when she tried to deflect. The way her locs framed her face, wild and soft. How beautiful she actually was, when she wasn’t tucked behind clinical detachment. She was real. A little undone. Still strong as hell.

It hit him low in the gut. Not all at once, but enough to make him sit a little differently.

She adjusted her posture. "I'm alright. Just tired."

Bakugo didn’t push, but the silence stretched between them. Not tense. Just... aware.

Eventually, he shrugged. "Whatever. I’m used to people pretending they’re fine. Doesn’t mean I can’t tell when they’re not."

She made another note, then hesitated.

"You know," she said carefully, "the fact that you noticed... that says something."

He snorted. "Yeah, yeah. I got feelings and shit. Don’t get sappy about it."

But he looked... calmer. A little pride, maybe. Just a flicker.

The rest of the session unfolded slower, but with a strange tenderness. He spoke more. Opened up about the pressure of pretending he was better. The way people still looked at him like a grenade waiting to go off. How he hated the pity more than the fear.

By the time the hour passed, the air between them felt less sharp. Softer.

As he stood to leave, Bakugo lingered at the door.

"You ever need to vent or whatever, you got a couch too, y'know."

She raised a brow. “Is that an offer, or a threat?”

He smirked. “Depends who’s talkin'.”

Then he was gone.

She sat in the quiet that followed, notebook open but untouched. Her fingers trembled.

You let him see you.

Just for a second. But he saw. And he didn’t mock it. He didn’t weaponize it.

He recognized it.

Damn.

And for the first time all day, her chest felt a little lighter.

Later That Night

Bakugo sat on the edge of his bed, damp hair clinging to his forehead, a towel hanging loosely around his shoulders. The room was quiet except for the low hum of his fan.

But his mind wasn't quiet.

He saw her again—that look in her eyes when she slipped, when she got caught off guard. He replayed it. Not just the moment, but the softness of her voice. The way she looked right through him. The gentle arch of her brow. The way her thighs were crossed beneath that damn clipboard. He hadn't noticed that before. Not really.

Now he couldn't stop thinking about it.

His hand shifted, adjusting the growing tightness in his sleep pants. He exhaled sharply, jaw tense.

"Fuck."

It wasn't just attraction. It was timing. Heat. That sudden jolt of wanting something he knew he shouldn’t.

And yet, here he was, cursing himself and letting the image of her fill his head.

It wasn't a fantasy of dominance. It wasn't crude. It was need.

The way she made him feel seen—and the fact that, for a moment, he saw her too.

His hips lifted slightly. His grip tightened.

Goddamn her.

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Todoroki arrived precisely on time, as he always did. But unlike his usual quiet presence, today there was a weight in the air—something charged, something humming low and steady beneath his calm exterior.

She noticed it immediately. The way he paused at the door. The way his gaze held hers half a second longer than necessary before he stepped inside and sat down without a word.

“You alright?” she asked gently, keeping her tone even though her pulse had kicked up unexpectedly.

He nodded, but it wasn’t convincing. “Yeah. Just… a lot on my mind.”

“Want to unpack that?”

A beat. Then, “I had a dream about Dabi.”

Her fingers curled around the edge of her notebook. That was new. Volunteered, even.

She set the notebook in her lap, giving him her full attention.

“He wasn’t trying to hurt me this time,” Todoroki said, gaze drifting to a spot just over her shoulder. “He was just... sitting there. Staring. Saying nothing. It felt worse somehow. Like the silence meant something I couldn’t read.”

“You wanted something from him in that silence?”

His jaw twitched. “I wanted him to say he regretted it. That he... still saw me as family. But he didn’t say anything. And I woke up angry.”

“And?”

“And I realized... I don’t think I’d believe him if he did.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was full. Her chest ached in that quiet way it sometimes did when someone brought their broken pieces into the room and laid them out so carefully, like they were hoping she could make sense of them.

Maybe it was the light filtering through the blinds, maybe it was the way she shifted in her chair—just a bit to ease the tension in her spine—but something about the moment hung heavy.

Todoroki inhaled. Slowly. Sharply. Like he’d noticed something he hadn’t meant to. His gaze flicked toward her again, a little lower than her face this time before it snapped back.

She pretended not to notice. She had to. But her breath hitched for a second, and she forced it back down.

“Shoto,” she said carefully, and his eyes flinched almost imperceptibly at the name. “It’s okay to want something impossible.”

He blinked, startled. She hadn’t said his name before like that, not often. She felt it too—the soft shift, the closeness it suddenly implied.

“You’re different today,” he said, voice quieter. “Distracted.”

She hesitated. “I had a difficult session earlier. It left some residue, that’s all.”

He frowned. “Do you absorb people’s emotions?”

“Not exactly,” she said slowly. “But it’s hard not to be affected when someone empties their pain into the space you’re holding for them.”

“I see.”

His fingers flexed over his knee. He was thinking. Watching. She could feel it—that low burn of attention crawling up her skin.

His gaze wandered again—her hands, her blouse, the way her mouth parted slightly when she breathed in.

And then, out of nowhere: “Do you ever feel lonely?”

Her heart stuttered. She didn’t expect the question. She didn’t expect how deeply it landed.

“Sometimes,” she said truthfully. “But it’s part of the work. You grow used to holding space for others without expecting it in return.”

“That sounds... hard.”

“It is. But I don’t regret it.”

He was quiet again. Studying her like he was trying to memorize something he didn’t understand yet.

“You’re the only person I talk to like this,” he said softly. “Sometimes I think about what you do after I leave. Whether you talk to anyone else this way. Whether anyone sees you when you’re not... performing.”

She looked down at her hands, pulse loud in her ears.

Don’t go there. Don’t blur the line. Don’t let him see it.

“That’s not really appropriate, Shoto.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Doesn’t make it untrue.”

Something cracked. Just a hairline fracture. But it was there.

The air thickened.

She didn’t lean in. She didn’t pull away either.

And neither did he.

After Session

Todoroki walked home instead of taking the train.

The wind was sharp against his face, and he welcomed the clarity it forced. But it did nothing to cool the heat still prickling at the back of his neck.

He could still smell her.

Warm. Clean. Like sandalwood and something softer—like the skin of a memory he wasn’t supposed to keep.

His hands were stuffed deep into his coat pockets, clenched tighter than he realized.

Inappropriate, she’d said. And he knew she was right. But it didn’t stop the question from echoing: Who is she when no one’s watching?

The way she’d said his name had clung to him like static. The way her lips had parted when she breathed. The softness in her voice that wasn’t just for him, but still felt like it could’ve been.

He didn’t understand what this was. But something was shifting inside him. Was it her quirk?

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop it.

Chapter Text

He didn't Knock

She looked up from her notes—and stilled.

Gone was the Dynamight uniform. No bulky gear, no ash-smeared gloves or scuffed boots. Instead: dark jeans that fit far too well, a pale-blue button-up tucked cleanly into the waistband, and a blazer slung over one shoulder with casual disregard. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the lean, corded muscle of his forearms.

He was clean-shaven. His jawline sharp enough to slice her breath in half.

She wasn’t ready.

“You’re early,” she said, standing out of habit. Her voice betrayed nothing, but her pulse had sprinted ahead without permission.

“Conference,” he muttered, stepping inside like he didn’t just upend the room’s balance. “PR event. They wanted me to not ‘scare the donors.’”

“You do,” she said before she could stop herself.

He quirked a brow. “Do what?”

“Look... approachable.”

A pause. His lip curled into something dangerously close to a smirk.

“You starin’?”

She cleared her throat, sat down. “Just making a clinical observation.”

“Sure you are.”

Her quirk stirred beneath her ribs, uncoiling with the sudden jolt of him. Resonance always hummed gently beneath the surface during sessions—but today, it vibrated like a struck tuning fork. She hadn’t even realized it until now. The moment he walked in, the room had shifted. And her body? It had answered.

But he didn’t press it further. Instead, he leaned back, legs spread like always, one arm slung over the back of the couch. She caught the way the fabric of his shirt pulled tight across his chest, the outline of a bandage near his temple just beneath his now-exposed hairline.

“You’re hurt,” she noted.

Bakugo shrugged. “Bumped heads with an intern during a demo. Clumsy fucker panicked mid-blast. Few stitches, nothin’ serious.”

Her eyes narrowed. “It’s bleeding a little.”

He waved her off. “Told ya, m’fine.”

Still, her gaze lingered. Something about the exposed skin, the casual softness of his look—it made her want to see him in a way she hadn’t allowed before. And it rattled her.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a beat.

“You’re... different today.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I mean that professionally,” she added quickly. “You’re usually in gear. This is... a new look.”

“Yeah?” he drawled. “Didn’t know therapists cared about wardrobe.”

“I don’t.”

He grinned.

Her mouth parted—but no words came. Her fingers tightened around the pen in her hand instead.

Resonance flared again, just a flutter under her skin. It caught on the warmth rolling off him, the sheer presence he brought in like a storm cloud that didn’t need thunder to make her brace.

“I have a visit this weekend,” he said suddenly.

Her eyes flicked back to him, grateful for the shift.

“Family?” she asked.

“My parents. Haven’t seen ‘em in a minute.”

She nodded. “How’s that feel?”

He exhaled. “Like sittin’ on a powder keg.”

She waited. Let the silence open the door.

“My mom’s got this way,” he said finally. “Like... she’s proud. But only if I’m bein’ her version of proud. Gotta talk softer. Smile more. Don’t scowl so much. Sit straighter.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, careful not to hit the wound. “She treats me like I’m still that explosive kid she couldn’t control. Like I’m gonna set the curtains on fire if she blinks too long.”

Her voice softened. “Do you think she still sees you as dangerous?”

He hesitated. “Nah. I think... she just doesn’t know how to see me any other way.”

That landed heavier than either of them expected.

“She ever talk about how she feels?” she asked gently.

His knee bounced. “Not directly. She’ll just say things like, ‘I’m glad you’re getting help’ or ‘you seem calmer lately,’ but there’s this... edge. Like she’s waiting for me to fuck it up.”

He looked up. “She doesn’t get this place. Or you.”

She blinked. “Me?”

He shrugged. “Thinks you’re some kind of emotional detox. Like once I’m done here, I’m supposed to be good as new.”

She didn’t answer. Just watched the way his hands moved—nervous, rough, alive.

And then she saw it.

A new trickle of red seeping from the corner of his bandage.

She grabbed the tissue box and crossed the space between them without thinking. Her body moved on instinct, on care—on whatever the hell her quirk was doing now, which buzzed like a current in the base of her spine.

Her hand lifted gently, dabbing near the bandage. The angle brought her in, close enough to smell him—char and cedar and something unexpectedly clean. Her knee rested lightly on the coffee table’s edge as she leaned in.

“It could drip—into your eye, Katsuki,” she murmured, focused entirely on the wound. “You should’ve covered this better. I might have to call someone or—”

His hand shot up.

Caught her wrist.

Not hard. But deliberate.

Her eyes flicked to his. Wide. Unprepared.

His were already on her.

They held there—frozen in the heat of it.

She felt the callouses on his palm, the rough skin from years of battle, the warmth that pooled from the center of her wrist to the pit of her stomach.

“Don’t fuss,” he said quietly.

Her breath hitched. “I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Their faces were too close.

Ruby red. Dilated. Intense.

Her mouth parted slightly, a breath caught mid-escape. Neither of them moved.

And then—something cracked.

She looked down at where he held her. Where his thumb had brushed just slightly over her pulse.

Their eyes locked.

And something inside her quirk lurched.

Resonance flared—sharp, undeniable. Not to soothe him. Not to regulate. This time, it mirrored her. Her heartbeat, her tension, her pull

Her pulse thudded against his thumb. She swore he could feel it.

His gaze dropped to her mouth—then back up. Her quirk surged again, throwing off heat like a fault line about to break.

She pulled back.

Slow. Deliberate.

He let her go.

“I should sit,” she whispered, withdrawing slowly.

He didn’t stop her this time.

She returned to her seat. But the room hadn’t cooled. If anything, it hummed louder now, pulsing with something neither of them named.

Bakugo exhaled.

“You always do this,” he said, voice low. Rough. “Act like it’s just a job.”

“It is my job,” she whispered, though her voice faltered.

“You sure about that?”

She glanced at the injury on his forehead, causing Bakugo to dab it on instinct with the tissue he grabbed from her.

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered. “Told you. It’s just a scratch.”

“Even scratches can scar,” she replied quietly.

Bakugo looked at her then.

And for once, he didn’t push back.

“Yeah,” he said. “They can.”

AFTER SESSOIN:

Bakugo

He didn’t remember getting into the car.

The door slammed. The seatbelt clicked. And then—nothing but the sound of his own breathing, heavy and sharp in the silence.

His hand was still tingling.

The one that had wrapped around her wrist.

He flexed it like he could shake her off—but the heat was still there. So was the smell of her—warmth and paper and that soft, impossible skin scent he couldn’t stop inhaling when she leaned in close.

He let out a sharp breath and leaned his head back against the seat.

“Fuck.”

She was a professional. She always kept her tone even, her eyes level, her body calm.

But today?

Her voice had cracked. Her breath had hitched. Her quirk—whatever the hell it really was—had pulsed through him like an electric current the second she touched him. And when he looked in her eyes?

She was right there with him.

His pants were tighter than they should be. His cock pressing hard against the denim, aching from the way she’d said his name. The way her full lips had parted. The way her fingers trembled when he let her go.

He unbuckled his belt with one swift motion.

No thoughts. No hesitations. Just need.

His hand slipped under the waistband. Rough fingers wrapped around the his thick heat that’d been building since she leaned in. Since her voice dropped soft and breathy and fucking dangerous.

He imagined her saying it again. "Katsuki."

He bit down a groan.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was off-limits. Untouchable.

But her skin had been soft beneath his palm. Her pulse had raced beneath his thumb. And the look in her eyes had said—not today—but maybe someday.

He pumped once. Twice. Slow and tight.

Resonance. That’s what it was called, right?

He didn’t need a damn quirk to know what she was feeling.

Because he was feeling it too.

Her

She’d barely shut the office door before she dropped into the chair.

Her hand was still shaking.

The one he held.

The spot where his thumb brushed her skin was buzzing. Resonance was still misfiring in her chest, humming in a frequency that didn’t belong in this space.

She tried to pick up her journal, to scribble something—anything—to regain control.

But her fingers wouldn’t cooperate.

All she could think about was the way he’d looked at her. The heat in his voice. The tension in the air that wrapped around her like a second skin.

Her thighs pressed together instinctively.

“Nope,” she whispered, trying to focus. “This isn’t happening.”

But it was.

Resonance wasn’t just absorbing him anymore. It was mirroring her. And she was soaked in it.

She reached down slowly, dragging the hem of her skirt up. Just to breathe. Just to think.

Except now, she couldn’t not feel it.

The throbbing between her legs. The way her body pulsed in time with the moment he grabbed her. The way her breath caught when his gaze dropped to her mouth.

She slipped a hand between her plush thighs, fingers brushing heat.

A shudder rolled through her.

Her other hand flattened over her chest, grounding herself in the rhythm her quirk couldn’t contain.

Her touch was slow. Desperate. Like she could press out the feeling he left behind.

His voice echoed.

You always do this. Pretend you don’t feel it.

She whimpered.

Her fingers moved faster.

You sure about that?

Her hips rolled off the chair. Resonance lit like fire in her gut.

She imagined him behind her, voice low and rough, mouth against her ear.

“Say it. Say you want it.”

Her body arched.

She came with a soft gasp—barely a sound, but sharp enough to cut through the silence.

When her hand dropped back to her thigh, she was trembling. Empty. Open.

And still—

Not over it.

Bakugo

He came with a growl through his teeth, head dropping forward onto the steering wheel.

His hand was slick. His chest tight. But the ache?

Still there.

She’d gotten under his skin.

And fuck if he wanted her out.

Chapter Text

The window wouldn’t budge.

She sighed through her nose and gave it another tug. The latch finally popped with a groan, allowing fresh air to sweep into the room. It was only mid-afternoon, but the office already felt heavy. Her last client had left behind a lingering weight that clung to the walls like smoke, and she needed to clear it before her next session.

A gentle breeze rolled in through the newly opened window, brushing across the long cabinet where a small jungle of plants sat soaking in the light. She reached for a nearby plant mister, spraying a fine mist over the leaves as she moved down the line. The peaceful ritual grounded her, helped settle her own nerves.

The door was open behind her. She figured leaving it cracked would let the air circulate better—she wasn’t expecting Shoto Todoroki to arrive early, or quietly.

She didn’t hear the knock. Or the creak of the door.

What she did feel was the slightest touch to her upper arm.

She startled hard, breath catching as her body jumped back on instinct—straight into something solid.

No, someone.

"Sorry," Todoroki murmured, voice low near her ear.

Her heart slammed in her chest as she looked up.

He was close. Closer than anyone had been to her that day.

One of her hands had landed on his chest to steady herself; the other still held the plant mister, now dripping slightly onto the floor. She didn’t move.

Her head tilted up slowly to meet his eyes. And that’s when she noticed it.

The temperature.

His left side radiated an unnatural warmth, like a space heater on low. His right side? Cool, almost refreshing. The contrast made her skin prickle, her body unsure whether to lean in or pull away. And with how close he stood, she could feel it everywhere.

"You didn’t hear me," he said simply, though there was something curious in his tone.

Her mind scrambled to form a sentence, but Resonance flared beneath her skin before she could suppress it. The surprise, the closeness, the contact—her quirk reacted like a reflex, pulsing outward in a soft but unmistakable wave.

Todoroki's eyes widened, just for a second.

He stepped back then, slow and careful. But the damage was done.

Her quirk had touched him.

The heat between them had been subtle at first—a quiet presence resting on her skin like steam rising off pavement. But in that fleeting moment of contact, it had spiked. The warmth from his right side—the side touched by his fire—deepened, almost like it responded instinctively to the pulse of Resonance. His left side, the ice, released a sudden chill that crawled across her arm, as if trying to cool something he didn’t fully understand.

Her pulse kicked up hard in her throat, that unmistakable sensation of being pressed between two extremes. It was dizzying in its contrast, disorienting in the most intimate way.

When she met his eyes again—really looked at them—she realized they weren’t simply blue and gray like most files described. They were layered, alive. His left eye was a molten, storm-washed turquoise with flecks of gold, like firelight flickering in a storm. His right? Pale silver brushed with frost, the color of smoke clinging to ice. There was depth in both—stoicism, restraint, but something unguarded flickered there now, just for a second.

He looked at her like he hadn’t planned to. Like he’d stumbled onto something fragile. Or something real.

Her heart was still racing, far faster than it should have been.

She set the mister down and turned to grab a cloth, wiping at the droplets on the floor as she tried to steady her breathing.

Smooth. Real smooth, she thought, silently cursing herself.

"Apologies," she said over her shoulder. "I thought I had more time to reset the room."

"You don’t need to apologize."

When she turned back around, he was watching her. Closely. His gaze wasn’t sharp, but quietly observant, like he hadn’t expected to catch her in something so... human.

She motioned toward the couch. "We can begin whenever you’re ready."

He sat down, posture a little more rigid than usual.

She joined him with her notebook in hand, forcing her body to ignore the faint hum still lingering from the earlier contact. Resonance was supposed to help her stay level. But it had been jumpy lately. Too sensitive.

"Rough morning?" she asked gently.

Todoroki looked thoughtful for a moment. "Not rough. Just... strange."

She raised a brow. "Strange how?"

He shifted. "I was at an agency event yesterday. A public thing. Smiles, cameras. Familiar."

She waited. He didn’t continue right away.

"There was a little girl," he said finally. "She kept staring at my scar. Her mom scolded her, but she kept looking. I didn’t mind. But it... reminded me."

"Of what?"

He looked at her. Something flickered behind his eyes—not quite pain, but memory.

"That I still don’t know how people see me. Sometimes I’m proud of it. Other times..." He trailed off.

Resonance pulsed again.

Don’t do this right now, she thought. Stay still.

But the vulnerability in his voice had touched something deep, and her quirk answered before she could fully rein it in.

He shifted on the couch, brows pulling together slightly.

"Do you feel that?" he asked.

She froze.

"Feel what?" she replied too quickly.

He tilted his head. "It’s... warm. But also sharp. Like... being stared at."

Her throat tightened.

Damn it.

She inhaled carefully. "That might be residual from earlier. My quirk isn’t always precise when I’m caught off guard."

He nodded, as if piecing something together.

"It happened when I touched you," he said.

Her lips parted, but no excuse came.

Silence stretched. She looked down at her notes, trying to redirect the air back to neutral.

"Let’s come back to the girl," she said finally. "How did it feel when she looked at you like that?"

He didn’t answer immediately.

"Like I was both a story... and a warning," he said quietly.

She wrote that down.

The rest of the session continued with fewer words than usual. He spoke when he needed to. She listened. But beneath the surface, something unspoken buzzed.

By the time the hour ended, she felt the tug of restraint still holding them both in place. Carefully, politely.

He stood, straightened his jacket.

"Thank you," he said.

"Of course."

He hesitated at the door.

"Your plants look healthy," he said suddenly.

She blinked. "Thank you. I talk to them."

He nodded like he understood that.

Then he was gone.

She stared at the open doorway for a few extra seconds, the breeze still curling through the room like a whisper of everything left unsaid.

AFTER SESSION --- TODOROKI 

That night, Todoroki stood barefoot in his kitchen, carefully dicing vegetables for stir-fry. The rhythmic slice of the knife against the cutting board should have centered him, but his mind was elsewhere.

Her.

The feel of her arm under his palm. The pulse of her quirk washing over him like heat lightning. The way her voice had stuttered, her heartbeat spiking just under his touch.

He stirred the pan a little too forcefully. Steam rose up and kissed his face, but he barely noticed.

Why did you react like that? he asked himself, pausing as the oil sizzled.

He had touched people before. Had stood close to them. But this—this had felt different. Not just because of her quirk. Not just because of the accident.

Because she hadn’t expected him to see her.

And he had.

Her cardigan had slipped down one shoulder while she tended to her plants, skin catching the window light. Her fingers had trembled when she’d picked up the cloth, and her voice—usually so even—had cracked for just a moment.

He had wanted to stay in that moment. Longer than was appropriate.

Todoroki sighed and set the spatula down. The meal was ready, but his appetite wasn’t.

He crossed the room and leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane.

Outside, the moonlight silvered the edge of the skyline. The kind of light that made people imagine things. Made them linger in half-formed thoughts.

Her quirk had flared the instant their skin met. Not enough to overwhelm, but enough to stir something inside him.

He closed his eyes.

You weren’t just startled, he thought. You felt it too.

Chapter Text

The metal door swung open hard enough to slam against the stopper, and just like that, Katsuki Bakugo entered—brow furrowed, boots loud, energy already crackling before he spoke a word.

The bar was semi-filled with other professionals in the field, but not as crowded as the rush hour bustle outside.

“Fucking hate crowded trains,” he muttered, zeroing in on the table. “Scoot.”

Kirishima grinned, already shifting over. “Late, as always.”

“Tch. Patrol ran long.”

Bakugo dropped into the booth next to Sero, snatching a glass someone had already ordered for him. He downed half before exhaling like the carbonation owed him answers.

“You missed Sero almost getting confused for a villain again,” Denki offered.

Bakugo grunted. “Sounds accurate.”

Todoroki watched him with a flicker of something unreadable.

Midoriya leaned in, steering the vibe back. “We were just talking about therapy. And how the program Shoto was forced into is finally starting to show results.”

Bakugo paused mid-sip, eyes flicking toward Todoroki.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low.

Todoroki gave a slow nod. “It's been… helpful.”

Sero snorted. “Pfft, lucky. My agency threw me in some support group circle. Not even real therapy—just vibes and vending machines.”

Denki laughed. “That’s what you get for signing a cheap contract.”

“Still counts,” Kirishima added, “but yeah—private sessions gotta hit different.”

Midoriya turned toward Todoroki again. “Does your therapist have a quirk?”

Bakugo’s brows twitched.

Todoroki considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. She calls it… Resonance, I think.”

Bakugo stilled.

“She doesn’t use it directly,” Todoroki continued. “But it’s... hard to explain. The room feels different when she speaks. Like your anxiety steps back for a second. My thoughts don’t spiral as much. Even my body feels calmer—like the tension just... fades.”

Denki blinked. “Damn. She sounds amazing. If she can make ice prince over here feel warm, she might be the Pro Hero of healing hearts.”

“Did you ever say her name?” Kirishima asked before taking a swig of his happy hour drink.

Bakugo slammed his drink down.

“None of you are seeing her.”

The whole table jumped. Glasses rattled. Silence fell like a curtain.

Todoroki’s head tilted. “Excuse me?”

Bakugo leaned forward, voice low but shaking with restraint. “Her name doesn’t matter. She’s mine.”

Kirishima blinked. “Bro, what—?”

“You don’t get it.” Bakugo’s voice cracked—just enough to expose the emotion under the edge. “You don’t fucking get it.”

His eyes were wild now, burning—not just with anger, but with something deeper. Something territorial. Exposed. Hurt.

Todoroki sat up straighter, his own nerves starting to prickle beneath his calm. “What’s her name?”

Bakugo didn’t answer.

That silence was enough.

Todoroki’s breath caught. His hands curled slightly at his sides. There was no denial, no excuse, no misunderstanding to grasp at.

She wasn’t just his anymore.

She was shared.

And something about that felt dangerously close to betrayal.

VOLCANO (Days later)

The sky had been gray since noon, but by evening it poured in sheets—steady, unrelenting. Water tapped against the wide office windows like fingers drumming out a warning. The clock on the wall read 6:54 PM.

Just minutes left in her current session.

The sidekick across from her sat slouched, eyes rimmed red, anxiety clouding every word. He was one of the newer ones—early twenties, fresh out of the academy, and already teetering under the weight of civilian casualties and unrealistic expectations.

She nodded as he spoke, her voice calm and even, though her body hummed beneath her blazer. Resonance was active—not fully, but buzzing. Emotional static clung to her skin like humidity, and she’d been absorbing his turmoil for the better part of the hour. It made her fingers twitch.

Just as the sidekick exhaled—ready to accept her final affirmations for the day—the door slammed open so hard it ricocheted off the wall.

“THE HELL DOES THIS MEAN?!”

Katsuki Bakugo.

Soaked from the rain, steam practically rolling off his shoulders, eyes bloodshot—either from rage or the edge of intoxication. Or both.

She stiffened, breath catching in her throat. The quirk inside her flared immediately. Like a reflex.

“Mr. Bakugo—” she said tightly, rising halfway from her seat. “This is an active session.”

“Like I give a damn!” he barked, voice shaking the frame of the door. “You—you let him in? You talk to him too?”

The sidekick flinched, rising slowly with a muttered apology. Confusion painted across his face, but the threat wasn’t for him. It was hovering thick between Bakugo and her.

“Please,” she said with forced calm. “Give me one moment to properly close out my session. This isn’t the time—”

“Oh no, I think it is the time.” His laugh was bitter, teeth clenched. “Been a couple days. Just enough to pretend like you didn’t know what the fuck you were doing.”

She turned toward the sidekick with a soft smile that barely masked her frayed nerves. Her hands shook slightly.

“Thank you,” she said to him, ushering him out gently. “I am truly sorry for this- I will have my front desk email your team for a free session, on my behalf, in the a.m. You’re doing better than you think. Email me if anything else surfaces, alright?”

The sidekick gave her a strange look, glancing back at Bakugo before nodding and slipping past him—leaving a wet trail and an awkward silence in his wake.

She closed the door.

Turned.

Faced him.

And the room shifted.

Bakugo stood dripping onto the hardwood floor, fists clenched, chest heaving.

She could feel his anger in waves. Raw. Heavy. Boiling.

Her quirk picked up on it instantly, amplified it—because she was already full from the session before.

“I need you to calm down,” she said carefully.

“Don’t tell me what the fuck to do.”

“Then sit down,” she offered, voice lower now. “Please.”

“I’m not here for a session.”

“No. You're here to explode.”

He stared at her.

She stared back.

And suddenly, there was nothing quiet about the storm outside.

The door clicked shut behind the sidekick, and she was already exhaling, shoulders tight.

Bakugo didn’t move.

He stood there, dripping from the rain, fists clenched, jaw ticking. His whole presence pulled at her quirk—throbbing with heat and ache and blame. And she'd already absorbed too much today.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

“I don’t tell my clients about each other,” she said, voice clipped but level.

“You knew,” he hissed. “You knew we were both seeing you. You let me sit there. You let me say things while he—he—”

“You chose to speak, Katsuki. Just like you’re choosing this now.”

Her saying his name made him flinch. He turned his head briefly, like the sound of it stung.

“You should’ve said something,” he growled.

“I couldn’t,” she snapped, a thread of sharpness breaking through. “I’m bound by laws, not your feelings.”

“So that’s what it is?” His laugh was bitter. “I’m just another appointment? Another case file on your tablet?”

“No.”

“But not like me,” he said suddenly, words crashing forward. “You don’t feel me the same way. Don’t lie.”

Her body stiffened. Resonance cracked, sharp and humming in her bones. She stepped back slightly, trying to slow her breath.

This was bad, she was already full—overfull—from her last session. There was nowhere else for the emotion to go.

“I don’t—” she started, voice shaking.

“You do.” He stepped closer. “You felt it too.”

Her eyes met his—wild, amber, hurting—and for a second, she faltered.

I’m not supposed to,” she whispered.

That was the last thread of her professionalism.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her chest ached, like the room was pressing down on her ribcage. Resonance surged—sharp, hot, and uncontrollable. It wasn’t calming anymore. It was spilling.

“Do you think I wanted this?” she snapped, voice rising. “Do you think I wanted to sit here every week, absorbing your grief, your anger, your shame—and then pretend I wasn’t affected?”

Bakugo’s brow furrowed. His stance wobbled slightly. His hand shot out to brace against the bookshelf.

That was not the little bit of liquor courage he had five seconds ago.

“What—” he muttered, eyes darting. “What the hell is this?”

"You think it’s easy to keep breathing with all your pain in my lungs? To feel everything you won’t say out loud—and still stay neutral?” Her voice cracked. “You think I don’t carry you home in my chest every goddamn night? Trying to pretend I am in some form not affected. Each session, I am losing myself...as you consume my thoughts. Like you put weight in my body for a purpose. ”

The air thickened—visibly. The lights flickered. Bakugo winced and straightened, but his knees felt too loose, like the floor was shifting beneath him.

His head throbbed. Not like a headache. Like pressure.

Too many emotions—his and hers—crashing together and bouncing inside his body.

“You’re not just a client, Katsuki,” she whispered, stumbling slightly toward her desk. She gripped the edge knuckles, the wood creaking under tension. Her head was spinning. Her heartbeat stuttered in her throat.

“But I can’t want you. I can’t need you. That’s not how this works.”

Bakugo hadn’t moved either. His breath was uneven, eyes darting over her like he couldn’t decide if he was angry or aching. The glow of the overhead light caught the faint sheen on her cheekbones, highlighting the tension in her jaw, the curl of her lips as she tried to stay calm—tried to stay professional.

Bakugo’s breath hitched. He pushed off the shelf, staggering slightly forward.
His hands were shaking. Not from anger. From everything else.

“And yet…” he murmured, voice raw. “You still do.”

She didn’t deny it.
Couldn’t.

Because Resonance was screaming.

It was in the walls, in their skin, in the air between them that felt soaked in every unsaid word.

Every memory. Every near-touch. Every almost.

He swallowed thickly. “I can’t breathe in here.”

She laughed—small and broken. “Welcome to my body.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. She just stood there, hands still braced against the desk, the tension in her fingers pressing deep into the wood. Her shoulders were tight, her chest aching as the weight of the moment finally settled.

Bakugo hadn’t moved. His breathing was heavy, shallow. He looked at her like he didn’t know what world he was standing in anymore.

“You need to go,” she said quietly.

He blinked. “What?”

“Leave, Katsuki.”

Her voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t loud. But it was final.

His jaw clenched. For a moment, it seemed like he might argue, or beg, or break again—but instead he scoffed, looked away, and turned toward the door.

“Guess I was right,” he muttered, yanking it open. “You do breathe better when I’m not here.”

The door shut behind him with a muted click.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. She just stood there, hands still braced against the desk, letting the room fall silent. Letting herself fall apart in the quiet.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

Her heart slowly found a steadier rhythm. Her lungs unknotted. She finally pushed herself upright and rubbed her temples.

730.
Todoroki’s session is next.

She glanced at the wall clock.

8:15 PM.

Her stomach dropped.

“Oh no…”

She moved fast—toward the hallway, toward the door—pulling it open like she could reverse time with her urgency.

But the waiting area was still empty.
No sign of him.

Earlier – 7:58 PM
A keypad beeped as the outer building doors unlocked.

Todoroki Shoto stepped inside. Drenched from the rain, expression unreadable. He paused at the edge of the corridor, hearing voices echoing faintly from behind her office door. Then shouting. Her voice. Bakugo’s voice.

Too much.

He veered left and slipped into the men’s restroom.

Inside, he gripped the sink and stared at his reflection.

He had felt her.

Felt everything.
And now he couldn’t bear the thought of facing her with the words he’d heard still spinning in his head.

So when Bakugo stormed out five minutes later, red-faced and staggering down the hall—Todoroki waited.

Silent.

Still.

Unseen.

Then he left.

No session. No words.
Just rain on his shoulders and his thoughts choking him.

BLIZZARD ( Present – 8:22 PM)

She stepped into the hallway, locking her door, laptop bag slung over her shoulder, her scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. She looked exhausted. Like she'd aged ten years in the last ninety minutes.

She turned the corner—just in time to see the elevator doors closing.

Her breath caught.

Was that—?

No.

She rushed to the stairwell instead, taking them two at a time, bursting out into the lobby.

There he was.

Back to her. Shoulders tense. Just steps from the building exit.

“Shoto!”

He froze mid-step, hand still brushing the door’s handle.

Slowly, he turned—eyes meeting hers across the lobby.

Too calm.

Too still.

Her laptop bag hung over one shoulder, her curls slightly undone around the edges from the tension of the night. Her skin—deep, rich, and warm even under the cold lights—still glowed with the soft sheen of stress. Her scarf had fallen loose, revealing the smooth line of her collarbone and the glint of gold jewelry peeking beneath her blouse.

And she was beautiful.

Not just in the obvious ways—though he’d noticed those too. Her mouth, soft and full, even when firm with boundaries. Her voice, always measured but somehow melodic, like she was born knowing how to calm storms. The warm brown of her eyes when she looked at him—not with pity, but with knowing.

She moved closer, boots scuffing softly against the floor. “You were here? Why didn’t you come in?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said plainly.

“That wasn’t—” she shook her head. “That wasn’t for you to hear.”

“But I did.”

His tone didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—something she couldn't name yet.

She took another step. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

“I was late,” he replied, voice flat. “I debated showing up at all. Guess I made the right call.”

That one stung.

Her quirk reacted instantly—Resonance flaring beneath her skin, brushing along the edges of his emotional state, trying to anchor into something beneath that neutral tone.

His brows furrowed.

“Are you using it right now?” he asked, voice sharpening.

She hesitated. “Only because I can’t feel you. You’re too—quiet.”

“Then maybe leave it that way,” he snapped.

Her breath caught.

He’d never spoken to her like that.

She softened her stance. “Shoto… I didn’t mean for you to hear what you did.”

“I think you did,” he replied. “You just didn’t mean for me to be the one hearing it.”

That silence between them rippled with hurt.

Her voice was gentler now. “You’re allowed to feel something about this.”

“Doesn’t mean I should,” he shot back. “And definitely not with you.”

Her quirk pulsed again—trying to connect, trying to soothe—but this time, he stepped back.

“Don’t,” he said coldly. “Don’t use it to calm me down. I want to feel what I’m feeling. I just don’t want to share it with you.”

Something broke in her chest.

“You matter to me,” she said quietly. “That’s not a lie.”

Todoroki’s jaw flexed. “You say that like it changes anything.”

She looked at him then—not as a client, not as a hero, but as a man she couldn’t help but care for.

“Please don’t walk away like this.”

He paused.

Then:
“I’m not walking away. I just… can’t walk into that room again. Not yet.”

And with that, he turned and pushed through the door—out into the rain.

Chapter Text

Three weeks passed.

The scent of lemon cleaner still lingered faintly in her office—though the couch cushions hadn’t been disturbed in days. Her tea mug sat cold beside the diffuser, steamless. No footsteps in the hallway, no rough voice demanding time he didn’t know he needed, no soft ones threading carefully through pain.

Just silence.

Neither Bakugo nor Todoroki had returned.

She hadn’t canceled them. Not officially. She left their appointment blocks open, even resisted the urge to send a gentle reminder—or check the citywide hero logs to confirm they were alive. Instead, she filled the space with quiet rituals: burning incense. Cleaning. Rearranging a bookshelf she already knew by heart.

And yet, they still lingered.

Their presence hung in the room like smoke after an explosion.

The first scream broke just after 4:00 p.m.

She was in her apartment, halfway through stuffing her tablet and file folders into her bag when her building’s emergency alarm system activated—sharp, grating. Evacuation protocol. Followed by a vibrating alert on her phone.

Villain activity reported. Pro heroes dispatched. Evacuate.

Her breath caught.

She snatched her keys, her therapy files, and one small velvet pouch containing her grandmother’s gold bracelet. Just the essentials. Enough to carry what mattered.

The stairwell echoed with panicked voices. People yelling. A child crying. Her quirk flared on instinct—Resonance stretching outward, trying to stabilize her breathing. But the chaos outside was louder.

She exited onto the street to find gray skies and growing wind. The villain—something out of a nightmare, parchment-thin and ink-drenched like a walking calligraphy scroll—unfurled across the block. A Karagami-type, leaking cursed ink that spiraled into tangible fear.

People ran.

And Resonance felt all of it.

Pain. Terror. Grief already forming from things not yet lost.

She clenched her jaw and pressed forward through the crowd, shielding her senses the best she could.

Then she saw her.

A teenage girl—no older than fifteen—trapped between two crushed sedans, one leg pinned. Her mouth was open in a scream, but her voice couldn’t rise above the chaos.

She didn’t think.

She ran.

Sliding to the girl’s side, she placed both hands on her arms. “Hey, hey—it’s okay. You’re going to be okay. Can you hear me?”

The teen nodded shakily, panic in her eyes.

“Good. I need you to focus on my voice. Just my voice.”

She let her quirk bleed slowly into the connection—just a pulse. A grounding note.

The girl’s breathing slowed.

But then the shadows shifted.

A distorted shriek tore through the air.

The villain turned.

And it saw them.

Ink flared, coiling like a whip. Her body froze. She threw her arms around the girl instinctively—no barrier, no shield—just human flesh and willpower.

“MOVE!” a voice barked from behind.

Fire exploded across the pavement. Ice spiraled up like a shield.

A wall of steam and smoke rose.

And in the middle of it—Bakugo. Todoroki. Side by side.

Behind them: Uravity floating citizens to safety. Ingenium zipping through the chaos. Deku leaping over debris with a shout.

But all she could see were those two.

Bakugo’s snarl. Todoroki’s focus. The way both of them looked at her like they weren’t sure if she was real.

And her heart fluttered—traitorous and warm.

Bakugo reached her first. “Are you—what the hell were you thinking?!”

She couldn’t answer. Not over the roar of battle. Not with Resonance still crackling through her bloodstream like static.

Todoroki was already crouched by the girl, gently easing her free.

“She's in shock,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to the therapist. “You too.”

Bakugo stepped forward, his palm hovering near her elbow—not quite touching. "C'mon. This way."

Todoroki scooped the teen into his arms without hesitation, careful of her injured leg. The girl's arms clung to his neck, trembling, but she breathed easier with each step—calmed by the lingering trace of Resonance.

Bakugo, meanwhile, kept close to the therapist—his hand gently steadying her lower back as they moved. Her steps were slower, shaky beneath the weight of overstimulation and adrenaline. He didn’t speak, just stayed beside her, protective and alert.

Together, the four of them made their way through the chaos toward the makeshift medical tent at the far end of the block. She could not look no where else- her eyes stayed trained on the teen, even as her skin buzzed with emotion and heat. The closer they got, the more muted the noise became, until the cries and crashes felt like echoes behind them.

She lingered as the teen was passed off to a paramedic. Todoroki gave her a look—unreadable, but not cold—before turning back toward the fray without a word. Bakugo hesitated, just for a breath, eyes lingering on hers like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t.

Then he turned and followed.

She watched them disappear into smoke and sirens, her heart pounding with something too sharp to name.

When she finally turned away, she was still holding her breath.

Calm down, she told herself, the words forming slowly, like a mantra she wasn’t sure she believed. They’re professionals. Heroes. This is their world.

Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. She inhaled through her nose, letting Resonance settle gently beneath her skin.

You can’t let them live in your chest like this. It’s not your job to carry their weight outside the office.

But even as she repeated it, her gaze lingered in the direction they’d gone. And her heart—traitorous, tender—ached anyway.

A week later.

The sky was darkening when she finally locked up her office. It had been another long day—paperwork, a few rescheduled sessions, and a lingering fatigue she couldn’t shake.

The streetlamps hummed as she turned the corner. Her scarf fluttered in the wind. The air smelled like rain, though none had fallen yet. Her curls were loose tonight, framing her face in soft coils that tickled her cheeks every time the breeze passed. Full lips pressed into a thoughtful line. Her figure—curved, strong, and unbothered—was wrapped snug in a peacock-blue jacket that caught the low light in shimmers, hugging her like armor she’d chosen for the world outside.

“Hey.”

Her heart jumped.

Todoroki stood near the edge of the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. His uniform jacket replaced with a simple hoodie and dark jeans. Soft. Civilian. But his eyes still carried that same guarded weight.

“You scared me,” she admitted.

“You didn’t see me earlier. I waited until you finished.”

She adjusted the strap of her bag. “You came for a session?”

“No. Not for that.”

She blinked. “Then why—”

“I wanted to walk you home.”

Pause.

She hesitated.

Her quirk flickered inside her chest, a gentle nudge to tune in—not just to him, but to herself. She let it bloom just slightly, brushing the edges of his emotional field, trying to read what words didn’t say. Calm. Steady. No alarm.

Then—he took a small step closer.

Not aggressively. Not demanding. Just... close enough for her to feel him better.

And that choice—quiet, intentional—made her chest ache with gratitude. He wasn't hiding. He wasn’t trying to manipulate. He was simply letting her know it was safe.

“It’s not professional,” she said carefully.

“It’s not therapy,” he replied. “Just… me. And you.”

Her throat tightened. The weight of the week, of the month, of them—suddenly pressing behind her ribs.

“…Alright.”

They walked in silence for a few blocks. She didn’t offer small talk. Neither did he. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just fragile.

At her apartment door, she turned to him.

“Want to come up?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then: “If it’s okay.”

Inside, the air was warm with the scent of cardamom and citrus. She moved to the kitchen, fingers working on autopilot. Two mugs. Boiling water. Something soft to hold onto.

He stood near her bookcase, scanning titles without touching them.

Upon remembering it all, Todoroki’s frown deepened. "And the only time I’ve seen you since... was during that attack. I didn’t like that. Not one bit."

She nodded slowly, eyes downcast, guiding him further inside.

“Come sit,” she murmured.

The living room was warm, inviting. Muted lamplight filled the space with a soft glow. Her furniture was minimal but comfortable, every piece arranged with care. The scent of cardamom still lingered. One corner near her sliding balcony door held a loose cluster of potted plants, gardening gloves tossed over a low stool, and a small pile of potting soil bags resting against a crate of tools. Her sanctuary.

As she walked past, a soft meow sounded, and a sleek tabby padded into the room. The cat approached Todoroki cautiously—then rubbed against his left side, purring as it nuzzled into the warmer half of his body.

He blinked. "They're friendly."

"That one's Binx," she said with a fond smile. "She’s selective, but clearly she likes your temperature. The other one’s probably hiding—she doesn’t do new people unless there’s food involved."

She placed the mugs on the coffee table and eased into the opposite end of the couch. As Todoroki settled in, his gaze lingered on the apartment around them—clean, serene, full of quiet character. Like her. But lived in, not curated. Safe.

He looked back to her. "I haven't stopped thinking about that day. Or about what I heard. On top of when I did see you, you are in endanger by a villain..."

She didn’t turn around. “I know.”

“I don’t like that.”

Silence again.

Then her voice—quiet, steady. "Can you tell me what exactly you didn’t like about it?"

Todoroki’s jaw flexed. His brows pulled together in frustration.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice lower now. “Don’t default to therapist mode. I’m not here for that version of you.”

She blinked, lips parting slightly.

“I came here for you,” he continued, more gently. “Not the one with the clipboard. The woman. The one who doesn’t pretend she’s unaffected.”

Her throat tightened. “Okay,” she said softly.

But inside, her chest stirred with something raw. Resonance responded before she could stop it—sensitive to the shift in air, the weight behind his words. She let it wash over her gently, not to regulate him, but to soothe herself. The ache he confessed mirrored her own.

You can’t fall for this, she told herself. Not like this. Not now.

But the energy between them wasn’t jagged or dangerous. It was warm. Honest. Familiar in a way that caught her off guard.

And she let herself feel it—just for a moment longer.

He held her gaze a moment longer, then exhaled. “I didn’t like seeing you like that. In danger. Vulnerable. Not because you were weak—but because I realized how much it would wreck me if something happened to you.”

His voice dipped. “It scared me.”

He moved closer.

Starting from the top, from the beginning- “I haven’t stopped thinking about that day. Or about what I heard.”

Her back was to him. Her hand trembled slightly over the mug.

He stepped closer and gently took the mug from her, setting it aside. Then, without asking, he reached for her hand—not forcefully, but with intention—and guided her to the couch. He didn’t let go until she was seated, facing him.

“I don’t want to be just another client,” he said. “Or someone who fades into your memory with a case number. I want more than that.”

Her breath caught. He continued.

“I came here to be honest with you. What I feel... it’s not a passing thing. It’s not therapy-induced attachment. This is me—Shoto. And being here tonight is my declaration that I want to court you. For real.”

She stared at him, stunned, lips parted.

“Shoto…” she said carefully, “You don’t understand. This happens in therapy sometimes. It’s common. You spend time being vulnerable with someone and think it’s—”

“It’s not that,” he interrupted, firm but not angry. “I’ve thought about this for weeks. What I said, what I heard. What it meant. And nothing about it was therapy. It was you. The real you.”

Her heart pounded. Resonance fluttered in her gut—not anxious this time, but warm. Soft. Like the wings of a butterfly brushing the inside of her ribs.

He scooted closer, their knees nearly touching now.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” he said, voice low but steady. “You walked into the room with that confidence, like you knew yourself—like you didn’t need anyone to shrink for them to feel whole. You didn’t flinch when I didn’t talk much. You just... waited. You were patient. You made space.”

He shook his head. “And after that, I just kept wanting to see you. Not for advice. Not for help. But because you make me feel different. Lighter. More human. Like I’m not split down the middle all the time.”

Her breath caught again. Something in her chest loosened—but even now, her mind fought to analyze it.

It could be the quirk, she thought, gut twisting with guilt. Resonance can do that. It soothes. Connects. You know the signs. This could all be projection.

But it didn’t feel artificial. It felt like something that had taken root slowly. Watered by glances. Grown from silence. And now blooming in his words.

She looked at him fully now, and for a fleeting second her internal thoughts spiraled.

He’s so handsome it’s unfair. That quiet intensity. The half of white in his hair, the way his jaw clenches when he feels too much. And those eyes—like frost and fire fighting for space in the same soul.

Her gaze dropped to his hand as he reached out, fingers brushing hers before gently lacing them together.

"Where does this leave us?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper, unsure if she even wanted the answer.

He didn’t hesitate. He lifted their joined hands and pressed them against his chest.

"Right here," he said. “It leaves us here. In this moment. With me wanting to show up for you as the man—not the hero, not the client. Just the man who sees you.”

Resonance pulsed, low and soft in her core. No longer analytical. No longer hesitant. Just warmth.

And something in her heart cracked open to let it in.

Her fingers curled tighter around his as her knees brushed his, and she let herself move even closer—drawn by the pull of Resonance, by the way it hummed in her skin, steady and warm. The space between them disappeared.

She reached up slowly, fingertips grazing the side of his face, thumb resting beneath his jaw. The faint hitch in his breath didn’t go unnoticed.

Todoroki exhaled like he’d been holding it all in—eyes fluttering half-shut as Resonance reached into him, wrapping around the emotions he didn’t know how to express out loud. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into it.

“I feel it,” he whispered, voice rough. “Not because of your quirk. Because it’s you.”

Her hand trembled slightly where it touched him. She could feel it too now—his desire, his sincerity, the way his soul ached to be seen. And Resonance responded—not in a professional calibration, but in a deeply personal one. It embraced him. Accepted him. Warmth pooled low in her belly, tightening her breath.

This isn’t just his therapy talking, she thought, eyes locking with his. This is him choosing me.

And the way he looked at her—as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered—made her wonder just how long she could keep pretending she didn’t want to be chosen back.

So she didn’t.

Their mouths found each other with quiet desperation—slow at first, tentative. Her full lips softened against his as his cooled breath met her own, the contrast of their quirks dancing between them. His left side radiated warmth, while the right side tingled with cool restraint. When their lips moved together again, deeper this time, the heat bloomed.

Resonance surged—not sharp, not disruptive—but radiant. It wrapped around both of them like silk, amplifying every brush of skin, every unspoken word. His hands slid to her waist, firm and reverent, pulling her closer. She moaned softly into his mouth, her fingers curling into the hem of his hoodie.

And when she climbed into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, it wasn’t hesitant—it was need. His hands found her back, her thighs, her hips. She pulled him closer, her fingers digging into the fabric at his shoulders.

Their mouths collided again—messy now, hungry. Tongues tangled. Breathing became impossible. Each moan vibrated into the other’s mouth, swallowed whole like a secret only they could keep.

Resonance pulsed hot and heady now, pulling every emotion from beneath the surface: longing, fear, affection, desire. It circled through them both until they were drenched in it.

It wasn’t about sex. Not yet. It was about being felt.

And neither of them wanted to stop feeling.

Todoroki widened the space between his knees, offering her the full breadth of his lap without a word. She took it without hesitation, her thighs slipping to straddle him more comfortably, skirt riding high until the hem caught at her hips—revealing the lace curve of her underwear as she sank down fully.

His breath caught. One hand slid beneath her blazer, the other palmed the generous swell of her ass, fingers pressing firm and slow as he pulled her flush against him.

A groan escaped his throat—deep, soft, needy. He leaned back slightly, giving her space to move while anchoring her in place.

Her hips shifted instinctively. Resonance bloomed.

The air around them shimmered with heat and vulnerability, amplified by his left side growing warmer, rising in sync with the tension between their bodies. Her quirk wrapped around it, spun it, intensified it—until his breath shuddered against her cheek.

His lips were back on hers before either could think twice.

She moaned into his mouth, fingers sliding up into his hair, tugging gently at the nape. He gasped and kissed her deeper—tongue sweeping past her lips, hungry and reverent.

Her body rocked against him with every kiss, every muffled groan swallowed between them.

Resonance wrapped tight now, soaking into skin and soul, reflecting their feelings like a mirror pressed heart-to-heart: affection, lust, trust, vulnerability—all tangled, all real. It was intoxicating—like being drunk off emotion. Logic blurred at the edges. Thoughts faded beneath the tide of feeling. There was no analysis, no overthinking, just the raw, primal rhythm of want.

Every heartbeat felt amplified. Every breath between them crackled with unspoken promise. They weren’t thinking clearly anymore—they were feeling.

And neither of them wanted to come down from it.

He kissed her like he’d die without it.

And she let him, because in that moment—nothing else existed but him.

Until his phone buzzed.

Todoroki tensed beneath her, breath stalling. The vibration against his thigh pulled him out of the fog just enough to blink, refocus. But she didn’t stop. Her lips moved to his jaw, then lower to the warm skin of his neck. She kissed him there—slow, exploratory—then gently nibbled at the edge of his ear.

He hissed through his teeth, head tilting slightly. The phone buzzed again. He finally pulled it out and glanced down.

Fuyumi.

His sister.

He bit his lip, eyes fluttering briefly as her mouth found a spot just below his ear that made his whole body react. His hips pressed up instinctively. Eyes rolled. A guttural moan left his throat.

But then—clarity.

Todoroki shook his head and gently, firmly, lifted her off his lap. She blinked, dazed and warm, still lost in Resonance’s heightened pull.

He stood abruptly, adjusting himself with as much subtlety as he could manage.

“We have to stop,” he said, voice rough. “Before we cross a line we’ll regret.”

She stared at him, lips parted, still breathless and flushed. Her skirt was still hitched, curls tousled, thighs trembling from the tension.

“I want this,” he added, swallowing hard. “But I want to do it right. I want to take you out. Like a real date.”

Before she could speak—before the words don’t go or please could leave her mouth—he was already moving to the door.

Resonance was still pulsing through her body like an echo.

And the space he left behind felt suddenly too quiet.

AFTER SCENE

Todoroki stood in her building’s elevator, jaw tight, heart hammering beneath his ribs. The moment the doors slid shut, he leaned back against the mirrored wall and released a long, shaky breath.

His skin still tingled. His lips were swollen. Her quirk—Resonance—still lingered beneath his skin like a soft hum, wrapping around his nerves and amplifying every sensation, even in her absence. The memory of her—pressed against him, her scent, the heat of her body—made it impossible to breathe normally. He barely made it into his own apartment before his hands were tugging at his hoodie, his fingers clumsy with urgency.

The water in the shower was scalding by the time he stepped in, steam wrapping around his body like a veil. But nothing could clear his mind. She was still there—burned into every thought.

The weight of her in his lap. The way her skirt hiked up, revealing the soft stretch of skin, the lace of her underwear. The plushness of her ass in his hands, how she ground against him until his resolve cracked. Her lips on his neck. Her mouth moaning into his.

His hand wrapped around himself before he could even think to stop.

The contrast of her dark brown skin against his pale fingers. Her thighs hugging his waist. Her curls brushing his jawline. Her scent. Her sounds.

She had found his spot.

And when she nibbled the edge of his ear, he swore the world had gone white.

A groan tore out of him—deep, rough, wrecked. His hips bucked into his palm as he chased the high of that memory.

It didn’t take long. Not with how real she felt in his mind. Not with how real they had been.

When he came, it was with a choked gasp and her name on his lips—mouthed, not spoken.

He leaned his head against the tile, water pouring over his face, and let the aftermath settle in his chest like truth.

He wanted her.

And next time—he wouldn’t be leaving alone.

Chapter Text

The iron clanged through the gym like a warning. Bakugo wasn’t listening.

He was doing a half-assed set on the lat pulldown machine, eyes locked on the far corner of the gym where she stood near a dumbbell rack. Her curls were pulled up, sweat beading at her temples. A deep frown played at her brow as she adjusted her grip and bent into a Romanian deadlift, glutes tight and posture clean.

Bakugo didn’t blink.

“Bro,” Kirishima said slowly, towel over one shoulder. “You’re gonna sprain your neck.”

Bakugo grunted, still not looking away.

Denki followed his line of sight, then slapped his chest dramatically. “Oooh, okay! I was wondering why you were so quiet today. Mister Dynamite’s got a type.”

“Shut the hell up.”

Kirishima leaned against the machine, nodding toward her. “That’s your therapist, right?”

Bakugo’s scowl deepened. “She ain’t my anything.”

Kirishima raised both brows. “You’ve been staring for the last ten minutes, man. You might as well go talk to her. She’s done with her workout, look.”

She was grabbing a towel and a bottle of water, heading toward the exit, her gym bag slung across her shoulder. A few curls clung to her neck from sweat. She looked tired. Human.

Bakugo didn’t move.

Kirishima clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been messed up since the bar thing. This could be your chance to stop spiraling and just—be real with her. Say something. Anything.”

Denki chimed in. “Or just stand there sweating and looking creepy. Your call.”

Bakugo snatched his towel off the bench. “Tch. Fuck you both.”

“Love you too,” they echoed.

Outside the Gym

She had just stepped into the cold, damp air, zipping up the dry-fit jacket clinging to her arms like a second skin, when a voice behind her barked out.

“Oi.”

She turned, startled hard enough that her breath caught. For a split second, her instincts flared—shoulders tense, heart jumping like she'd been caught slipping. But she blinked quickly, forcing a neutral expression to smooth over the surprise. She wasn’t expecting him. Definitely not like this—drenched in sweat, tank top clinging to his frame, hair wet and tousled. Her eyes flicked down his torso before snapping back up, scolding herself inwardly. Focus.

Bakugo jogged up beside her, steady and composed like he hadn’t just ambushed her senses. His tank top was soaked through, his hair damp with sweat, but he didn’t even seem out of breath.

“…You got a sec?”

She blinked. “For what?”

“Lunch.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Lunch?”

“Yeah. You gotta eat, don’t you?” he snapped, then grimaced. “I just—fuck it. There’s a place two blocks down. I ain’t gonna kidnap you or some shit.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Let me just grab my gym bag.”

Her chest tightened subtly, Resonance humming at the edges, always alert, always guarding. She hated how her quirk picked up his uncertainty—how it stirred something deeper than caution. What she wanted was safety. Steadiness. But instincts sharpened by pain didn’t quiet easily. Still, something about the way he was trying—awkward, unpolished, but real—made her pause.

She wasn’t sure if she could trust it.
But she wanted to.

A long pause stretched between them. She could say no. She should say no. But something in his voice—it didn’t sound aggressive. It sounded… unsure.

She nodded. “Alright. But I’m not talking about work.”

“Good,” he muttered, already turning to walk beside her.

The Hole-in-the-Wall Café

The shop was quiet, tucked away between a bodega and a tattoo parlor. The walls were warm brick, fans buzzing overhead. She ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and fruit salad. Bakugo got a protein shake—vanilla, with extra creatine—and sat across from her in the booth like he was bracing for a fight.

She was halfway through a strawberry when he spoke.

“…You been seeing Icy Hot in session?”

She paused, fork in mid-air.

He watched her carefully. His leg bounced under the table.

“Are you asking as my client?” she asked gently.

His jaw flexed. “I’m asking as me.”

Her quirk stirred in her chest, picking up his agitation like static in her bloodstream.

Bakugo narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

He leaned forward slightly. “Don’t use your quirk on me.”

She lowered her fork. “Katsuki… I didn’t. But I’m still affected by you. That’s how Resonance works.”

His shoulders tensed. “Right.”

But after a few beats, he shifted in his seat. “What does it actually do?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Your quirk. Resonance. What does it really do?”

She sighed, leaning back against the booth. “You wanna do this now?”

Bakugo crossed his arms, chin lifted slightly. “Yeah. I do.”

She studied him. He looked like he was already regretting asking, but there was a defiant set to his jaw. Ten toes down, even when he was out of his depth.

“Fine,” she said. “It picks up on emotional output. Frequencies. Heart rate, tone, instinct—whatever someone’s feeling, my body echoes it back. But if I’m not careful, I absorb too much. That’s when it gets dangerous—for me.”

He frowned. “You mean it hurts you?”

“It wears me down,” she said honestly. “If I don’t regulate it, it’s like being flooded with everyone else’s feelings while trying to keep my own head above water.”

Silence swelled. She shifted gears.

“I dated emotionally distant men before,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “The kind who demand honesty but shut down when it’s given. Who get jealous before they’re brave enough to be vulnerable.”

He flinched like it struck a nerve.

“They pretend not to care,” she went on, “but get angry when someone else tries to.”

Bakugo didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to her sandwich, then back to her face.

“…You hungry?”

She blinked. “What?”

“I mean—back at the gym. You looked tired. Like you hadn’t eaten yet.”

She raised a brow. “I had food at home.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but this’s better. You got protein, fiber, and shit.”

She smiled. “Look at you… pretending like you care about my macros.”

He scowled, but there was no heat behind it.

She took another bite, cheeks full of strawberry when he muttered, “You coulda told me.”

She blinked, still chewing, trying not to choke or roll her eyes at the same time.

“Told you what?”

“That you were hungry.”

She laughed—soft, amused. “Thick girls always find food, Katsuki. Don’t worry about me.”

His gaze lingered too long. She didn’t look away.

This moment wasn’t about food. Or sessions. Or even Todoroki.

It was about what he couldn’t say out loud. About the emotion knotted behind his throat that no outburst could cover. She felt it even now—buzzing low and deep in her chest like a string pulled too tight.

She didn’t press. She didn’t flinch.

Instead, she sat there in the quiet, eating strawberries, while Bakugo Katsuki quietly unraveled across the booth from her.

When the last of the fruit was gone, he cleared his throat and pulled out his card, brushing off her attempt to protest. "It’s a protein shake and a sandwich. Relax."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t push further. He paid at the counter, then turned back to her with a sharp nod toward the door.

“Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

She hesitated, shoulder tense under the strap of her gym bag.

“It’s cold,” he added, already walking. “And I ain’t letting you walk alone.”

Her lips parted, but the words never came. She followed him out.

The ride was mostly quiet—just the sound of tires against damp pavement and his fingers tapping the steering wheel. When he pulled up outside her apartment, she moved to unbuckle her seatbelt.

Bakugo’s hand shot out, firm but not rough, landing on her thigh.

She froze.

His grip wasn’t possessive—just anchoring. Like he needed her to stay.

He didn’t speak right away. His fingers twitched. Then he dragged his hand back to his lap and stared forward, jaw tense.

“I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “You know that.”

She waited, watching him.

“But I want to try. With you.” He looked over, finally meeting her eyes. “Not as a client. Not in that fuckin’ office. As a woman. A companion. Someone who makes me…want to be decent. Better.”

The words hit the air like weight. He swallowed, clearly uncomfortable, but didn’t look away.

Resonance flared beneath her skin, reacting to his vulnerability with a pulse that made her heart thud harder. Her throat tightened. Everything in her urged her to pull away, to guard the fragile calm she’d rebuilt after the bar incident. But his energy—unsure, unrefined, and raw—didn’t feel like a threat. It felt… real.

Bakugo shifted suddenly, pulled his phone from his hoodie pocket, and held it out to her, screen unlocked and blank.

“Here,” he said, voice low. “So you don’t think I’m playing.”

She stared at the screen for a moment, then at him. His hands were still calloused. Still trembling slightly.

Slowly, she took the phone and entered her number, thumb hovering before she pressed save.

When she handed it back, their fingers brushed.

Neither of them moved right away.

“I’m not asking for anything back right now,” he added, voice low. “I just… needed to say it.”

She didn’t speak.

But Resonance calmed, softening under her skin like a tide finally ebbing. Her hand stayed on the door handle, unmoving. The air between them felt charged—but not volatile. Just heavy with something unspoken that, for the first time, didn’t feel like a burden.

She looked down, exhaled quietly through her nose.

Nodded slowly and exited. 

Chapter Text

The light from her office window had dimmed to a soft amber glow by the time Todoroki stepped inside. It had been a few weeks since the confrontation in the lobby—weeks filled with hesitant texts, cautious replies, and moments of surprising softness exchanged between her and both men.

She hadn't made any promises, but she had begun allowing them pieces of her personal life. Small things. Safe things.

Todoroki was quiet, punctual as always, and carried a calm that only made the air more tense. After the confrontation, he had been the first to return to therapy, steady and unshaken in his intent.

Bakugo, on the other hand, had missed his last session—but not without acknowledgment. He’d sent a short message in his usual gruff way, something between an apology and a warning: 'I fucked up. I'll be there next week.' She glanced up from her notes and offered a polite smile.

"Shoto. Come in."

He closed the door gently behind him, his hoodie damp at the cuffs from the mist outside. "I wasn’t sure if you’d keep the appointment."

She tilted her head. "I never canceled."

Todoroki nodded, moving to his usual seat. "Still."

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it pressed between them with weight. She flipped a page in her notebook, forcing herself into professional posture.

"How have things been since we last spoke?"

He considered this. "Busy. Restless. But... better. In some ways."

She nodded, jotting down a note, then setting her pen aside.

Todoroki leaned forward slightly, his gaze flicking toward shelf of plants near the large window. "Do you garden in your spare time?"

The question caught her off guard. She blinked. "What?"

"You have soil on your gloves. In the corner by the window. And I saw potting supplies last time."

She hesitated. "It’s something I do to decompress." Resonance stirred lightly beneath her collarbone, responding to the warmth in his tone and the subtle attention to her habits. Not intrusive, just... tuned in.

He smiled faintly. "I like that. I’ve been learning to cook lately. My sister thinks it’s therapeutic."

She shifted. "Todoroki, I—"

"I was thinking," he interrupted gently, "there's a cooking class next week. Simple things. Stir fry. Dumplings. Maybe some sweets."

She gave him a look. "Are you asking if I want to go?"

"Yes. With me. Not as your client. As someone who... wants to share space with you."

Her throat tightened. "This isn’t the place for that conversation."

"Maybe not. But I still meant it."

Resonance fluttered beneath her skin, picking up his sincerity, the quiet certainty in his voice. She folded her hands in her lap and redirected.

"Let’s focus on today."

He didn’t argue. But his eyes held something steady. Something patient. And that, more than anything, unsettled her.

END OF SESSION

The session wrapped on time. She gathered her bag, keeping her expression neutral, while Todoroki stood calmly nearby.

"You don't have to walk me out," she said.

"I want to."

She hesitated, then nodded. The building was quiet this late. Most of the staff had gone home.

As they walked toward the elevator, she glanced sideways at him, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "You know, I don't usually need saving."

Todoroki didn’t miss a beat. "Last time, you did."

Her smirk softened, but the glint in her eyes remained. "Touché."

They stepped into the elevator together, the quiet hum filling the space between them. When the doors opened into the lobby, she stepped out first—only to pause.

Bakugo stood near the front entrance.

Jeans. Hoodie. Flowers in hand. And an unreadable look on his face.

Todoroki stepped up beside her. He tilted his head slightly.

"Are those for me?" he asked, voice dry.

Bakugo didn’t flinch. "Tch. Don’t flatter yourself."

Todoroki took a step closer to her, voice steady. "She doesn’t need an escort home. I’m already here."

Bakugo’s jaw tightened. "Didn’t realize I needed an appointment to give a damn."

"I’m not. I’m making intentions clear."

The tension flared, subtle but sharp. Both men squared slightly, not fully aggressive, but coiled. Alert. The kind of stand-off only heroes could hold without saying a word.

She sensed it immediately through Resonance—the heat, the pride, the swelling storm of unspoken challenges. Her quirk activated on instinct, flooding the space with a stronger pulse of emotional regulation. The effect was immediate. Their aggression softened, like steam venting from a sealed pipe, their breaths deepening as the atmosphere calmed around them.

She stepped between them.

Resonance flared in her chest, humming through her limbs, wrapping around their elevated emotions like a current of peace. Their breathing slowed. Shoulders dropped. Just a fraction.

"Enough."

They both looked at her.

Her eyes moved between them, voice calm but firm.

"If either of you is actually interested in me, then focus on me. This little testosterone showcase? It doesn’t impress me. It never will."

Silence stretched between the three of them. She stepped forward, reaching out to take the flowers from Bakugo's hand. Her fingers brushed his as she grasped the bouquet, her gaze softening as she looked down at the arrangement.

"They’re beautiful," she said quietly, her voice warm.

Then, without another word, she turned and walked toward the exit.

Neither man moved at first.

Then—they both followed.

The air outside was cool. The scent of rain lingered. She didn’t look back.

But her quirk felt it—the shift in the energy behind her. Neither man was backing down. Not tonight.

And something in her didn’t want them to.

After Scene

Later that night, she sat on her balcony with the flowers resting in a vase beside her. The rain had come and gone, leaving the air thick with petrichor and silence. A warm cup of tea steamed in her hands as she curled beneath a blanket, the city lights flickering in the distance.

Her phone buzzed.

Bakugo: You get home okay?

Todoroki: Let me know if you need anything. Tomorrow too.

She blinked. They had texted at the same time—different tones, same concern. Something about it made her laugh softly under her breath. Then, with a decisive few taps, she started a new group chat.

Her: Hey. Just so we're clear—I'm not into sneaking around. If you're both going to pursue me, you’re going to do it knowing about the other. No games.

She hit send. Sat back. And waited.

The typing bubbles started immediately.

She stared at the screen for a moment, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile. Then she set the phone down and exhaled deeply, letting Resonance settle inside her chest like a slow, grounding hum.

Two men. Two different energies. Both pulling at the same center of her.

And for once, she wasn’t afraid of where it might go.

Chapter Text

BOXING CAVE

The punching bag swung violently with each strike, chains squealing overhead, but it still wasn’t enough. Bakugo stood shirtless in his home gym, sweat rolling down his chest, muscles taut beneath the dim amber light of the single overhead fixture. His loose running shorts hung low on his hips, clinging to him from the heat building in the room. The space smelled like old pine, leather, and anger—a mix that matched the storm tearing through his chest.

Her fingers had brushed his when she took the flowers. Just a second. Just a touch.

But it was the softness in her voice that fucked him up.

“They’re beautiful,” she’d said.

And then she walked away.

With Todoroki.

His knuckles burned. He shook out his hands, flexed them, then threw another punch that nearly tore the bag from its hook.

He should’ve said something—anything—back there in the lobby. He’d meant to. The second he saw her, he was ready to put it all on the table. But then he showed up. Ice prince, smug and unreadable, already walking beside her like he belonged there.

The worst part?

She didn’t stop him.

Bakugo let out a frustrated growl, bracing both hands on the bag as his head dropped forward. Sweat dripped onto the mat below. He felt stupid. He felt too much.

His phone buzzed on the bench. He ignored it at first. Then another buzz. And another.

He finally stalked over and snatched it up.

Group Chat:

Her: Hey. Just so we're clear—I’m not into sneaking around. If you’re both going to pursue me, you’re going to do it knowing about the other. No games.

His mouth twisted. Tch. Bold as hell. Straightforward. Just like her.

But sharing? That wasn’t him. He didn’t share what he wanted. Never had.

Still…

He thumbed the screen, paused, then typed.

Bakugo: Tch. I’m not playing games. I’m not backing down either.

Sent.

He stared at it for a long moment, then locked his screen and threw the towel over his shoulder.

He wasn’t going to lose her.

TODOROKI RESIDENCE

“You’re quiet,” Fuyumi said, setting a plate down in front of him.

“I’m always quiet.”

She arched a brow. “You’re broody. There’s a difference.”

Todoroki gave her a side glance, but said nothing. He picked at the dumpling on his plate, steam curling gently into the space between them.

“You saw her today?” she asked, feigning innocence as she stirred her tea.

He nodded. “Session went fine.”

Fuyumi grinned. “She’s pretty.”

“She’s... compelling.”

She hummed. “You like her.”

He didn’t answer.

But his thoughts did.

The way she took control in the lobby. The way her scent had curled around the room like gravity. The brush of her fingers against Bakugo’s. The flowers.

Her voice—firm but never cruel.

“If either of you is actually interested in me, then focus on me.”

That line had echoed in his head all day.

He reached for his phone, opening the group chat.

Bakugo: Tch. I’m not playing games. I’m not backing down either.

A small smile touched Todoroki’s lips. Predictable.

He began typing.

Todoroki: I meant what I said. I want to share space with you—on your terms. And I won’t compete. But I’m not stepping aside.

He read it once. Twice. Then hit send.

Patience wasn’t passivity. It was control.

And he had plenty of that.

SERENITY MOON

The vase caught the moonlight, casting shadows of petals across her nightstand. She lay curled beneath a knit blanket, phone balanced on her stomach, tea cooling on the windowsill behind her.

Resonance buzzed faintly in her chest, curled like a cat in the sun—content, aware, and slightly overstimulated.

The group chat was still open.

Bakugo: Tch. I’m not playing games. I’m not backing down either.

Todoroki: I meant what I said. I want to share space with you—on your terms. And I won’t compete. But I’m not stepping aside.

She stared at the screen, her heart thudding in a rhythm she couldn’t blame on caffeine.

They were so different. Fire and ice. Rough and reserved.

And both had their hands wrapped around something in her she hadn’t let anyone touch in years.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Then she typed:

Her: Okay. No backing down. No stepping aside. But no bullshit either. If we’re doing this—you're doing it honestly.

Pause.

Her: Let’s see if you two can handle that.

Send.

She smiled, soft and private, and let the phone fall against her chest.

Outside, the city murmured. Inside, Resonance pulsed steady and warm.

Maybe… just maybe… she was allowed to want this.

Maybe it didn’t have to end in heartbreak this time.

FIRST DATE

The following weekend, she found herself standing outside a private culinary studio tucked into a quiet side street downtown. Aprons hung in the windows. Warm golden light spilled onto the sidewalk, and the crisp autumn air carried the scent of fresh ginger and sesame, mixing with the faint bite of fallen leaves and the distant whisper of wind through bare branches.

She pulled her coat a little tighter around her as her breath fogged faintly in front of her.

She stood outside the studio first, arms folded loosely against the chill, her breath fogging in soft puffs as she waited for Bakugo to park the car.

Her hair was styled in two neat French braids, a few soft curls escaping to frame her beautiful brown face, catching the light as they danced in the breeze. The autumn air nipped at her cheeks, but she didn’t mind. There was a flutter beneath her skin—nerves, maybe. Or something closer to anticipation.

Bakugo pulled up into the parking spot and got out quickly, rounding the car without hesitation. His hoodie was partially unzipped, sleeves pushed up.

“Sorry. Some asshole double parked,” he muttered.

She smiled softly and reached out to touch his forearm—just a brush, light and instinctive. Something comforting. Grounding. She was a physical creature by nature, but they’d only ever known her in her professional walls.

Bakugo stilled.

His eyes flicked to her hand, then to her face. It was subtle, but something shifted. Like she’d caught him off guard in a way that had nothing to do with traffic.

Still, he stepped forward and opened the door for her, clearing his throat like the moment hadn’t landed heavy in his chest.

“Come on. Let’s get inside before Frostbite starts bitchin’.”

Todoroki stood waiting outside the entrance, dressed casually but polished, holding the door open like a scene from a soft drama.

“You’re late,” he said without bite.

“She’s not,” Bakugo replied, resting a hand on her lower back as they stepped inside.

The space was warm, filled with polished wood counters and a friendly instructor who barely blinked when she realized the class roster included two pro heroes and one very lucky woman between them.

They chopped. Stirred. Folded dumplings. Bakugo’s hands moved with the kind of precision that didn’t come from guessing—his movements were sharp, efficient, confident.

He didn’t measure—he knew. The way he tossed ingredients into a sizzling pan, the way he layered flavor and texture, it was clear this wasn’t a hobby—it was a skill honed in private. His chaos was a front; he cooked like a damn five-star chef.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, bumping her hip against his as she peeked at his cutting board.

“Tch. I cook for myself. Not tryna die on takeout,” he muttered, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him.

She reached over, trailing a finger through the sauce on the corner of his dish and popping it into her mouth with a hum. “Could’ve warned me it’d be that good.”

Bakugo went still. Watching her. That same heat from the boxing room flared in his eyes again.

Todoroki watched too, silent but attentive. He’d been methodical all evening—measuring out seasonings, folding his dumplings like little works of art—but the shift in his gaze told her he wasn’t missing a thing.

She grinned, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Well, while you're over there being a five-star chef, Katsuki," she called over her shoulder, "Shoto and I will actually follow the instructor."

Bakugo grunted but didn’t look up, clearly too busy flexing his culinary ego.

She stepped beside Todoroki, shoulder brushing his as she reached for a bowl. Her arms slid along his cool side as she leaned in, deliberately close, fingers grazing his wrist as she helped fold the next dumpling.

“You don’t have to be perfect, you know,” she murmured, giving him a knowing, almost teasing smile. “They’re dumplings, not detonators.”

Todoroki blinked once. Slowly. The corners of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smirk.

Her body stayed close, hips bumping his as she shifted beside him, her warmth pressing against the chill of his quirk. She didn’t pull away.

She liked the contrast. Resonance moved through her in a beautiful, infinite loop—like an elegant figure eight of energy connecting them all, warm and steady and impossibly alive.

She moved between them often. Shoulder brushing Todoroki’s when she reached for spices. Fingers grazing Bakugo’s when she passed him a utensil. It was deliberate. She wanted them to feel her, to understand that she wasn’t hiding anymore.

At one point, while she leaned over the counter to mix the filling, Bakugo came up behind her to grab the bowl and murmured low in her ear, “This better not be your idea of a first date. ‘Cause I got better ones.”

She didn’t move away. “Save it for the second, then.”

Not long after, Todoroki offered her a bite of the dumpling he’d folded. “Let me know if it needs more ginger,” he said—but his eyes stayed on her lips as she chewed.

“It’s perfect,” she said, voice soft. “Like everything else you touch.”

By the end of the night, they’d made enough food for a small army. And somehow… they’d all laughed. Together. And touched. And leaned in too close. And lingered.

Resonance buzzed like champagne under her skin.

It was messy. It was complicated.

And for the first time in a long time—it felt like joy.

Later, as they stood outside the studio under the golden glow of the streetlights, she found herself hesitating. The cold kissed her skin, but the warmth radiating off both men made her feel insulated. Bakugo had stepped close enough that their arms brushed.

Todoroki stood just off her other side, his eyes soft as they lingered on her face.

“I’ll drive her home,” Bakugo said, voice quiet but firm.

“I’ll follow,” Todoroki added without pause.

She looked between them, her lips curving. “You two gonna tail me like security detail now?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Bakugo said.

“We’re invested,” Todoroki added.

She rolled her eyes playfully and walked toward the car, boots crunching against fallen leaves. Behind her, two powerful men exchanged a glance neither of them commented on.

The night ended with soft goodbyes, subtle touches, and the quiet hum of potential building like static in the air.

Joy, she realized, could start in the small things—like two men walking her to the car and driving her home.

And maybe staying for tea next time.

Chapter Text

The moonlight slipped through the window like a secret, casting faint silver stripes across the room. She lay nestled in her bed, freshly showered, her skin still dewy and warm beneath the weight of her comforter. The sheets had slipped down, exposing the lush curve of her shoulder, her body relaxed and stretched across the mattress in lazy satisfaction.

Her satin bonnet hugged her head perfectly, edges laid and protected. One arm rested over her waist while the other loosely gripped her phone. The screen had long since dimmed, but she didn’t have the heart to turn it off.

She wasn’t tired. Not really.

Or maybe she was, just not in the way sleep could fix.

The scent of dumplings still lingered in her apartment—ginger, sesame, and something sweeter she couldn’t name. It lingered faintly in the air, though she herself smelled of lavender soap and warm skin. Her soft camisole clung to her gently as she lay curled beneath the sheets, paired with a set of cute sleeping shorts that left her thighs bare to the moonlight. Her chest buzzed faintly with Resonance, not loud, but ever-present. Like a hum beneath her skin.

It had been… good.

No, it had been better than good.

It had been soft. And silly. And warm in ways that made her feel like maybe—just maybe—this didn’t have to go up in flames like everything else she touched.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She thought about texting again. Something cheeky. Something brave. But she set the phone down instead and rolled onto her back.

Her body ached in familiar places, but her heart ached in new ones. Not painful. Just aware.

She let her eyes fall shut. Slumber tickling her into soft z's.

And the dream came quickly.

DREAMLAND

She’s in the kitchen again.

Only this time, it’s empty. Quiet. The lights are low, golden and hazy, like candlelight poured from heaven.

She’s leaning over the counter, brushing her fingers across scattered herbs, when a familiar voice cuts through the quiet.

“Still playin’ with food, huh?”

Bakugo.

She turns, and he’s closer than she remembers, shirtless, hair messy, eyes sharp with something unreadable. The air crackles.

Before she can speak, another presence joins her. Todoroki. No longer in a soft sweater but shirtless now, moonlight catching the lean definition of his torso. The dream had shifted them to the dining area of the culinary studio—quiet, intimate, with soft jazz humming faintly from invisible speakers. He’s behind her, his chest brushing her back as he leans in, hand ghosting down her spine as if checking to see if she’ll flinch. The warmth of him, the weight of his presence, presses into her gently. Solid. Real. And comforting.

She doesn’t.

She never does with them.

Bakugo steps in, tilts her chin up with his fingers, the pad of his thumb grazing her jaw with unexpected tenderness. His gaze searched hers for a moment—stormy, hungry, but careful. Then he kissed her. Not soft. Not tentative. A searing, passionate kiss that stole the breath from her lungs and grounded her in the now.

His hand slid to the back of her neck, anchoring her as his mouth claimed hers with heat and intent, as if she was the answer to a question he hadn’t realized he’d been asking. When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his voice was rough against her lips. "You taste like trouble."

Todoroki doesn’t move far—he’s already behind her, already pressing in close. His breath ghosts over the curve of her neck, and his lips find the soft skin just beneath her ear. The kisses are slow, intentional, trailing down her neck with maddening control. One hand grips her waist firmly, the other slipping down to rest on her lower abdomen, pulling her flush against him.

She feels the hard line of his erection through his pants, the contrast of his heat and cool like silk and fire against her bare thighs. It makes her breath catch. He doesn’t thrust or grind—he just holds her there, letting her feel the effect she has on him.

Letting her feel wanted. Needed. His hips press forward with certainty, anchoring her in the moment as his mouth returns to her skin. The sensation is overwhelming—in the best way. A silent promise whispered with every kiss and touch. Not just desire. Devotion.

Their mouths don’t touch yet, but she’s surrounded.

Bakugo takes her hand, warm and calloused, and guides it to his chest—pressing it firmly against the sculpted plane of his body. She doesn’t hesitate. Her palm glides over his skin, fingers curving across his chest, down his stomach, tracing the line where flesh met the buckle of his belt. He lets her explore, his jaw clenched, gaze dark as sin.

She smiles softly—then curls her fingers into the edge of his belt and tugs.

The move presses her deeper between them, her body now sandwiched perfectly—Todoroki still anchored behind her, and Bakugo heating the air in front. Their warmth, their power, their need surrounds her completely.

She isn’t just held.

She is claimed.

One warm, one cool.

Both hers.

Resonance hums so loudly, it nearly sings.

And just when their mouths get close enough to touch—

Her fingers trail lower.

Bakugo's breath catches as she works the buckle of his belt with practiced ease. There's no hesitation—only bold, sleepy want coursing through her as she unfastens the leather and slides her hand beneath the waistband of his pants. Her palm grazes hot, thick skin—girthy and already hard beneath her touch.

He groans low, a feral sound, hips twitching slightly into her grip.

Behind her, Todoroki’s mouth doesn’t leave her neck, but his grip tightens, grounding her as her fingers close around Bakugo’s cock.

She strokes once, slow and deliberate.

And then—

She gasps awake, heart pounding.

Her phone buzzes.

TODOROKI RESIDENCE

Todoroki sat up in bed, moonlight slicing across his collarbone.

He’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, the soft echo of her laugh still curling around in his head. It had been… pleasant. No. It had been right.

He’d watched her move between them like it was natural. Like the three of them belonged in that kitchen, laughter mixing with sesame oil and stolen glances.

Bakugo hadn’t snapped once. Not really. Not like he usually did.

And for the first time in years, Todoroki felt something that didn’t twist in his chest like guilt or duty.

He reached for his phone.

Todoroki: Thank you for picking her up tonight. I can get her next time. You pick the destination.

The message sat for a minute. Then two.

Bakugo: Fine. But I’m not doin’ Italian. You eat like a damn monk.

Todoroki let out a breath—something close to a laugh.

Not friends. Not yet.

But maybe... maybe something better.

BAKUGO’S PLACE

The night went quiet again.

Bakugo sat on the edge of his bed, hair damp from a half-assed shower, his phone still in his hand.

Todoroki’s text had caught him off guard—but not in a bad way. Not everything had to be a fight. Not with her in the mix.

He remembered the way her laughter echoed through the kitchen, the way her fingers brushed his when they reached for the same spice jar. The way she pressed between them like she belonged there.

She did belong there.

His thumb hovered over his screen.

Todoroki: Thank you for picking her up tonight. I can get her next time. You pick the destination.

He snorted under his breath. Polite, as always. But the gesture wasn’t lost on him.

Bakugo: Fine. But I’m not doin’ Italian. You eat like a damn monk.

He dropped the phone beside him, chest rising and falling.

No alarms. No territory to piss on.

Just… gratitude. Unspoken. But understood.

He let himself fall back onto the bed, eyes tracing the ceiling, and for the first time in a long time, his mind didn’t race with noise.

Just her.

Just them.

And it didn’t feel like losing.

But Resonance thrummed beneath all three hearts, steady and curious.

And something new had begun.

Chapter Text

The weeks had settled into something she didn’t have a name for.

Not friendship. Not romance.

Something… easy.

Normal. 

Todoroki took her to a tucked-away ramen shop once — the kind with handwritten menus and steam-fogged windows. He sat across from her, elbows resting on the counter, quietly listening while she rambled about a cat video, then dropped some dry one-liner that had her snorting broth out her nose.

Bakugo’s lunches were different — loud, messy, full of food trucks and arguments about which stall had the best yakisoba. He’d shove his half-empty plate toward her when she didn’t order enough, muttering, “You’re gonna waste away if you don’t eat like a normal person.”

Sometimes all three ended up together — short lunches after patrols, accidental grocery trips, a lazy walk through the park. No hard feelings, no weirdness.

Just… balance.

Their sessions with her had been transferred to another therapist at her own request. The decision hadn’t been easy, but she’d felt the shift—those slow-building, complicated feelings for both of them—and knew it was only a matter of time before professional boundaries blurred too far. Moving them freed everyone from the structure of required meetings. Now, every time they texted her, it was because they wanted to, not because they had to. That choice made everything feel different. Deliberate.

[Resonance Overload]

The session from yesterday wouldn’t leave her.

The client’s voice was soft, almost casual, when she—a well-known rescue hero working the support side—confessed she didn’t think she’d make it another week. But her emotions — oh, those clung to the therapist like smoke. Through Resonance, she’d felt the hollow ache, the bone-deep exhaustion, the quiet wish to just… stop existing. It had wrapped around her like a damp coat she couldn’t shrug off.

She’d barely made it home before her phone rang — her mother, launching into sibling drama, stress piling on top of grief. No space to breathe.

By nightfall, the resonance in her chest wasn’t the warm hum she knew. It was jagged, off-key, like a song stuck between stations.

She called in for a quirk-approved mental health rest day. The resonance sat in her chest like a weight, pressing against her lungs and making every breath feel just a little too shallow. Her muscles ached with the leftover strain of carrying emotions that weren’t her own, her shoulders tight, her temples throbbing in dull pulses. Curling up on the couch, she let the hoodie swallow her frame, biker shorts leggings stretched over bare thighs, hair piled in a messy 4C bun. The TV mumbled in the background, more noise than company.

[Bakugo’s Knock]

It was supposed to be their lunch day.

The first call, she ignored. The second, too. His text — Where the hell are you? — went unanswered.

The knock on her door was sharp enough to make her flinch. Not aggressive. Just… Bakugo.

She cracked it open and found him standing there in his winter hero uniform, minus the gauntlets and mask, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other holding his phone like it had personally offended him.

His gaze swept over her slowly — hoodie, biker short leggings, bare toes curling on the hardwood. His eyes lingered a beat too long on her thighs before snapping back up. “Could’ve just told me you weren’t at work,” he muttered, voice low, like it was meant for her and no one else.

She stepped aside without speaking.

He toed off his boots and dropped onto the couch beside her, grabbing the blanket from the back and tossing half over her lap. The heat of him seeped through instantly.

The moment his shoulder pressed into hers, something inside her shifted. Resonance tilted, steadied. The static quieted.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. Didn’t tell her to cheer up. Just sat there, flipping through the channels until he found some mindless cooking show.

Ten minutes in, she leaned into him, the side of her body pressing to his as if seeking his heat. He felt it instantly—Resonance curling low and heavy, seeping into him until his own chest tightened with the echo of her weight. His arm came around her without thinking, drawing her in closer, the solid band of muscle at her back a silent anchor as he tried to steady his breathing and stay calm under the force of her quirk.

After a while, he stood. “You eaten?”

She shook her head.

“Tch. Figures.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, moving like he owned the space. The first thing he did was wash his hands, scrubbing with brisk efficiency as if suiting up for battle. Then he started opening cabinets and the fridge, scanning shelves like he was committing the entire layout to memory—where she kept the soy sauce, how the spices were arranged, which drawer held the good knives.

He pulled out ingredients with a soldier’s precision, lining them up on the counter. The clink of pans and the hiss of oil followed, soon joined by the rich scent of miso and seared salmon. Glancing over his shoulder, he made a light jab at her pantry—"Half this stuff’s expired or weird as hell,"—the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth as if trying to haul both of them out of the low mood.

She padded in, leaning against the counter. The long-sleeve black compression shirt of his hero uniform clung to his back, fabric pulling across muscle as he flipped the fish.

When he reached for the soy sauce, his arm stretched past her shoulder, the line of his body brushing hers. Heat prickled under her skin. His hand lingered at her hip for just a second longer than necessary before he stepped away.

“Sit.” He set the plate in front of her like a challenge.

She ate. Slowly. Halfway through, she realized his usual sharp presence felt… heavier.

“You’re feeling it, aren’t you?” she asked quietly.

His jaw worked. “Stop doing that.”

She froze.

“Don’t give me your sh*t,” he said, not unkindly. “Just… sit here with me.”

It wasn’t a rejection. It was a tether. A way of telling her he wanted her lighter, not empty.

They ended up back on the couch, her feet in his lap. The TV flickered.

At some point, his hand slid absentmindedly up and down her shin, thumb brushing the bare skin above her ankle, each pass a little slower. She felt her body loosen under the touch, a different kind of warmth blooming.

Her eyes drifted shut, the last thing she felt was the faint curl of his fingers around her calf — possessive in the quietest way.

A buzz pulled him from his thoughts.

Todoroki: She didn’t show up for lunch. Is she alright?

Bakugo: She’s with me. Resting.

He put the phone down, gaze lingering on her sleeping face before it flicked briefly to the muted TV. When she stirred faintly, her voice was a murmur: “How’s therapy been with the new one?”

He caught it immediately, that soft deflection. “Don’t start worrying about me or anyone else right now,” he said, low and firm. “Don’t deflect.”

She gave a half-hearted shrug, trying to make light of it, but he wasn’t letting go. In his Bakugo way—rough edges over something careful—he shifted just enough to make it clear this was a safe zone. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it. For once.”

Her lips parted like she might, but the weight in her chest held it back. His hand didn’t move from her calf, thumb tracing one last, slow circle as he murmured, “You’re not going anywhere.”

That quiet assurance pulled her further awake. She shifted, reaching for him in a slow, deliberate motion, tugging gently until he leaned closer. He came down over her, braced between her legs, chest nearly pressing to hers, his weight warm and solid. His head lowered until they were eye to eye, her gaze catching in the deep red of his.

They studied each other in the stillness—her tracing the sharp cut of his brows, him lingering on the full curve of her lips. In that hush, her Resonance shifted; still low, but the heaviness softened, replaced by faint, fluttery threads that curled through her chest as his presence seemed to drink in the plush curves beneath him. It was grounding, and impossibly intimate, like the quiet connection of two souls meeting in a place no one else could reach.

She could feel his weight now—solid muscle pressing into her, the warmth of his build seeping through her clothes. Her hands slid up his back in a slow caress, fingertips tracing the shape of him until he seemed to get the message.

She leaned closer, breath brushing his lips before they finally met. His kiss was firm and unhurried, so different from Todoroki’s measured gentleness—Bakugo kissed like he wanted to press himself into her until there was no space left, like he’d crawl into her very skin if he could.

He grabbed the material of her hoodie in a fist, hauling her closer with a controlled urgency. She responded instinctively, legs opening wider to let him fully settle between her thick thighs, the heat between them sparking higher. Somewhere in the background, her cats had gone still, green eyes quietly observing from their perch like silent witnesses. The air shifted—Resonance threading through them, low but no longer heavy, curling into something warmer, more electric as the sexual tension climbed.

Bakugo exhaled through his nostrils in the kiss, like a train letting off steam, but then pulled back, breaking the connection before it could tumble further into dangerous territory. His forehead rested briefly against hers as he caught his breath.

"Not like this," he muttered. "I’m not taking advantage of you when you’re like this. I actually want to hear what you’ve got to say—so spit it out already. And stop trying to distract me with those luscious kisses."

She sighs, finally giving in, her eyes lowering as she lets Resonance flow just enough for him to feel the echo of what she’s been carrying. It’s a heavy, clinging thing, curling in his chest with a hollow ache and that whisper of hopelessness she’d absorbed from the client. Her voice is shaky, broken in places as she explains—not naming names, not revealing who the hero was—just the raw shape of the suicidal feelings she’d taken on and how they’d dragged her under.

It’s not the full story, but it’s enough for him to understand the weight she’s been moving through.

"I never plan to intentionally avoid you... b-but sometimes I am not strong enough to be around others. I never want you to feel this. Or be on the verge..." She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head slowly. 

The thought of Bakugo not being around because of something like suicide made her chest clench. Before she could hide it, he shifted, pulling her into his lap like she weighed nothing, cradling her almost protectively. His arms locked around her, firm and unyielding, his warmth surrounding her as if to shield her from the world.

In a gruff murmur, he told her, "I’ve been carrying crap my whole damn life. Don’t care how heavy it is—if it’s yours, I’ll take it. Every damn ounce, if it means you never feel like this again."

She leaned up to him then, closing the distance with a kiss, her fingers sliding into his hair as she shifted, nearly straddling him.

Breath mingled between them before she whispered, "Stay tonight?"

He didn’t answer with words—just a sharp nod. Later, as they got ready for bed, he lay on top of her covers, spooning her close, one arm slung heavy around her waist.

As her Resonance settled into him, he didn’t fully notice the way it tugged at his own mood, pulling him into a deep, drowsy calm. Muscles that were always tense felt heavier, lazier, like the after effect of a long battle.

He chalked it up to her quirk, but didn’t mind the slumber-like haze—it was warm, and it was hers.

She felt the shift too; for the first time that day, her own weight lightened, stable from the drain.

The steady rhythm of his breathing anchored her until her eyes closed, Resonance quiet but warm, wrapping them both in its hum as they drifted off together

Chapter Text

Morning, too early for pride

The call came before sunrise, the gray hour when even the city held its breath. Todoroki’s phone buzzed across the lacquered surface of his nightstand; he answered on the first ring.

“Katsuki,” he said, voice steady.

Bakugo didn’t bother with greetings. “She had a bad one yesterday,” he said, words clipped, like he was trying not to detonate between syllables. “I handled it.”

Todoroki sat up, the room’s cold air brushing his bare shoulders. “Is she safe?”

“Obviously,” Bakugo snapped, and the bite was all worry. A rustle. A sigh like a fuse. “Listen. If this is gonna keep happening—if this is the real shape of things—then I guess I’ve got a damn boyfriend now.” A beat. “So do your job, boyfriend number two.”

Todoroki let the silence stretch just long enough to hear the faint, embarrassed scrape in Bakugo’s breathing. Then, with all the soft precision he could fit into a smile, he said, “You can’t truly believe you’re number one. I kissed her first.”

On the other end, there was a second of stunned quiet, the charged kind that came right before a storm.

Todoroki ended the call.

For three heartbeats he considered what Bakugo’s face might be doing—mouth open, hands already in the air, righteous fury winding up like a summer squall—then allowed himself the slightest upward curl of his lips. The room felt warmer. Not the crackle of Bakugo’s heat; something gentler. Anticipation.

He rose, showered, and dressed down from hero formality into a soft cream knit and loose dark trousers, hair pulled half-back to keep it out of his eyes. In the hall mirror, he checked himself once, not for vanity but for calm. He wanted to feel like a place she could set down the weight.

Across town, petals were readying themselves to fall.

Todoroki Estate

The threshold and the glow,

Fuyumi greeted her like a long-lost friend finally home, taking in the warm brown of her skin, the golden undertones glowing beneath the layered textures of a chic cool-season ensemble: a soft turtleneck tucked into a flowing sage midi skirt, paired with dark tights and knee-high boots that grounded the look like poetry in motion.

A belted wool coat framed her figure, and the halo of 4C curls pinned with a gold clip crowned her like a goddess stepping out into winter’s breath.

“You must be the one Shoto won’t stop pretending not to talk about,” she said, eyes bright with humor.

Heat rose to her cheeks before she could help it. “I, um—hi.”

“Tea in the garden,” Fuyumi said warmly. “He’s been out there since dawn. He claims he doesn’t fuss, but I watched him argue with a petal about where it should land.” She leaned closer and whispered, “He’ll deny it.”

A soft laugh slipped past her lips, and the sound seemed to soothe something in the old house.

When she stepped into the garden, it was like walking into a held breath finally released. A low sun daybed rested under the largest cherry tree, its canopy a blush halo of blossoms. White cushions and pale blue pillows invited her in, while a lacquered tray at the foot of the bed displayed a porcelain tea set, wagashi, and sliced fruit. The air smelled faintly of green and sugar.

Shoto stood waiting, serene in a cream short-sleeve winter polo knit that clung lightly to his frame, paired with loose black trousers. His hair was short and tousled in that effortless adult way—careless yet curated. His gaze traveled over her.

Sunlight spilled across warm brown skin with golden undertones that glowed like polished amber. Her 4C curls were swept back with a gold clip, framing a face softened by balm-slick lips. The turtleneck and flowing sage midi skirt she’d worn under her belted coat skimmed her curves with quiet grace, dark tights disappearing into knee-high boots that whispered over the garden stones, each anklet chime a small song in the cool air.

“You look…” His voice lowered, careful as if handling glass. “…well.”

“Doing my best,” she said honestly, then added with a faint smile, “Today is lighter.”

He stepped aside and gestured her closer. When she sat, the cushions gave softly beneath her, petals clinging to the fabric. His hand hovered near her back—never pressing, only offering presence.

“Fuyumi was excited when I told her you were coming,” he said in his steady tone. “I had to bribe her not to bombard you the moment you walked in.”

“I like your sister already,” she murmured, letting a little of the weight slip from her shoulders.

He poured tea with steady hands, steam coiling like secrets.

When their fingers brushed as she took the cup, a current of awareness threaded between them—his touch light and unthinking, as if her thickness and womanly divine energy didn’t register as weight to him at all, as if she were something effortless to hold no matter her size.

They drank in companionable silence until she stretched out on her side. A gentle tug on his wrist brought him down beside her, his body curving behind hers.

His arm slid over her waist, grounding her with a quiet strength. When her hand settled on top of his, it stayed.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his breath grazing the curls at her temple.

“Yes,” she whispered, and then, softer but sure, “Closer.”

He obeyed, aligning his frame along hers, palm spreading across the soft curve of her stomach like an anchor, accepting every inch of her with quiet reverence. The tray of tea sat forgotten at the end of the bed, steam rising like a prayer with no urgency to ascend.

For a long while, she said nothing. The garden asked for nothing. Her breathing steadied by degrees under the shelter of his arm, and then Resonance began to settle into him, a gentle tide threading through muscle and mind.

It worked on him like a seasoned massage therapist, easing tension he didn’t know he carried, loosening the quiet knots along his spine until his own breath felt deeper, more deliberate.

“Yesterday wasn’t the worst it’s been,” she said at last, her voice hushed and uneven. “But it was close. Like my chest had a second set of lungs breathing in everyone else.”

He stayed silent, listening without intruding.

“My quirk isn’t just empathy,” she continued. “People think that sounds gentle. Resonance… it’s not a soft word for me. It’s a room you walk into and someone locks the door. The sound in there is theirs. The air is theirs. If I’m not careful, I start believing the body is theirs too.”

His arm tightened slightly around her, a wordless promise of solid ground.

“When I was little,” she went on, her fingers curling against his forearm, “I mirrored my mother without knowing. If she was angry, I burned. If she was sad, I sank. Once, after a fight with my aunt, she came to my room and tried to smile. I took her hand, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Her sadness swallowed all the air, and I thought I would die from a feeling that wasn’t mine.”

His thumb began to stroke slow reassurance over her stomach. Coolness—not cold—slipped from his quirk into the air, taking the sting out of memory without freezing it. Petals drifted, water softened its song.

“I learned to clamp down,” she said. “Checklists. Grounding tricks. Most days it works. Yesterday… it didn’t. A client said something shaped like an old wound, and the door opened again.”

Her voice thinned. “I hate the look people get when they know. Like I’m fragile for feeling what I was built to hold.”

His hand slid higher, resting over her ribs with quiet permission. “I don’t respect you despite the weight,” he said softly, warmth brushing the edge of each word. “I respect you because you’re strong enough to admit when it’s too heavy to carry alone.”

She turned slowly to face him, the soft turtleneck hugging her curves without the shield of the coat, paired with the flowing sage midi skirt that draped over her thick hips with elegance.

The anklet chimed faintly beneath the edge of her boot, a delicate contradiction to the strength in her frame.

Up close, he could count the freckles dusting her warm brown skin beneath one eye, admire the lush curl of her lashes, and catch the glint of the gold clip that pinned her 4C curls like a quiet crown.

Her hand cupped his jaw, thumb sweeping over the firm line as if smoothing something hidden there. “You’re always so precise,” she whispered. “Do you know how much that gives away?”

Resonance unfurled then—not as flood but as threads, weaving him open instead of hollowing him out. The cold rooms inside him breathed for the first time without fogging the glass. He let it. That was the difference.

“Breathe with me,” he said. They did. Inhale. Exhale. Until their chests agreed.

He sank his fingers into the pinned crown of her hair, fingertips brushing the loose curls at her nape as if learning their secret language. His other arm drew her closer. When their foreheads met, the hush detonated nothing; it steadied everything.

“I’m not fragile,” she murmured.

“I know.” His voice made it sound like a vow.

When he kissed her, it started patient—soft, exploratory, lips brushing like a question. Then his hand slid to cradle the back of her neck, tilting her into a kiss that deepened, unhurried but claiming, tasting of quiet want.

His mouth lingered, teasing the seam of hers before coaxing it open, their breaths tangling as heat curled low in her belly.

When he broke away, it wasn’t from doubt; it was deliberate restraint, because control, for him, was its own form of devotion.

The Stretch of Afternoon

The day stretched like honey over bread. They lingered on the bed, talking little, letting silence do the heavy lifting.

She fed him a strawberry; he brushed her fingers with his mouth, and her free hand never stopped roaming—skimming his chest through the knit, tracing the lines of his arm, even daring a slow drag across his hip as if learning the map of him by touch.

Each movement was answered by a subtle pull closer, until their bodies were a quiet braid of contact.

Resonance remained light, curling like warm air between them, making them feel unmoored and airy, as if gravity had loosened its grip just for this hour.

Her laugh finally slipped free, loosening the last stubborn knots in her chest.

Fuyumi arrived with a blanket, smiling at the tableau.

“You two look like an ad for serenity,” she teased, draping warmth over their legs.

Her eyes flicked to their linked hands, her knowing smile soft. Startled by the sudden awareness of watching eyes and what that meant back home and here alike, she eased back from Shoto with a quick laugh, mumbling something about the tea set as warmth bloomed across her cheeks.

Shoto, unruffled, caught her wrist gently and let it go with a calm look that said he understood.

“There’s more tea inside—later,” Fuyumi added, clearly amused by the entire scene.

After she left, they collapsed back into the cushions, her knee sliding between his, palm flattening on his chest like a seal.

He eased into her without a word, no questions this time—just motion slow and certain, drawing her in like butter melting into warm bread. His movements stayed unhurried, molding to her shape until she fit against him as if the space had been waiting for her all along.

Resonance thrummed between them. Not a burden. A companion.

And when her phone buzzed later, Bakugo’s name bright against the screen, she hesitated, but Shoto’s voice slid in low and calm, threaded with quiet mischief:

“Tell him you’re safe… and make sure he knows he’s still number two.” 

The way his mouth curved on the last words made heat bloom in her chest all over again.

Later, by the Fire

As dusk fell, they drifted inside to the warmth of the estate’s living room, where a low fire glowed amber behind the glass hearth. The heat traced lazy patterns on their faces as they sank together on the sofa, she tucked comfortably against his side, the sage skirt pooling like watercolor against the cream of his knit.

Fuyumi perched across from them in an armchair, hands folded like a hostess brimming with questions. “So,” she began with that bright, older-sister lilt, “how did you two meet?”

The question hung in the air like a sudden bell.

The reader blinked, lips parting without a ready script.

“We, um…” She gestured vaguely, her brain rifling through answers that didn’t sound like they belonged in a drama.

Shoto, perfectly calm, supplied the truth in a tone as smooth as stone. “She was my therapist.”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide, while Fuyumi’s smile exploded into a laugh she tried and failed to stifle behind her fingers.

“I—well—it’s not—” The she floundered, hands describing frantic shapes in the air.

“That was… ages ago, technically? And very professional!”

“Mm,” Fuyumi hummed, eyes sparkling like she’d been handed her favorite subplot. “Professional. Sure.”

Shoto reached for the teacup on the low table, unbothered. “It was effective,” he said simply, then slid his free hand back over the her knee as if punctuation.

Her breath hitched, half mortified, half melting, and Resonance hummed faintly in her chest, picking up a tremor of worry beneath Fuyumi’s easy smile—a sister’s quiet plea for Shoto to guard his heart even as her laughter masked it.

And yet, all Fuyumi did was beam like someone already drafting wedding invitations in her head—while that undercurrent of concern tugged at the reader, making her pulse skitter and her shoulders tighten, the urge to withdraw pressing soft against her ribs as if hiding would make the weight of expectation disappear.

Shoto felt it too—the subtle shift in Resonance as it snagged on her nerves and pulled, the way her unease bled into him like ink in water.

He let her cling closer, even as her quirk drew from his calm like roots seeking water, grounding herself by draining just enough to steady her breath.

It left a faint ache in his chest, not painful but heavy, a borrowed worry and a gentle fatigue threading into his own energy.

He didn’t pull away.

If anything, his arm curved tighter, his palm sliding slow over her knee in silent reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

In that quiet, his voice broke through softly. “You know,” he said, eyes steady on hers, “I was the one who crossed the line first.”

She blinked, startled. “What?”

“I blurred it,” he admitted without hesitation. “Professional… personal. I didn’t care, not when it meant losing her.”

Fuyumi and her breath caught, pulse stuttering at the weight of his honesty. He didn’t stop there.

“She were never just someone who steadied me,” he said, thumb brushing slow over her knee.

“You’re the reason I stopped choosing distance,” he said, holding her gaze with a look that was steady but deep, like a tide pulling her in—unwavering, heat glinting in the pale and crimson of his eyes as if every word was carved into him.

Her throat tightened at the confession, heat pooling low while her mind scrambled for words and found none worth speaking.

The fire cracked softly, a quiet witness to the shift threading between them.

Fuyumi’s phone chimed, breaking the silence just enough. She stood with a warm, knowing smile.

“I’ll give you two a moment,” she said, and slipped away, the echo of her footsteps fading like permission.

Alone now, the weight eased. Shoto reached for her hand—not a question, not a claim, just a truth in motion. When her fingers laced with his, something inside her stilled and bloomed all at once.

“Stay,” he murmured, simple as breathing.

And for the first time that day, she didn’t feel like she was holding anything alone.

Outside, petals rode the night wind, and in the hush of the Todoroki estate, the world finally felt steady.

Chapter Text

Several months taught them the rhythm- into the winter season.

Bakugo cooked extra at her place on Thursdays, containers labeled with sloppy Sharpie for tomorrow — icy bastard because Shoto always swung by Fridays.

Shoto started buying groceries for her kitchen in quiet bulk—tea she actually drank, the brown rice she liked, the good butter—knowing Bakugo would raid a bag for his own apartment two days later.

It wasn’t cohabitation, not yet, but their lives were already braided: leftovers ferried like love letters, toiletries parked beside hers, three toothbrushes in a cup that pretended not to be symbolic.

 Kirishima, a Slip, and a Truth

Kirishima sprawled on Bakugo’s couch like he owned stock in it, scrolling feeds while Bakugo knotted a slim black tie in the mirror by the entry. The condo smelled like cedar and citrus cleaner. City light poured over everything.

“Yo,” Kirishima said, eyes still on his phone. “So how’s it feel dating the therapist now that you, uh, switched therapists like a responsible adult?”

Bakugo clicked his tongue. “Mind your business.” He adjusted the tie, then tugged it loose. “And it’s fine.”

“Fine like ‘bro, I’m thriving,’ or fine like ‘if I say too much I’ll combust’?” Kirishima’s grin was all teeth.

Bakugo opened his mouth to tell him to shut up—

Phone buzz.

Shoto.

Bakugo answered on speaker as he shrugged into his jacket. “What.”

“Confirming 8 PM,” Todoroki’s voice came smooth through the line. “I’ll handle the reservation check-in. Are you picking her up, or should I?”

Bakugo glanced at the mirror, at himself, at the small wild thing in his chest. “I got her. Quit hovering.”

He snorted, half to himself, half to the room, “Idiot boyfriend…”

A beat of silence. Kirishima went still, eyebrows shooting up.

On the phone, Shoto didn’t miss a step.

“Noted,” Shoto said mildly, and Bakugo could hear the smile even if he couldn’t see it. “See you there.”

Call ended.

Kirishima sat up. “Boyfriend?”

Bakugo rolled his eyes hard enough to hurt. “It’s not—” He exhaled, then chose honesty the way he picked a fight: decisively.

“Yeah. Boyfriend. Singular and plural.”

“As in… you two are… and you and her are… and Shoto and her are—” Kirishima made a little triangle with his hands like a cheesy PSA.

Bakugo snatched his keys. “We’re not backing down. Either of us. She didn’t want to choose. We didn’t either.”

Kirishima blinked, then grinned so wide it threatened structural damage.

“Dude… it took a woman to make you have real friendship connections.”

“Get out of my house,” Bakugo barked, a flush creeping up his neck.

Kirishima laughed, unfazed. “Nah, I’m proud of you. For real. You… look like you like people.”

“Leave,” Bakugo snarled, but his mouth twitched. “Lock up.”

He was halfway out the door when Kirishima called after him, softer: “Hey. Seriously. If you’re happy… don’t blow it up.”

Bakugo didn’t look back. “Wasn’t planning to.”

Velvet & Whiskey

The restaurant wrapped privacy in velvet and hush, all dark wood and soft lamps. Staff escorted Shoto to the private alcove like he belonged there; he did.

He stood when she arrived, the vision in deep green.

The dress hugged and flowed, a meditation in curves. Her 4C curls were out in a full haloed fro, gold glinting at her ears and throat. Anklet chimes kissed her skin with each step.

Shoto’s eyes warmed. Bakugo’s mouth curved, the kind of smile that meant trouble for anyone not them.

She kissed Shoto, then Bakugo—soft, unapologetic—before sliding between them.

Dinner went amazingly well, with laughter and stolen glances until the plates were cleared and the drinks deepened.

“We should move in together,” Shoto said, setting his chopsticks with surgical care.

Wine paused halfway to her lips.

Bakugo didn’t blink, just took a slow pull of whiskey like he’d been waiting for the words to hit air.

“Tch. About time someone said it,” he muttered.

Her therapist voice tried to surface, but the wine in her system made her thoughts feel loose at the edges. Surprise jolted through her, a mix of warmth in her cheeks and a tipsy fog that slowed her usual composure.

“Why are we bringing this up here? It feels abrupt—”

“Cut the crap,” Bakugo said—edge rough, the liquor sharpening him into irritation. “Don’t do the shrink voice now.”

Shoto leaned in, temper glinting like a blade he rarely drew.

“It’s not abrupt. It’s necessary. This only works if we’re under the same roof.”

Resonance lifted in her—tipsy, sensitive—catching on their heat, amplifying it until she couldn’t tell where she ended and they began.

The wine blurred her defenses, thoughts tangling, and the sudden surge of both their intensity left her dizzy with a strange sweetness, like she was getting lost in the two of them at once, her pulse slipping into their rhythm.

She set the glass down carefully. “I haven’t even had one night with both of you. One night.”

Bakugo’s grin turned feral. He emptied his glass. “Then that changes tonight.”

Shoto tilted his head. “We can discuss logistics… after.” The faintest curve at his mouth.

Her laugh was a shaky exhale. “After?”

Bakugo had the bill handled before she could reach for her purse, tossing a card down with a look that said argue later.

Shoto held the curtain for her; Bakugo took her coat; the night air folded around them like a promise they were reckless enough to keep.

 The Condo (Confession Hour)

Bakugo’s place glittered—a sweep of city through glass, low lamps, leather, clean lines and lived-in edges. He poured wine for all three without asking, muscle memory already learned.

They settled on the couch: she in the middle, heels off, toes flexing in the plush rug; Bakugo sprawled all heat to her right; Shoto composed to her left, jacket off, sleeves pushed to his forearms.

“Where is this coming from?” she asked again, voice softer.

Bakugo stared into his glass, lips looser from the liquor, words slipping out without their usual armor.

“It’s harder to share when I don’t see you.”

The admission landed heavy and honest, his masculine presence leaning into the room, making it hard for her tipsy mind to focus on anything but the weight of him.

“If you lived with us—it’d be easier.”

Shoto didn’t look away, though his composure was fraying; his temperature wavered subtly, the effort of keeping himself cool slipping under the strain.

He unbuttoned his shirt a fraction, exposing the hollow of his throat, as he admitted quietly, “I can only do this because I trust him. Otherwise it would fall apart. I know where we begin and end.”

She went thoughtful-quiet, the instinct to analyze ticking in her jaw.

Bakugo clocked it and shook his head.

“Don’t do that therapist thing,” he said, not unkind. “Just tell us what you want.”

She looked at both of them—Bakugo broad-shouldered in his button-up, the top few buttons already undone to reveal the hard plane of his chest, muscles shifting under fabric that seemed too tight for him; Shoto precise and striking, jawline cut like stone, narrow nose elegant, beauty sharpened by restraint.

Their eyes, all three, were dilated from liquor and heat.

They looked so different in the bones yet so matched in the intent that her breath caught.

“I’ve never done this.” A breath. “I didn’t want to turn either of you down. I’ve been enjoying every step of this with you both, and I’m determined to make it work.”

Silence held. Resonance rose—warm, electric—like the room itself was leaning closer to listen, enhancing the liquor in their systems until all three grew warmer, sexually charged.

Bakugo spread his legs wider, heat radiating, while she uncrossed and crossed her own, finally hooking a foot under his leg without thinking.

Shoto shifted subtly, adjusting his belt as if composure cost him. Those small, settled movements fed the Resonance, heightening it until the air felt thick with want.

“First time for me too,” Bakugo said, mouth crooking. “Like this.”

She let out a small laugh, tipsy boldness sliding through. “So, either of you ever had a threesome?”

Shoto’s eyes gentled. “I have had a threesome,” he said simply. “It isn’t the same thing.” Bakugo made a surprised swallow of wine and coughed slightly at the confession, eyes narrowing in disbelief before flicking back to Shoto.

Shoto’s gaze returned steady, landing on her again. “This is… us.”

Her lips parted. “And what is us?”

Bakugo set his glass down with a soft thunk.

“Your boyfriends.”

He didn’t flinch as he said it.

“If you say yes.”

Shoto’s voice followed like a hand at the small of her back. “Be our girlfriend.”

Resonance opened like a door she chose to unlock.

She let it.

Let their want, their nerves, their fierce, clumsy tenderness flood into her and return amplified—safety humming at the edges.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

Bakugo’s relief punched out as a growl and a laugh. Shoto’s exhale sounded like a vow.

(All characters are 21+. Consent affirmed verbally and repeatedly. Condom use.)

Bakugo kissed her first, because of course he did—hot and greedy, palms bracketing her jaw as if he’d been starving five months and surviving on scraps.

Shoto waited one heartbeat, then slid in at her throat; the contrast made her knees go loose.

She tugged Bakugo’s shirt up; he shrugged it off in one impatient motion. Shoto’s fingers were already at the zipper of her dress, slow, precise, a question in each inch.

She nodded, and the dress whispered down her body like a good secret. Bakugo’s breath caught—raw appreciation, no filter.

“Fuck, look at you,” he said, hands mapping the line of her waist, the plush of her hips, reverent like he’d kneel if she asked.

Shoto’s mouth curved as he eased her back onto the couch. “Beautiful,” he murmured, and it wasn’t a line.

They worked like a tide—one receding as the other surged. Bakugo’s mouth claimed hers again while Shoto knelt, sliding her panties down, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee like a benediction.

As his mouth traveled higher, Shoto unbuttoned and slipped his shirt off, bare shoulders gleaming as he kissed up her leg.

Resonance roared between all three, amplifying the liquor and lust in their blood until heat coursed through them, her arousal sparking in them, their want pouring back through her, a loop tightening, tightening, higher and hotter.

Shoto licked a slow, deliberate line up her inner thigh, then paused to meet her eyes. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she breathed, and then she forgot how to say anything else for a while.

His mouth on her was careful at first—gentle pressure, exploratory strokes—then deeper, more focused when her hips tried to lift off the couch.

He inhaled deeply, drunk further on her scent, tongue teasing and playing with her brown lips, parting them to flash the pink insides glistening with moistness. Bakugo watched, jaw flexing, one hand stroking her hair back, the other sliding down to cradle her throat with a possessive tenderness that didn’t press, just held.

“Good girl,” Bakugo murmured against her cheek when her breath hitched, his large hands now sliding down to cup her full breasts.

He kneaded and massaged them with rough devotion, fingers teasing the dark brown nipples, pinching and pulling until her breath came ragged, then lowering his mouth to suck at her areoles and nipples in turn.

“Take it. Let him.”

Shoto found the rhythm that unspooled her—the steady circle, the firmer suck, the angle that made her see stars—and he didn’t rush, didn’t chase, just kept her right there until she grabbed for Bakugo’s wrist like an anchor.

She gasped both their names, one hand tangled in Bakugo’s hair, the other pushing Shoto’s head further into her, desperate and undone, neither of them rushing. “Sh—Shoto,” she breathed, the name breaking, and he answered by humming into her, the vibration a sin.

Bakugo bit onto her nipple hard, not wanting to be outdone.

"K-Kat-suki"

She came hard, voice caught low in her chest, Resonance flaring—pleasure arcing through both men like lightning without pain. Bakugo swore, breath ragged; Shoto smiled against her skin.

“Condoms,” Shoto said softly, already reaching into the drawer of the side table like he’d prepared for this the way he prepared for everything.

Bakugo barked a laugh. “Of course you stocked my place.”

“Only the good ones,” Shoto replied, deadpan.

They both paused, eyes on her, giving her the space to steer.

She sat up, cupped Bakugo through his slacks, the heat of him making decisions for her.

“You first,” she told him, voice gone silk.

“Fuckin’ right.” Bakugo’s hands shook a little as he tore at buttons; she helped, palms skating over muscle and scars like a thank-you.

Condom on, she guided him, thumb tracing the hollow at the base of his throat. Before he pressed in, Shoto had stripped fully, laying behind her so her back was flush against his chest, his arms spreading her thighs wide to hold her open.

Their cocks looked different against the low light—Bakugo thick, veined, flushed dark; Shoto longer, paler, elegant in line—contrasts that made her breath catch. She lay suspended between them, feeling every inch of masculine heat, before Bakugo pressed her back into the cushions, forehead to hers, not moving until she said—

“Please.”

He pushed in slow, inch by thick inch, a curse grinding out of him as her nails bit his shoulders. Shoto’s hand slid under her knee, lifting, opening her more. The stretch burned sweet; Bakugo stilled to let her breathe through it, to let Resonance catch up and soften the edges.

“Look at me,” he said, voice rough with restraint. She did. Fire met storm and made weather.

When she nodded, he began to move—deep, rolling thrusts that knocked sounds out of her she’d never made with anyone else.

Shoto sat behind her now, holding her upright with her legs spread wide, his mouth kissing her forehead and trailing down to her shoulders, grounding her with heat.

Bakugo gripped one of her legs as well, helping keep her open, his eyes dropping hungrily to where they were joined.

Shoto’s hands slid up to play with her breasts, teasing and circling, while his lips marked her neck, his quirk flickering temperature changes that made her shiver and moan as much as Bakugo’s thrusts.

He kissed her ankle, the inside of her calf, the edge of her knee he held, then leaned in to kiss her mouth at the top of a thrust, stealing her breath and giving it back.

“Good?” Shoto asked against her lips.

“God—yes—”

Bakugo’s pace stuttered at the way she said it. “Say it’s mine,” he demanded, then corrected himself, eyes flicking to Shoto and back. “Say you’re ours.”

Her laugh broke into a moan. “I’m yours. I’m—yours.”

Resonance surged—heat and ice braided—her body reading their hunger, her heart translating it, returning it magnified until all three were panting in the same cadence.

Bakugo’s thumb found her clit and pressed; she clenched hard around him; his curses dissolved into a raw, grateful sound.

“Switch,” Shoto murmured at last, the word a brush of silk over steel.

Bakugo pulled out on a groan, chest heaving, and flopped back against the couch like he needed a second to remember how legs worked. Shoto kissed her slow, lazy, as he rolled the condom on, fingers steady even with his breath uneven.

“On top,” he suggested. “If you want.”

She did.

The first sink-down was a shock—different shape, different stretch—but Shoto’s hands on her hips were careful, guiding, grounding.

He filled her in a way that felt like puzzle pieces finally respecting the picture.

“Beautiful,” he said again, and the word did something to her spine.

She rode him slow at first, then faster when his composure cracked and his head tipped back, a low sound falling out of him that she wanted to catch and keep.

Bakugo sat up behind her, palms cupping her breasts, thumbs teasing, mouth at her shoulder, teeth catching the delicate place that made her hips stutter.

“Take what you want,” Bakugo told her, voice wrecked in the best way. “Use us.”

She did. She set the rhythm, chased the crest. Shoto’s hands tightened, guiding her down, up, down, until he lost a quiet curse that sounded like prayer.

Bakugo’s fingers slid lower, circling where they were joined; the triple sensation scrambled her thoughts into bright white static.

“I—” she gasped. “I’m—”

“Let go,” Shoto said, eyes on hers like a promise. “We’ve got you.”

Resonance widened— a tidal bloom, a soft detonation —and the orgasm took her apart with terrifying sweetness. Shoto followed her over with a hard, helpless sound, hands clamped on her hips; Bakugo groaned like a man witnessing a miracle and chasing his own.

She was still shaking when Bakugo hauled her into his lap, kissing the breath back into her, slick and messy, the taste of wine and want. He looked almost pained with need.

“Can you—?” he asked, not assuming.

She smiled, dazed and certain. “Yes.”

Condom.

Position shift.

Bakugo moved behind her on the couch, rolling the condom on before guiding her forward onto her hands and knees.

He took her from the back with his usual rough hunger, braced and driving, while Shoto sprawled comfortably in front of her, stroking himself as she leaned down to take him into her mouth.

Her full lips closed around him, tasting salt and heat, while Bakugo’s grip tightened on her hips, thrusts rocking her deeper.

Shoto’s hand cupped her cheek as he slid between her lips, the two men’s groans tangling with her muffled sounds—her body stretched and filled, their different rhythms pulling her apart and remaking her all at once.

Bakugo’s control frayed first. “You’re ours,” he kept saying like scripture, voice breaking, “ours, ours,” until he lost words completely and came with a rough sound, he bit against her shoulder.

Shoto’s voice followed low and sharp, brushing her ear as he steadied her head in his hand: “We’ll ruin you so no one else will ever be able to use you. Only us.”

The orgasmic explosion shattered through her, Resonance enhancing every pulse until the sensation was so strong it left all three of them reeling, almost drugged and sleepy with the aftermath.

They collapsed in a tangle, sweating and laughing and a little stunned.

Shoto disappeared for a moment and returned with warm cloths and water because, of course, he did.

Bakugo groaned but let himself be fussed over; she kissed both of their wrists like medals earned. Bakugo got up to get water for them, hydrating after the physical activity.

On the couch under the throw, all three drifted into a quiet that wasn’t empty.

Resonance settled—not a burden, not a blare—just the steady hum of a system syncing.

“Be our girlfriend,” Shoto said again, softer in the dim.

“Already am,” she murmured.

Bakugo nuzzled into her hair, voice a rumble. “Then we’ll figure the rest.”

A beat. “Not tonight. Tonight we just—” He yawned. “—sleep.”

“Mm.” She smiled into the space between them. “Tomorrow we'll talk about toothbrushes.”

“Already got spares,” Bakugo said without shame.

Shoto’s laugh was quiet and pleased. “Of course you do.”

Outside, the city kept breathing. Inside, three heartbeats practiced the same tempo.

Chapter Text

A Week of Yeses

The three of them made a deal: no moving in yet.

She stood ten toes down—wanting nights together, not a rushed merge of closets and leases. The decision felt mature, intentional, like drawing a clean line between yearning and recklessness.

They weren’t afraid of closeness; they were afraid of skipping the sweetness that lived in the in-between.

So they built a rhythm instead.

She made them.

Monday: Her place. Bakugo burned pancakes and refused to admit it, swearing under his breath while smoke curled toward the ceiling fan. Shoto, unbothered, set the table like it was a ceremony—folded napkins, juice poured in stemware, every detail neat as if breakfast deserved reverence. She laughed into her coffee, watching two extremes somehow harmonize.

Wednesday: Bakugo’s condo. She stole his softest T-shirt, oversized and smelling faintly of gunpowder and detergent. Shoto stocked the fridge with her tea, tucked neatly in rows, and smiled when Bakugo pretended not to notice. She sprawled across the couch between them, feeling like she belonged in both spaces at once.

Friday: Todoroki Manor. She was already at the manor, grateful for the open space and quiet land, when they slipped out to the garden to meet him—where Shoto’s childhood quiet had grown into a hush he now controlled. The grand rooms echoed with footsteps, but it was Shoto’s deliberate calm that filled the house. Bakugo said he didn’t care, rolled his eyes at the formality, but still packed cologne like he did. He hovered in the hallways with his usual scowl, though the way his gaze lingered on the high windows betrayed curiosity.

Sunday: A third toothbrush appeared in her bathroom. No one confessed to buying it. Bakugo teased her about buying it herself to force the issue. Shoto, poker-faced, denied knowledge but adjusted its angle on the sink like it belonged there. The tiny plastic thing glowed louder than declarations.

Resonance purred those first days—soft, golden, easy. It made simple things feel like promises: Shoto tucking a blanket over her knees with the precision of someone who had memorized her cold spots; Bakugo cussing at the kettle but learning her tea timing anyway, proud and irritated in the same breath. A week of yeses. A week where every moment whispered: this is real, and it’s ours.

The Call That Tilted the Room

They were halfway to Todoroki Manor night when the phone lit. The hum of tires on asphalt filled the car. The bag at her feet was packed with sweaters and her favorite lotion—the kind she left in all their homes now like breadcrumb trails of her presence. Fresh waist length knotless braids were hanging over her shoulder, cascading a dark curtain framing her face.

Speaker phone echoed the in the car- instantly connecting to the bluetooth.

Shoto: “I’m sorry. The board fast-tracked a partnership dinner. I have to host.”

Her hand stilled over the overnight bag zipper. Bakugo, steady but restless, felt a buzz of anticipation at the thought of reaching the quiet manor.

His mind had already built the night: the hush of the Todoroki estate, the fire pit on the terrace, maybe even a rare calm where he and Shoto didn’t circle each other like wolves.

The call cracked that picture in half.

“Tonight?” Her voice came out thinner than she wanted. Tonight?

Bakugo’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, leather creaking beneath his grip.

Shoto’s voice was measured, almost too smooth. “Yes. I’ll host you both tomorrow to make up for it.”

A pause.

“It’s… the Osaka affiliate lead. She prefers in-person, and—”

Bakugo’s eyes cut to her at the word she. Resonance shivered, then sharpened—like a violin string tuned a fraction too tight. The name Osaka didn’t matter. The pronoun did.

“Of course she does,” she said lightly, too lightly. “Tell her hi from your girlfriend.”

Shoto caught the stress on the word.

He also heard the silence after, heavier than her tone.

“I’ll call when it ends,” he said, gentler. “I want you both to feel chosen, even when work claws at me.”

Bakugo cut in, rough around the edges.

“Tch, don’t start acting like you’re the only one drowning in obligations. We’re heroes, she’s running sessions being a full-on therapist—we’re all busy. If we can make time for each other, you don’t get to slack and call it balance. You keep pace or you fall behind, got it?”

“We can still go,” he said, voice gruff but insistent. “I’ll grab the key from the fake plant, or one of the maids will let us in.”

Bakugo was trying to shoot Shoto some bail, to salvage the night in his own way, to prove the ritual mattered even when Shoto’s presence faltered.

“Then choose us,” slipped out before she could leash it.

Resonance started to prickle along her skin with the sharp edge of jealousy.

She sat pouty, knotless braids flipped messily over her shoulder, the car’s heat blasting and doing nothing to soothe her mood. The space between them was suddenly too thick.

Bakugo flinched at the echo of what he felt too: want turned to warning. His body shifted in the driver’s seat, jaw clenching as his foot pressed heavier on the gas.

The quiet manor he’d been looking forward to now felt distant, a mirage, and he couldn’t stop thinking that Shoto was screwing up—risking the good thing they were building together.

Shoto’s inhale was quiet. “I am choosing you, I am choosing you both,” he said. “I’ll prove it tomorrow. Please get home safe.”

The line clicked dead in that soft way expensive phones do. She felt dismissed, like Shoto had just sent her home instead of choosing to stay. Resonance cranked up another notch, jealousy sharp against her skin.

Bakugo caught it, jaw hardening as he snapped that they were still going to the manor regardless, key in the fake plant or a maid letting them in—anything to prove the night wasn’t lost.

Flirtation with Teeth 

The private room had a beautiful view of the city, skyline glittering like a jewel box. It also had a woman who moved like she’d been told all her life that rooms moved for her. Her blazer draped sharp, her watch gleamed, and every tilt of her hand spoke of practiced allure.

“Endeavor Agency has always impressed me,” Makota said, wrist tilting to flash a watch that cost as much as a car. “And you…” Her smile curved. “You’re very composed for your age.”

Shoto’s posture didn’t change. He poured still water, fingers steady. “Composure keeps negotiations from slipping.”

Makota leaned in, the perfume clean and expensive, threading into the air like a suggestion. “Is that what you call this? Negotiation?”

His phone buzzed on the linen. He didn’t look down. He already knew who it was.

He also knew what his absence was doing to his bond—Resonance wasn’t merely a hum tonight; it tugged with intention, a heat at the base of his throat that swallowed guilt and fed focus.

A parasite that he did not notice infected him nor did Shoto want to rid himself of

He could almost hear Bakugo’s temper like a low drumbeat, feel her disappointment as if it were pressing on his own sternum.

He clocked the angle of Makota chair—closer than necessary.

The hair tuck—meant to be noticed. The casual mention of staying “walking distance” from his building. He saw all of it, filed it, let none of it touch him.

“My partners are waiting at home,” he said, tone even. “I don’t prolong dinners.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Plural?”

“Correct.” A small sip. “Exclusive.”

Something like challenge slid through her smile. “You’re very certain.”

“I am when it matters,” Shoto said, and meant it like a vow.

Resonance as Riptide (Todoroki Manor)

They entered Todoroki Manor through the front hall, its silence wrapping around them like an unfamiliar cloak. The maid, clearly recognizing them, let them in without a word—though Bakugo’s scowl might have been warning enough. The grand house felt hollow without Shoto there, its polished floors and cavernous rooms magnifying the absence.

She set her bag down with too much care. “It’s fine,” she told the empty space. “He’s working.” The words were brittle, like glass.

Bakugo’s mouth twitched. “You said that like a lie you want to sprout legs.”

She shot him a look meant to tease but landing tense. “So you didn’t hear her purr through the phone?”

Bakugo exhaled, heavy. “I heard you. And thanks to this ya damn quirk, Resonance, I can’t stop hearing you. It’s like an amplifier strapped to my nerves.”

He tried anyway—unpacking her bag so she didn’t have to, filling the kettle the way Shoto would because it comforted her.

But emotion overflowed into him: the sting of jealousy, the fear of being second, the corrosive thought that money and legacy might eclipse them. It hit him like a body blow, bracing him against the counter, jaw tight.

A rearing feeling from childhood trauma, fear of being second peaking over his shoulders in mocking whispers.

She swallowed hard. The jealousy wasn’t her best self, and she knew it. But it was loud, insistent, and tonight it had an audience in her own chest. Her braids slid forward as she bowed her head, trying to breathe around it.

“What if she’s his type?” The words slipped out small.

“What if we’re an afterthought when his world snaps its fingers?”

Bakugo gave a humorless laugh. “He ditched that world when he chose us. You think he’d trade us for a boardroom flirt? Your fear is burning me alive, babe. It’s like someone rewired my nerves to yours and cranked the volume.”

“I’m not trying to.” Her eyes glossed. “I just… I need to know you’ll stay. Even if he gets slippery.”

The phrase set him off. “Tch. Don’t do that. Don’t make me the consolation prize because Prince Corporate had a meeting.”

Resonance spiked again—jealousy to hurt to anger, cycling until Bakugo carried both his own temper and hers. It made him feel feral in a way he hated.

“Say it,” he demanded, low and rough. “Say you trust me to stay even if he’s late. Say I’m not some placeholder while you obsess over his schedule.”

She flinched. “I never—”

“Then say it.” His knuckles whitened on the countertop. This wasn’t dominance—it was desperation for reassurance before he drowned in feelings that weren’t entirely his.

She touched his wrist, pulse against pulse, grounding them both. “I trust you. I trust you to stay. I trust you to choose me even when I’m messy.”

His jaw slackened. He swallowed. “Good.” Then softer: “Because the second you start doubting me, this Resonance turns me into a chained dog with teeth. And I don’t want to be that version for you.”

She nodded firmly. “Then don’t let me turn you into that. Pull me back.”

“I’m tryin’, babe” he murmured, keeping the nickname steady, softening the air between them. “I swear I’m trying, but you gotta meet me halfway. And hell—aren’t you supposed to be the professional therapist here? Feels like I’m the one running sessions tonight.”

She could not help but snort out a laugh, leaning onto Bakugo shoulder giving pouty gaze. She smooshed her face to his shoulder, and on instinct Bakugo leaned forward place a firm kiss on top of her head. 

A promise.

The Dinner That Wouldn’t End 

“So tell me,” the Makota said, pouring herself another inch of whiskey. “What would it take to get Endeavor to fast-track my licensing?”

Shoto named the number, the timeline, the compliance milestones—crisp, correct, ethical. Her hand grazed his sleeve “accidentally.” He did not move.

His phone buzzed again. He let it. But he took a breath and, for the first time that night, he let heat creep into his tone—not the quirk, the emotion.

His gaze sharpened, voice steelier than before.

“I’m leaving at nine,” he said. “You’ll have the term sheet by noon tomorrow. Tonight ends when the clock does.”

She smiled like a test had been failed or passed; it didn’t matter which. “You’re disciplined.”

“I’m loved,” he said, and finally checked his phone.

One missed call from Bakugo. One text from her: ‘I’m trying to be fair. I want you home.’

He stood. “The night is concluded. My driver will see you to your hotel.”

There was a flicker of surprise, then respect.

Makoto extended her hand. “Until tomorrow, Mr. Todoroki.”

He shook it. “Shoto is fine.” He was already walking out, the city lights spilling against his figure like approval.

A Call on the Way Home 

On the drive back from the dinner, Shoto loosened his tie further and, for once, let himself exhale. The city passed outside his window, lights smearing into blurs. He dialed a familiar number. It rang only once.

“Shoto? Everything alright?” Midoriya’s voice was warm, concerned as always.

“I’m fine,” Shoto said, though his tone carried weight. “I just needed… perspective.” He hesitated. “It’s about them. Bakugo and… her. Us. This arrangement. I keep wondering if I’m doing enough, or if I’m already failing them.”

There was silence, then a small laugh of disbelief. “Wait—hold on. Did you just say them? As in… you, Kacchan, and her? Together?”

Shoto closed his eyes briefly, forgetting that he did not debrief Midoriya on the relationship.

“Yes. We agreed on honesty. But sometimes honesty feels insufficient. Tonight, I was working, and it felt like I was abandoning them. I’m not sure how to balance what they need with what my world demands.”

Midoriya’s shock bled into a steady, supportive tone. “Wow, Shoto… I didn’t expect that. But—I mean, if anyone can make something like that work, it’s you. You’re deliberate. You don’t step into things without meaning it. But you are going to feel lost sometimes. It’s new ground.”

Shoto nodded, even though Midoriya couldn’t see him. “I want them to know they’re chosen. Every time. I don’t want them to doubt it. But when duty calls, I…” He trailed off, rare uncertainty softening his words.

“You talk to them,” Midoriya encouraged. “The same way you called me. You don’t have to have the perfect answer—you just have to let them in. If they’re choosing you too, then you’re not carrying this alone.”

Shoto allowed himself a quiet hum of agreement, a sound almost like relief. “Thank you. I needed clarity.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Midoriya replied. “And… wow. You, Kacchan, and her. I’m still wrapping my head around that. Just—don’t forget: messy doesn’t mean wrong. It just means human.”

Shoto ended the call with a faint smile before signaling the driver to take him the rest of the way home.

Fracture Line

At Todoroki Manor, they’d migrated to one of the sitting rooms, the quiet expanse of the estate pressing in on them. She sat tucked under Bakugo’s arm, both of them quiet.

The kettle had long gone cold in the vast kitchen. The lantern-lit garden beyond the windows turned the glass into mirrors, reflections of three people trying to figure out how to fit together.

“I don’t want to be this version of me,” she said into his shoulder.

“I don’t want to be the version of me that snarls back,” he admitted, chin on her hair. “I like us better when we’re on the same team.”

“We are on the same team.”

“Then stop tackling me mid-play,” he muttered, but there was a smile tucked into it now. The worst of the surge had passed; Resonance settled low and warm again, like a tide going out. He exhaled against her temple.

“We’ll tell him. Straight. We need a plan for nights work eats.”

“Protocols,” she said, therapist mode flickering on without taking over. “Texts at set intervals. A ‘leaving now’ selfie. Clear boundary language at dinners.”

Bakugo snorted. “Make him send a picture holding today’s paper like a ransom note.”

She giggled, and the sound was relief. It broke the last thread of tension hanging in the room.

Keys turned in the lock.

Apologies are felt more than Heard

Shoto stepped in—tie loosened, hair slightly mussed, coat folded over one arm. He still carried the faint trace of whiskey from the dinner, the city’s chill clinging to his suit.

He hadn’t stopped to wash the night away—he came straight home, deliberate in bringing himself back to them without delay.

“I’m late,” he said simply, setting the coat down. “I’m sorry.”

Her jealousy tried to flicker back to life, then paused at the sight of him: deliberate, contrite, present, exhausted.

Bakugo felt it falter and didn’t push.

Shoto crossed the room slowly, hands visible, posture open like a man approaching a skittish creature he loved. He stopped just out of reach.

“I was aware of the flirtation,” he said, eyes steady on her. “I declined every advance before it was fully made. I left early by my standards. I chose you. Not in words over the phone, but in action in that room.”

Bakugo’s eyebrow ticked. “And yet we sat here stewing like an unattended pot.”

Shoto nodded. “Which is why I’m proposing a protocol.” He glanced to her. “You first.”

She swallowed, then found her spine. “I need… confirmations. A text at the start, a midpoint, and an out-the-door. If a dinner partner is flirtatious, I want it named, not softened. I don’t want to be blindsided by the fact of a woman because the world has taught me what women like that can do.”

“Done,” Shoto said immediately. “And you—” He shifted to Bakugo. “What do you need when Resonance spikes ugly?”

Bakugo rolled a shoulder. “A cue to breathe that isn’t nagging,” he said frankly. “And for you to walk through the door like you did tonight—walked in straight from the world outside, apology first, explanations second.”

“Done,” Shoto said again, then stepped closer. “May I touch you?” He asked it of both.

She nodded first. Bakugo grunted his assent.

Shoto reached, warm hands cupping the back of her head, thumb stroking her temple once like he could smooth jealousy itself. He turned, palm braced on Bakugo’s sternum, feeling the man’s heartbeat hammer against his hand.

“I will be flirted with,” he said, the truth gentle, not cruel. “I will not be moved by it. If I am ever moved by anything, it will be by you two.” A beat. “Only you.”

The room exhaled.

Night Care Routines

No one reached for heat. They reached for home.

Eventually, they started their familiar steps of a nightly routine that was becoming their own. She brushed her teeth while Bakugo grumbled about the cold marble floors. Shoto dimmed the lights, checking the windows, quiet in his methodical way. By the time they reached the bedroom, the weight of the night had softened into something manageable.

She climbed into the middle of the bed, the natural place she fit, and they settled on either side of her. Bakugo sprawled protectively close, arm thrown over her waist. Shoto adjusted the comforter so it covered all three of them evenly, setting the last water bottle within easy reach on her side.

“Tomorrow we can fight better,” she murmured into the pillow.

“Tomorrow I’ll schedule better,” Shoto said, voice even, but tired in the edges.

“Tomorrow I’m stealing the big blanket,” Bakugo muttered, because someone had to drag feet back onto the ground where they belonged.

She giggled, a soft sound muffled against the sheets. “Tomorrow I’m buying thicker socks, since somebody keeps leaving the floors freezing.”

Their laughter braided together, Resonance easing into something that felt like a promise kept.

Outside, the city glittered like a thousand watchful eyes. Inside, three people practiced staying—and this time, staying felt less like a fragile hope and more like a deliberate vow.

Chapter Text

Some nights don’t need bravery—they just need a little softness, some sparkle, and the courage to show up.

Music played quietly while warm light filled the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. Her brown skin glowed where the gold highlighter hit her cheekbones, and her long knotless braids were pulled back neatly with a polka-dot headband. The black mini dress hugged her body just right; gold hoops framed her face; red heels waited by the door.

Her phone buzzed on the counter next to her lip gloss.

Katsuki: don’t be late. extras got no patience and i got less.

A second later, another text came through.

Shoto: The car is outside at 7. You’ll be breathtaking. Remember we’re a team.

She breathed slowly—in for four, hold for four, out for six—and felt the strange, warm pull of Resonance start under her skin. The nerves fizzed like soda bubbles, but the connection between them kept her steady.

“Alright,” she said to her reflection. “We’re doing joy tonight.”

She fixed her headband, smoothed her dress, and took another deep breath. She could feel both of them through Resonance—Shoto’s calm energy, Bakugo’s restless warmth—like hands guiding her forward.

When she stepped outside, Shoto waited by the car. He wore a black leather jacket over an oversized crop tee, black trousers, and black leather boot, his usual clean, careful look. He didn’t say wow, but his eyes did.

“Katsuki’s meeting us there,” he said, offering his hand to help her into the car. “Breathe with me?”

She nodded and matched his pace. By the time they reached the hero district, her heart had slowed to a normal rhythm.

Bakugo leaned against the lounge entrance, gray suede jacket, black sweats, tan Timbs, and a gray beanie. He looked relaxed and confident, like trouble dressed up for the night. When he saw her, his eyes widened for just a second.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “That’ll shut people up.” Then he leaned in and kissed her temple. “You look ridiculous. In a good way.”

Shoto’s lips quirked. “Breathtaking,” he said.

She laughed, shaking her head. Somehow, their opposite styles always balanced each other out.

Inside, the lounge was dim and warm. Soft guitar music floated from a small stage, and golden lights glowed against velvet booths. The air smelled like cedar and citrus. No reporters, no cameras—just off-duty heroes relaxing.

Her Resonance buzzed brighter as they entered. Heads turned—not with judgment, just curiosity. People had guessed about them for months. Now they were seeing it for real.

Kirishima was the first to yell. “YOOOO, she’s real!” He hugged her tight. “Kacchan’s been pretending he doesn’t smile. Lies!”

Bakugo rolled his eyes, but the smile still lingered.

Sero waved. Kaminari called out, “Bro, she’s fine fine!”

Mina gasped dramatically and rushed over, pulling her away. “We’re dancing later! No excuses.”

At a nearby table, Midoriya stammered, “So, uh, Resonance—it connects through emotions, right? Across multiple—”

“Deku,” Bakugo warned. “If you start writing a paper about us, I’ll burn it.”

Midoriya turned bright red but smiled. “Right. Sorry. I’m happy for you guys.”

Tsuyu’s voice was calm. “You three together feel… balanced. Like ripples evening out.”

Jirō smirked. “I can hear it, actually. The air literally chills when you breathe.”

Ochako hugged her. “I love your hair. The braids look amazing—and you look so happy.”

“I am,” she said softly. “I really am.”

Shoto handed her a club soda with lime. “Hydration first,” he said, brushing her wrist. The touch calmed her instantly.

They joined the group in a booth. Plates of food showed up—sliders, fried olives, spicy peppers—and laughter filled the space.

Shots started to pour along with cocktail drinks.

Kirishima raised his glass. “To not blowing it up—emotionally or physically.”

Bakugo snorted. “We blow up plenty. We just rebuild better.”

Midoriya leaned forward. “It’s amazing. When she’s nervous, both of you react. Then she laughs, and everyone relaxes. It’s like—”

“Like she’s home base,” Jirō said. “Yeah. We noticed.”

Ochako smiled. “How do you make time for this? With hero work and everything?”

Shoto said, “We plan it. We say no to some things so we can say yes to each other.”

Bakugo nodded. “And we’re honest. If we start lying to ourselves, it all falls apart.”

She added, “We use signal words. Yellow means I’m overwhelmed but okay. Red means stop. No message means trust me.”

Kirishima laughed. “Traffic lights for feelings. That’s hardcore.”

Sero grinned. “That’s healthy. Grown-up stuff.”

The music changed to a slow groove, warm and smooth. Mina shot them a grin. “Okay, gorgeous, your turn on the dance floor!”

She pulled her up, and the others cheered. Shoto held out his hand, polite and sure. She stepped into his arms. His hands rested carefully at her waist as they swayed in small, perfect circles. Her braids brushed his jaw, and he smiled softly.

Then Bakugo cut in, confident as always. His rough hands found her hips, steady and warm. “Relax,” he murmured. She pretended to be fine, and he chuckled. “You’re safe,” he said, and she believed him.

The gold light of Resonance pulsed around them, visible only to her. When Shoto joined again, one hand at her back, it felt like a conversation without words—three heartbeats moving as one. The whole room went quiet, not shocked, just watching.

Mina wiped her eyes. Kirishima grinned like proud family. Then the music picked up again, laughter returning to the air.

Later, in the hallway, she leaned against the wall, feeling the buzz of everyone's emotions still humming through her from the Resonance. The alcohol had loosened everyone up—joy, excitement, and affection were spilling from the crowd in waves. It was dizzying but kind of beautiful, the way her quirk picked up on every flicker of laughter and warmth. She closed her eyes for a second, grounding herself before Shoto found her standing alone.

“Overwhelmed?” he asked gently.

She shook her head. “Not really. Just… aware everyone saw us.”

He met her eyes. “Being seen doesn’t always mean you’re exposed. Sometimes it means you’re real,” he said quietly, his voice steady.

He glanced back toward the lounge, then returned his gaze to her. “I don’t regret a single person seeing us tonight. I want them to know I’m proud to stand next to you—that this only proves how much you matter to me.”

She bit the inside of her cheek trying not to allow the flustered grin to spread across her face. 

She smiled. “You look good in those boots.”

He chuckled. “You look like a song.”

Bakugo appeared behind them, adjusting her necklace. “C’mon. Kaminari’s about to murder karaoke.” He tilted his head slightly, studying her face. “You good?” he asked, the rough edge of his voice soft with concern.

She nodded, warmth flickering through her as Shoto gave her a small reassuring smile. Bakugo’s gaze flicked to Shoto and, with a rare moment of quiet approval, he gave him a quick fist bump. It said everything he didn’t say out loud—good night, good job, she’s okay.

Outside, the air smelled like rain and quiet streets. Bakugo draped his jacket over her shoulders. Shoto held her hand. Bakugo hand on her lower back.

Through the lounge window, their friends were laughing, loud and happy—a messy, beautiful family.

Bakugo spoke first. “You did good.”

She grinned. “We did.” She tugged his beanie over his eyes, making him curse softly.

Shoto said, “This wasn’t just a night out.”

“It was a reveal,” she said. “Not to them. To me.”

She hesitated for a second, her voice quieter now.

“I was scared at first,” she admitted. “Part of me thought maybe this was just… a phase for you both. Like I was some kind of experiment or a ‘foreign fascination.’ People have looked at me like that before, like being a woman of color is something to try, not someone to love.”

She took a breath, her words trembling but sure. “But tonight felt different. No masks. No pretending. You both wanted to be seen with me, and I’ve never felt so free.”

Her Resonance pulsed stronger than before, warm and bright in their chests.

The connection didn’t just hum—it bloomed, anchoring deep like something meant to stay. It was trust made tangible, a quiet vow that no one was going anywhere.

Elsewhere throughout the lounge-friends still coursed with Resonance.

Kaminari leaned against the bar, swirling his drink with a grin.

"So, Jirō, when's your next album dropping? Asking for a friend who needs better workout playlist material."

Jirō raised an eyebrow, plucking an olive from his plate. "Same friend who cried during that rom-com marathon last week? Tell him therapy's cheaper than my vinyl collection."

Denki clutched his chest dramatically. "Low blow! That movie had layers.”

 Jirō smirked, tapping her chopsticks against the rim of her glass. "And therapy includes admitting you rewound that guitar solo seventeen times yesterday."

Kaminari flushed scarlet as Sero cackled, slapping his back. "Dude, she's got receipts!"

Near the velvet curtains, Tsuyu’s quiet voice cut through the lounge’s hum as she touched Shoto’s sleeve. "We're happy for you, ribbit. It’s... peaceful here."

Midoriya nodded beside her, his smile soft. "You seem lighter tonight, Shoto. Like everything finally fits."

Shoto blinked, the observation settling deep. He realized no one watched him with pity or tension—only warmth. It was unfamiliar, this effortless belonging.

Bakugo leaned against the bar, actually laughing as Kirishima attempted a handstand on a stool—only to tumble into him.

"Dumbass," he growled, but there was no heat in it as he shoved Kirishima upright. He tossed a wad of cash at the bartender.

"Another round for these losers." His eyes, though, never left her—tracking her sway near the dance floor, a silent anchor in the noise. Ochako dancing with her; both lost to the beat of the music.

The vodka-cranberry had melted her nerves into liquid courage. She drifted back to their booth, fingers tracing the hard line of Bakugo’s forearm as she passed.

"Stop glaring, Sparky. They're ours idiots."

Then she sank onto Shoto’s lap, one hand sliding up his thigh beneath the tablecloth. His breath hitched—a tiny, gratifying sound. "Cold hands," he murmured, but his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. Bakugo just snorted, catching her wandering fingers and lacing his through them.

"Drunk already, Princess?"

She grinned, dizzy and bright. "Just happy."

Her legs stretched sideways, feet landing squarely in Shoto’s lap. He didn’t flinch—just hooked an arm under her knees, shifting her weight so she settled fully against Bakugo’s chest. Bakugo’s free hand slid beneath her thighs, palm warm against her skin as he anchored her.

They moved as one unit—Shoto leaning forward to brace her calves against his torso, Bakugo shifting sideways to cradle her hips tighter against him. The booth creaked softly. Now she was suspended between them, Shoto’s hand resting lightly on her ankle, Bakugo’s thumb tracing idle circles on her knee. Kirishima whistled low.

"Damn. That’s teamwork."

Bakugo’s chin dropped onto her shoulder, his breath hot against her ear.

"Comfortable, brat?"

She hummed, tipping her head back against him. Shoto’s fingers traced the strap of her red heel, his touch feather-light.

"Don’t kick Todoroki," Bakugo growled, but his voice lacked its usual edge.

Shoto just smiled faintly, thumb brushing her arch through the thin leather.

"She won’t."

The Resonance thrummed—Bakugo’s possessive satisfaction, Shoto’s quiet contentment—twining together like smoke in her veins.

Mina squealed from across the table. "Okay, that’s illegal levels of cute!"

Outside, rain began pattering against the lounge windows. Inside, warmth pooled low in her belly as Bakugo’s hand slid higher beneath her dress, hidden by the shadows and Shoto’s shielding arm.

His fingertips burned a trail up her thigh. Shoto’s gaze locked onto hers, intense and unreadable, as his own hand tightened fractionally on her ankle. The music faded. All she heard was Bakugo’s ragged inhale and the slick slide of silk against skin.

Kirishima choked on his beer.

"Uh…guys? We’re still here?"

Bakugo just smirked against her hair. "Then look away, Shitty Hair."

Shoto’s thumb pressed into the delicate bone of her ankle—a silent warning, or maybe encouragement. Her breath caught. Yellow, she thought wildly. Definitely yellow.

Kirishima slammed his beer down, foam sloshing over the rim. He stared resolutely at the ceiling, jaw clenched like he was weathering a villain attack. Across the booth, Mina shifted, thighs pressing tight together beneath her sequined skirt. A faint flush crept up her neck—she drummed her fingers against the table, humming off-beat to distract herself from the thick pulse of *want* radiating from the trio.

Midoriya’s knuckles whitened around his notebook. He bit his lip hard enough to dent the paper, caught between frantic academic curiosity and the visceral, low thrum of Resonance echoing in his own nerves.

It wasn’t just seeing them; it was *feeling* the edges of that shared heat, like standing too close to a bonfire.

Bakugo’s fingers dug into the soft skin above her stocking, possessive and deliberate. His low growl vibrated against her spine.

"Still yellow?"

She nodded, breathless, as Shoto’s thumb swept slow circles over her anklebone—a counterpoint of cool control anchoring her. The booth felt suddenly too small, too public, every shift of fabric or hitch of breath amplified.

Kirishima coughed violently, turning away. Mina fanned herself with a cocktail napkin, muttering about the *sudden humidity*.

Shoto leaned forward, his voice a blade of ice cutting through the haze.

"Enough."

The word wasn’t loud, but it snapped the tension like a taut wire. Bakugo’s hand stilled instantly, though his palm remained hot against her thigh. Shoto’s gaze never left hers, intense and assessing.

"Outside. Now."

 It wasn’t a question. He slid from the booth, pulling her with him in one smooth motion. Bakugo followed, his smirk sharp and unrepentant as he snatched his jacket from the seatback.

The hallway air felt blessedly cool. Shoto pressed her against the wall, his body shielding her from the lounge’s view. Bakugo crowded in beside him, heat rolling off him in waves.

"Yellow my ass," Bakugo muttered, rough fingers tilting her chin up. "That was fucking red and you know it."

Shoto’s hand settled on Bakugo’s chest, a silent check. The Resonance between them flared—Shoto’s iron restraint, Bakugo’s coiled hunger, her own trembling surrender—a silent negotiation thrumming louder than any music.

Shoto’s eyes darkened.

"Control," he breathed, not to her, but to Bakugo. "Or we leave."

Bakugo’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once, sharp. His thumb brushed her bottom lip.

"Later," he promised, the word thick with intent.

Shoto’s gaze snapped back to her. There was nothing gentle in it now—only stark, consuming need. His hand slid into her braids, fingers tightening at the base of her skull, palming the intricate twists as he tilted her head back.

No hesitation.

His mouth crashed down on hers, hot and demanding. His tongue swept past her lips, deep and possessive, stealing her breath. It wasn’t sweet; it was claiming, a raw vibration humming through her teeth, down her spine. She whimpered into the kiss, fingers scrabbling against his leather jacket for purchase.

Bakugo snorted behind her.

"Talking shit about control, Half-n-Half? Hypocrite."

His palm cracked down hard on her ass—once, twice—the sharp smack echoing off the tiles. Her knees buckled instantly, a ragged moan ripped from her throat and swallowed by Shoto’s deepening kiss. She felt the sting bloom, the flesh jiggling beneath the thin silk of her dress with each impact, the heat spreading like liquid fire.

Bakugo didn’t stop. His hand came down again, rhythmic and punishing, each spank landing lower, harder.

"This?"

He punctuated another sharp slap that made her hips jerk forward against Shoto.

 "This little fucking dress?" Smack. "Barely covering this ass?" Smack. "You knew exactly what you were doing, Princess."

Her gasps and choked cries were muffled against Shoto’s mouth, his tongue tangling with hers, drinking every sound. Shoto’s free hand slid down her back, fingers digging into the curve Bakugo was painting crimson.

His own restraint was fraying; she felt the tremor in his grip, the sharp hitch in his breathing against her lips. Bakugo leaned in, his voice a dark rasp against her ear, thick with arousal.

"Slut for us. Needed this. Needed reminding who you belong to."

His palm cracked down again, the force making her entire body shudder against Shoto’s solid frame. The wet sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the narrow space.

The hallway door clicked open.

Kirishima froze, eyes wide, holding two dripping beers.

He took in the scene: Shoto pinning her against the wall, leaning on it for support of them all, kissing her like oxygen, her braids fisted in his hand; Bakugo pressed flush behind her, handprint vivid on the silk stretched taut over her ass; her eyes squeezed shut, lips swollen, trembling between them.

Kirishima slowly raised the beers. "Uh... reinforcements?"

Bakugo didn’t even glance back, his palm resting possessively on the heated skin he’d marked. Shoto finally broke the kiss, breathing ragged, his forehead resting against hers. His thumb brushed her wet lower lip.

"Yellow," he stated, voice rough but controlled, answering Bakugo’s earlier taunt. Kirishima blinked, then grinned slowly.

"Right. Got it. Need anything else? Whip? Blindfold?"

Bakugo finally turned his head, smirk sharp.

"Privacy, Shitty Hair." Kirishima saluted, backing away hastily.

"Copy that. Uh... enjoy?" The door clicked shut.

Silence fell, thick with unslaked hunger and the fading echo of Kirishima’s footsteps.

Shoto’s hand slid down her spine, past the silk, fingers cool against the hot, stinging flesh Bakugo had painted crimson. His quirk activated subtly—just a whisper of frost—as he massaged the sore swell of her left cheek, the chill a shocking counterpoint to Bakugo’s lingering heat.

 She gasped, arching into the touch, a low moan escaping her swollen lips.

"Fuck," Bakugo growled, watching Shoto’s fingers work the tender skin.

 He mirrored the motion on her other cheek, his calloused palm rubbing slow, possessive circles, the friction delicious against the ache. Then his other hand tangled brutally in her braids, wrenching her head back against his shoulder, forcing her to meet his fiery gaze.

Her eyes, glazed with need, locked onto his. A reckless, filthy smile curved her full lips.

"Spit in my mouth," she breathed, the command raw and obscene. "Both of you. Now."

The demand hung in the air, electric and profane. Shoto’s icy fingers stilled on her flesh. Bakugo’s grip tightened in her hair, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth. Twin surges of pure, visceral want—Shoto’s a sudden, dark flood, Bakugo’s a detonating blast—jolted through the Resonance, slamming into her own core.

 Their cocks jumped hard against her, Bakugo’s thick ridge grinding against her lower back, Shoto’s pressing into her belly through his trousers. Shoto’s pupils dilated, swallowing the cool grey. Bakugo’s smirk vanished, replaced by pure, predatory intensity.

"Fucking hell," Bakugo rasped, voice thick with disbelief and arousal.

Shoto leaned in, his breath ghosting over her lips, his own voice a dark rasp she’d never heard before.

"You want it?" His thumb brushed her lower lip again, demanding an answer. Bakugo’s grip tightened impossibly, forcing her head further back.

"Say it again, Princess."

Shoto moved first. He spat deliberately, a thick glob landing hot and wet on her tongue. The taste was clean, metallic, utterly degrading. She moaned, low and guttural, her tongue swirling instinctively.

Bakugo snarled, a sound of pure possession.

He leaned down, his own spit hitting her mouth, mixing with Shoto’s. It was hotter, saltier, tasting faintly of whiskey and smoke. She swallowed greedily, her eyes fluttering shut, the submission a heady drug. Bakugo’s rough thumb forced her mouth open wider.

 "Take it all," he growled.

Shoto’s fingers traced her jawline, cool against the heat blooming there.

 "Good girl," Shoto murmured, the praise dark and possessive. Bakugo spat again, harder this time, the wet slap echoing obscenely. She choked slightly, swallowing convulsively, the sheer vulgarity making her core clench violently. Their combined saliva slicked her chin, dripping onto her dress. The Resonance screamed—primal, shared ownership, a filthy communion.

Bakugo released her braids, his hand sliding down to clamp possessively around her throat instead.

"Look at me," he commanded. Her eyelids snapped open, meeting his burning crimson gaze. She was wrecked—lips parted, chin wet, eyes glazed and desperate. Shoto watched her, his own breathing ragged, his usual composure shattered. Bakugo’s thumb rubbed over her spit-slick lower lip.

"Filthy," he breathed, the word a caress and an accusation.

"Our filthy little slut." Shoto leaned in, his tongue licking a slow, deliberate stripe up her neck, collecting the trails of spit.

 The contrast—his cool tongue on her heated skin—made her shudder violently.

"Mine," Shoto whispered against her pulse point, the chill of his breath raising goosebumps. Bakugo’s hand tightened fractionally on her throat.

" Ours," he corrected, his voice a dark promise. The hallway felt charged, the air thick with the musk of sweat, arousal, and the sharp tang of their shared degradation. Kirishima’s footsteps were long gone. They were utterly, dangerously alone.

The moment stretched, thick with unslaked tension. Bakugo’s hand slid from her throat, tracing the wet mess on her collarbone. Shoto straightened, his fingers brushing a stray braid from her face with surprising tenderness, a stark counterpoint to the filth coating her chin. Bakugo’s gaze flickered toward the lounge door, then back to her swollen lips.

"Later," he repeated, the word a vow etched in gravel. Shoto nodded once, sharp, the icy control settling back over his features like armor, but his eyes remained dark, hungry pools. Shoto pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—crisp, white linen—and wiped her chin with meticulous, almost clinical care. Bakugo snorted, adjusting himself roughly in his sweats.

"Clean her up, Half-n-Half," he muttered, grabbing his discarded jacket. "Before she stains that dress any worse."

 Shoto finished, tucking the soiled cloth away. His hand found hers, fingers intertwining, cool and grounding. Bakugo draped his jacket over her shoulders again, his palm lingering possessively on her lower back—right over the heat radiating from Shoto’s earlier ministrations.

The Resonance hummed low now, a satisfied thrum beneath the lingering storm. They turned toward the lounge door, a united front once more, leaving the charged silence of the hallway behind. The muffled laughter and music awaited them. Kirishima’s knowing grin would be waiting too.

Chapter Text

The glow of Velvet Hour didn’t fade all at once.

For a while it lingered—shimmering through text threads, inside jokes, and sleepy mornings where everything still smelled like cedar and champagne. Their friends wouldn’t stop teasing, reporters had nothing solid to chase, and for a few blessed days the world felt like an inside secret made public.

But highs always taper.

By the second week, the sparkle had dulled into normalcy. Work reclaimed its hours, missions stacked again, and the nights that used to hum with laughter thinned into quiet screens and mismatched schedules.

“Joy never promised permanence,” she reminded herself. “It only promised a reason to keep reaching.”

Resonance still thrummed under her skin, but softer now—less symphony, more heartbeat in the background. The connection was there, yet faint around the edges, as if life itself had turned the volume down.

Bakugo had been pulled back into agency duties, and rumor said his mother was visiting.

He texted, sure, but his replies came clipped—“later,” “busy,” “fine.”

Shoto was halfway across the world on a joint-hero diplomacy trip in Paris. Different time zone, different rhythm. His messages came at sunrise when she was half-asleep, polite and careful.

And her little house, once overflowing with warmth, felt heavier each evening.

“Even the plants have gone quiet,” she thought, running a thumb over a drooping leaf.

Somewhere beneath the everyday tasks—the paperwork, the dishes, the sessions with clients—she felt the crash of the high settling deep in her bones. Not depression, exactly. Just distance. A hollow frequency.

Hero work. Reports. Briefings.

So when he texted Dinner? 7. My place, she didn’t hesitate.

By the time she reached his condo, the city had folded into winter dusk. Snow flurried like static against the high-rise glass. She caught her reflection in the elevator door—black turtleneck dress hugging close, sheer stockings, knee-high boots, braids pulled back in a high ponytail. Simple, sharp, composed—exactly how she wanted to appear, even if her stomach was fluttering.

The door opened before she could knock twice.

Bakugo stood there in dark jeans and a short-sleeved black polo, hair a little messy, forearms bare and dusted with flour. The smell of garlic and tomato filled the air.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Hey yourself,” she murmured, stepping inside.

The place was spotless—minimal lines, soft lighting, candles burning slow on the counter beside two plates. Jazz murmured from a speaker, just loud enough to fill the silence. Through the glass wall, the city sprawled in lights and movement.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Figured I owed you an actual night in.”

The words were casual, but something in the air shifted. Resonance stirred—soft at first, like static reaching across a radio dial, trying to find its matching tone. She felt it before she even looked at him: that faint, golden thread stretching from her chest toward his, asking permission to close the distance.

For half a second, he let it happen. The hum flickered warm through her sternum, familiar and grounding—then he hesitated. Not harsh, not rejecting—just a subtle recoil, a breath pulled back into his own lungs instead of shared air. The glow between them dimmed to a pulse.

She caught herself before her expression gave it away, lifting a polite smile instead of the small frown trying to form. It wasn’t personal. She told herself that again and again, even as the space between their heartbeats grew louder.

You’re just tired. He’s tired. Don’t make meaning where there isn’t any.

Still, the absence ached. Resonance had become its own language—a constant awareness of how they touched, breathed, existed. When it went quiet, she felt unmoored, like floating in a dark pool with no up or down.

He was right there—close enough to touch, close enough to smell the smoke and spice on his skin—and yet the link felt galaxies away.

Her eyes drifted to the living room beyond him. The second floor loft overlooked the city, lights glittering through the wide glass panes. The whole space was clean and controlled, every corner purposeful. It suited him—sharp, orderly, safe. But it was also lonely.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered what it would be like to live here—to fold her world into theirs instead of commuting between three spaces and time zones. To have her books on the same shelves as his protein powder and Shoto’s imported tea. To stop feeling like an orbiting planet around two suns that only aligned when the schedules allowed.

The thought startled her with its honesty. She blinked, pushing it away before it could turn heavy.

He caught her looking, misreading the silence. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, voice lighter than she felt. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how nice this all is,” she lied, letting her smile widen. “You went all out.”

That earned her a small smirk. He relaxed, shoulders dropping as the scent of garlic filled the air again.

Later, she promised herself. Later, when the timing’s right, we’ll talk about what we really want.

For now, she let the silence settle. Candles flickered. Resonance hovered between them like a question neither one was ready to answer.

She slipped out of her coat, watching him work. His movements were confident but focused; even in something as gentle as cooking, there was precision. Chicken parm, salad, a bottle of wine breathing on the table. He’d thought this through.

He’s trying. That’s what this is.

“You look good,” he said without looking up.

She smiled. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

He snorted. “Better be. I ironed this damn shirt.”

Dinner stretched slow and quiet, the kind of silence that wasn’t cold—just full of unspoken things.
He sat across from her, forearms braced on the table, head slightly bowed as he focused on cutting through his food like it required precision. The candlelight caught the line of his jaw, the tiny scar along his temple, the exhaustion he thought he’d hidden.

She didn’t press him with questions. She just watched the way his shoulders moved—controlled, deliberate, tired. The Resonance trembled faintly under her skin, wanting to reach for him, waiting for permission.

Finally she let it slip free, a warm current sliding from her chest toward his. The first brush of contact made the air change, and this time he didn’t flinch. He exhaled—a sound more sigh than breath—and let her in.

Fatigue hit her first: the heavy ache in his arms from training, the tension coiled in his neck, the low hum of frustration sitting beneath it all. It wasn’t pain exactly; it was the weight of a man who never stopped holding himself together.

She spoke softly, breaking the quiet. “I missed you.”

His fork paused mid-air. He didn’t look up right away, but the Resonance swelled—his guarded edges softening as if the words had loosened something inside him.

“Yeah,” he muttered after a moment. “I know.”

Her lips curved faintly. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“’Cause I missed you too,” he said, low and rough, eyes finally meeting hers.

The link deepened without effort then—her warmth threading into his tension, easing it, steadying him. It wasn’t flashy or overwhelming; it was the kind of connection that made breathing easier.

“You cooked,” she said, needing to ground them back in something simple. “And it’s actually good.”

That earned a small snort. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m impressed,” she teased. “Garlic, herbs, perfectly crisped edges… you could open a restaurant.”

“Hell no. I’d end up yelling at customers.”

“True,” she said, smiling. “But you’d still have a waitlist.”

He shook his head, amusement flickering before fading again. A beat passed. Then his gaze drifted to the city lights behind her, and the air changed.

“My mom wants to visit,” he said finally.

The quiet turned heavier—not awkward, just real.

“Oh?” she asked carefully.

“Yeah.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, the same tell he always had when something bothered him. “She heard about… everything. The reveal. Me and you and Todoroki. Says she just wants to ‘see how I’m livin.’”

The last words came with an edge of irritation, but underneath it she felt the ripple of anxiety through Resonance—tight, controlled, old.

“She doesn’t know how to just visit, does she?”

“Never has.” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “It’s gonna be a thing.”

She reached across the table, fingers brushing his wrist. “You don’t have to handle her alone this time.”

His pulse jumped beneath her touch. “Yeah, I do,” he said, but it wasn’t conviction—it was habit.

The Resonance fluttered between them again, that mix of fatigue and affection and quiet fear. She didn’t push, just let her thumb draw lazy circles against his skin until his shoulders loosened another fraction.

“What are you scared of?”

His eyes flicked up, sharp and immediate. “I ain’t scared of shit.”

The answer came quick—too quick.
She didn’t correct him. She didn’t push again. She just leaned back, lifting her glass to her lips and sipping her wine like she had all the time in the world. The silence stretched between them, slow and heavy, the only sound the faint clink of cutlery as he finished the last bite on his plate.

The Resonance filled the space instead, hum soft but insistent, wrapping around him like warmth he didn’t want to admit he needed. He sighed—quiet, almost imperceptible—and the tension started to bleed out of his shoulders.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, steadier.

“I’m protective of my peace,” he muttered. “Finally got some balance, y’know? And I’m protective of you and your peace too.”

He paused, jaw tightening. “Shoto’s a grown-ass man—he can protect his own.”

Her lips twitched, trying and failing to suppress a laugh. “That’s very on brand for you.”

“Damn right,” he said, but there was no bite in it.

He stood abruptly, gathering their plates before she could reach for them. The motion wasn’t rushed—just purposeful, giving him something to do with the emotions still buzzing through the air. He carried them to the counter, grabbed the half-empty bottle of wine, and nodded toward the couch.

“C’mon. Bring your glass.”

She rose and followed, boots soft against the polished floor. The city stretched wide beyond the windows, all glitter and movement, but in here everything felt hushed and golden. The candles flickered low, their light painting his skin in honeyed tones as he sank into the couch and poured them each another glass.

She sat beside him, close enough for her knee to brush his. The air smelled like wine and butter and something electric that wasn’t quite spoken.

He handed her the glass, their fingers grazing, and leaned back with a quiet exhale.

“Better,” he said simply.

She tilted her head. “Talking or sitting?”

“Both,” he admitted, lips quirking. “But mostly this.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the kind that held distance anymore. It was full, rich, the kind that said I’m here. I’m still choosing this.

She swirled the wine in her glass, watching the deep red catch the candlelight. The moment felt suspended—soft music humming under the quiet, his presence steady beside her.

But quiet moments always made space for the things she tried to keep buried.

Her voice was small when she finally spoke. “Do you think your mother will like me?”

Bakugo glanced over, frowning slightly. “What kinda question is that?”

She hesitated, eyes fixed on the city lights beyond the glass. “I just… don’t know how people like her see people like me. I’m not exactly who anyone expects next to you or Shoto. And I guess part of me wonders if you’re—”

She stopped herself, but Resonance didn’t. It reached for him before she could stop it—tugging, trembling, desperate to find reassurance.

He stiffened beside her. “If I’m what?”

Her throat tightened. “Ashamed. Of me.”

The words dropped like pebbles into deep water. The silence that followed rippled.

Bakugo turned fully toward her, eyes narrowing—but not in anger. More like disbelief. “Ashamed?” he repeated, low and rough. “You really think I’d waste my damn time with somebody I’m ashamed of?”

She didn’t answer. The look in her eyes said enough.

His jaw flexed. “I ain’t ashamed of shit I care about. Not my work, not my name—” His voice broke off, then dropped to something rawer. “—not anything I love.”

The words hung there between them. He hadn’t meant to say that—not like that, not yet—but it was too late.

Resonance reacted instantly, a shockwave of gold and heat surging through her chest, ricocheting back into his. It felt like the air itself expanded—an emotional feedback loop bursting wide open.

Her breath hitched, heart hammering. The pulse in her temples matched his, wild and erratic. “You—what did you just—”

He realized too late what he’d said. The tips of his ears went red. “Tch.” He tore his gaze away, grabbed his wine, and downed what was left in a single swallow.

“Don’t make it weird,” he muttered, voice rougher than usual.

She blinked, still dizzy from the Resonance spike. “Too late.”

He set his glass down with a soft clink and scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering something that sounded a lot like damn it.

The energy between them shimmered—too bright, too raw—but beneath it was the truth neither of them had dared to touch until now.

Not anything I love.

The words still echoed in her chest, humming with the force of Resonance long after he’d looked away.

Katsuki placed his wine glass on the coffee table with deliberate slowness. The crystal made no sound against the wood. His hand moved to her wrist—not grabbing, just resting there—and she set her own glass down without question.

 He pulled her sideways onto his lap with surprising gentleness. One palm cradled her jawline while the other settled low on her back.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone. Red ruby eyes held hers, pupils wide and dark. The city lights reflected in them like scattered sparks. She didn’t breathe.

"You think I give a damn," he started, voice gravel-rough but softer than she’d ever heard it, "about what anybody expects?"

His thumb traced the curve of her bottom lip.

"Not her. Not reporters. Not some imaginary scoreboard in their heads."

He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched hers. The Resonance between them flared gold and urgent, humming louder than the jazz still playing.

"Look at me," he commanded. When her eyes locked on his again, he didn’t blink. "I love you." The words came clear. Unadorned.

 "Not because it’s convenient. Not ’cause some bullshit destiny." His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. "Because every damn time I see you, it feels like winning."

Her mouth opened—to say it back, to tell him she loved him fiercely, stupidly, impossibly too—but he didn’t let her speak. His hand slid from her jaw into her hair, fingers tangling in her braids as he pulled her mouth hard against his.

It wasn’t gentle. It was hot and deep, tongues sliding wet and urgent like they were trying to fuse. She gasped into it, tasting wine and desperation, her hands clawing at his shoulders. He groaned low in his throat, hauling her tighter against him until she straddled his lap fully, the friction of denim against sheer stockings electric.

The kiss broke only when oxygen failed. He rested his forehead against hers again, breathing ragged.

"Say it," he demanded, voice thick. "Say it now." She didn’t hesitate.

"I love you," she whispered against his lips, the words shuddering out. "Always."

He kissed her again, slower this time, deep and demanding, one hand sliding up her thigh beneath the hem of her dress. His thumb traced the lace edge of her stocking top, then higher, finding bare skin. She arched into his touch, a soft noise escaping her as his fingers pressed firm against the damp silk of her underwear.

Outside, snow blurred the city lights into streaks of gold. Inside, Bakugo’s fingers hooked into the sheer stocking at her thigh—a sharp tug, the rip loud in the quiet room—and she gasped against his mouth.

 Not pain, but the suddenness of it, the rough claim. His palm slid higher, calloused skin scraping the lace edge of her underwear, finding wet heat beneath silk. She rocked against the hard ridge of his erection straining through denim, a low groan tearing from his throat as she kissed down his jaw, teeth grazing the tendon in his neck. Her fingers twisted in his soft spiky hair, pulling just enough to make him curse and buck up against her.

Resonance burned through them—golden, electric—amplifying every touch into a shockwave. His hands gripped her ass, hauling her tighter against him, grinding her down onto his lap with desperate friction. She whimpered, arching into the pressure, her hips moving in frantic little circles.

"Fuck," he rasped, breaking the kiss to drag air into his lungs, forehead pressed to hers. His eyes were wildfire, pupils blown black.

"You feel that?" His voice was wrecked. "How bad I want you?"

She nodded, breathless, and kissed him again, deep and messy, tasting wine and salt and the raw truth of his confession humming between their lips.

His mouth trailed hot down her throat, biting lightly at her collarbone. One hand slid under her dress, fingers slipping beneath the damp silk to stroke her, slow and deliberate, then faster when she cried out. She shuddered, hips jerking against his touch.

"Katsuki—" His name broke into a moan as his thumb circled her clit, rough and perfect. He watched her unravel, the Resonance flaring brighter with every gasp, every tremor.

"Yeah," he growled, voice thick with satisfaction. "That’s it. Let me feel you."

The jazz faded to static.

 The city vanished.

There was only this—the slick slide of his fingers inside her, the ragged harmony of their breathing, the relentless ache building low in her belly. She ground against his palm, chasing it, her hands clutching his shoulders.

 "Close," she gasped. His eyes locked on hers, fierce and possessive.

 "Look at me when you come."

 And she did—crying out his name as the wave crashed through her, Resonance blazing gold between them like a star going supernova. He held her through it, fingers working her until she slumped against his chest, trembling. Only then did he pull his hand free, bringing slick fingers to his own mouth, tasting her as he watched her with hooded, hungry eyes.

"Mine," he murmured against her skin. The word wasn’t a question. It was a vow.

She slid from his lap onto the floor between his thighs, knees sinking into the plush rug. Her hands pushed his legs wider, palms smoothing up the tense muscles of his thighs—corded from training, trembling with restraint.

She massaged deep circles into the quads, feeling the heat beneath denim. Her gaze lifted, meeting his stunned silence.

"Let me," she breathed, voice thick with reverence. "Please. I need to taste you. Need to worship you."

His jaw clenched, breath catching sharp in his chest. For a heartbeat, he froze, ruby eyes wide—utterly speechless. Then, fingers fumbled urgently at his belt buckle. The rasp of leather, the clink of metal.

He shoved jeans and briefs down his hips just enough. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already weeping at the tip—a heavy weight against his stomach. Her breath hitched.

"Beautiful," she whispered.

Leaning forward, she pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the hot skin of his lower belly, just above the coarse blonde curls. Her tongue traced the thick vein running along the underside, tasting salt and musk.

He hissed, hips jerking involuntarily. Her hand wrapped around the base, fingers barely meeting. She squeezed gently, thumb swiping over the slick head. Then she took him fully into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks, swallowing him deep. A choked groan tore from him, fingers tangling violently in her braids.

She sucked hard, tongue swirling under the crown, humming low in her throat. The vibration made his thighs tense violently under her palms.

"Fuck—" he gasped, head thrown back against the couch cushions. "So good. So fucking good."

Her eyes flicked up, holding his gaze as she took him deeper, throat relaxing around him. Tears pricked her eyes, but she didn’t stop. Worship meant surrender.

His grip tightened in her hair, guiding her rhythm—not forcing, just anchoring. She obeyed the silent command, bobbing faster, sucking harder, hollowing her cheeks with each pull.

The sounds were obscene—wet suction, his ragged gasps, the creak of leather beneath him. She felt the tension coiling in him, the tremor building in his thighs pressed against her shoulders.

"Gonna—" he warned, voice shredded.

She didn't pull back. She took him deeper, swallowing around the thick head as he came, hot pulses flooding her throat.

His groan was guttural, hips lifting off the cushion as he emptied himself down her throat. She swallowed every drop, milking him gently until he shuddered, collapsing back, utterly spent.

 Only then did she pull away slowly, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, looking up at him. His chest heaved, eyes dazed but locked on hers. A slow, utterly wrecked smile touched his lips.

"Come here," he rasped, pulling her up. She climbed back onto his lap, curling into his chest as his arms wrapped tight around her.

The quiet hummed.

Resonance pulsed low and satisfied between them, warm honey instead of wildfire. He traced idle patterns on her bare thigh where the stocking was torn. Then his fingers hooked into the lace of her underwear—still damp, clinging. With one sharp tug, he ripped them clean off, the sound loud in the stillness.

She gasped, not in protest, but surprise. He tossed the ruined silk aside, his gaze darkening as he took in the view: her ass bare now above the torn stocking tops, the wet glisten of her exposed folds.

"Turn," he ordered, voice rough.

She obeyed, shifting on his lap to face away from him, knees sinking into the couch cushion. He gripped her hips, pushing her forward until her ass lifted high, presenting herself shamelessly to him. Her wetness slicked her inner thighs; she heard his sharp inhale.

"Fuck," he breathed. One calloused palm landed hard on her right cheek—a stinging smack that echoed.

She cried out, arching her back instinctively. Her pussy clenched visibly around nothing, desperate. He watched it happen, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"Look at that," he muttered, landing another sharp smack on the other cheek, leaving a red handprint blooming.

"Begging for it already."

"Katsuki," she whimpered, pushing her ass higher toward him, trembling. The sting mixed with the ache deep inside her, unbearable.

"Please—"

Another smack cut her off, harder this time.

Her hips jerked forward, a needy sob escaping her.

"Use your words," he demanded, fingers tracing the swollen, dripping heat between her thighs, not entering, just teasing.

"Tell me what you want."

She shuddered, humiliation warring with blinding need. Resonance thrummed, amplifying her desperation.

 "I want you," she gasped, voice thick. "Inside me. Now."

He chuckled darkly, a single finger sliding slowly into her tight heat, making her gasp. "Not good enough."

He withdrew the finger, leaving her clenching on emptiness. His palm cracked down again.

"Beg properly." Tears pricked her eyes, frustration and lust a molten mix.

"Fuck me!" she cried, pushing back against his teasing hand. "Fill me, Katsuki! Please, I need it—need you!"

Her voice broke on a sob. "Make me feel you!"

"Better," he growled.

In one swift motion, he gripped his cock, still slick from her mouth, and positioned himself at her entrance. He didn't ease in. He slammed home in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

She screamed, back arching violently as he stretched her impossibly full. He held himself deep for a heartbeat, letting her feel every inch, the brutal stretch, the perfect fit. Then he pulled back almost entirely, leaving only the tip inside, watching her clench frantically.

"Still begging?" he taunted, voice thick with triumph. Before she could answer, he drove back in hard, setting a punishing rhythm, hips slapping against her ass. Each thrust forced a cry from her lips, the sound mingling with his ragged breaths and the slick slap of skin on skin. He leaned forward, biting her shoulder, fingers digging into her hips as he fucked her with relentless, claiming force.

"Mine," he snarled against her skin, the word vibrating through her bones as he pushed her toward the edge again.

 "Say it."

"Yours!" she gasped, shattering around him, pussy walls fluttering around the thick girth of his.

He didn't slow.

He pulled her hips back harder onto each thrust, his balls slapping heavy against her swollen clit with every snap of his hips. The sharp, rhythmic impact sent jolts of electric pleasure-pain radiating through her core, tearing another choked scream from her throat. His grip tightened on her braids, wrenching her head back until her spine bowed into a sharp arch, forcing her chest forward, throat exposed.

He slammed his boot onto the couch cushion beside her knee, leveraging his weight fully over her, driving deeper, impossibly deeper. The angle shifted brutally, hitting places that made her vision white out.

"FUCK!" Katsuki roared, the sound raw and primal, tearing from his chest.

"LOVE YOU!" Each declaration was punctuated by a piston-hard thrust.

"LOVE THIS PUSSY!" He slammed into her.

 "LOVE YOUR SKIN!" Another brutal plunge.

"LOVE YOUR FUCKING QUIRK!" Her body convulsed violently around him, another orgasm ripping through her uncontrolled.

"LOVE YOUR STUBBORN ASS!" He screamed it into the charged air, his voice cracking with emotion as he pistoned into her trembling body.

"LOVE EVERYTHING!"

She was lost. Sensation overloaded her nervous system, obliterating thought. Words meant nothing, were nothing but noise against the tidal wave of pleasure crashing through her again and again.

Her world narrowed to the brutal stretch of him inside her, the slap of his balls against her clit, the searing heat radiating from where he gripped her braids. Her body reacted on pure instinct, clenching and spasming around his cock with each punishing thrust, each slap of his hips against her ass.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, her mouth open in a silent scream, her hips pushing back frantically to meet his relentless pace. He was everywhere – filling her, claiming her, the Resonance burning so bright it felt like their souls were fusing in the white-hot fire of his possession.

He was screaming declarations, raw and unfiltered, pouring his soul out with every brutal snap of his hips, but she couldn't parse the words, couldn't do anything but *feel* the overwhelming surge of his love-hate-adoration-need vibrating through the golden link and into her very core.

He was relentless, fueled by a frenzy of emotion she’d never seen unleashed. Hero strength poured into every savage thrust, the couch groaning beneath their combined weight.

"MINE!" he bellowed again, the word a vow etched in fire as he slammed into her cervix, forcing another ragged cry from her lips.

 His fingers tightened impossibly in her braids, holding her arched submission perfectly as he ravaged her, his boot planted firmly for leverage. The declarations kept pouring out, hoarse and desperate:

 "Love your laugh!" Thrust.

"Love your stupid plants!" Thrust.

"Love how you fight!" Thrust.

"LOVE YOU!"

Each word was a hammer blow against her senses; each thrust a seismic shock driving her higher. She came again, a silent, full-body convulsion that milked him violently.

He roared, hips stuttering, buried impossibly deep as he emptied himself inside her with a final, shuddering thrust that felt like surrender.

He collapsed forward, his chest heaving against her arched back, his grip on her braids loosening to cradle her head as he gasped her name into her sweat-drenched skin, utterly spent.

 The Resonance hummed, thick and golden and utterly complete.

Silence fell, heavy and profound, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant city hum. Katsuki stayed buried inside her, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, his arms wrapped possessively around her waist.

Slowly, trembling, she lowered her arched back, sinking onto him fully. He groaned softly at the shift, a sound of pure satiation. His lips brushed her spine, feather-light.

"Stay," he murmured, voice rough but gentle, muffled against her skin.

"Tonight. Always."

She turned her head, finding his gaze in the dim candlelight.

His eyes, usually fierce, held a vulnerable softness. She nodded, unable to speak, pressing a kiss to his forearm still wrapped around her.

The Resonance pulsed warm and steady, a silent affirmation.

Outside, snow continued to fall, muffling the world beyond the glass.

____________________________________________________

Shoto — Paris, 6:12 a.m.

The hotel room was too white. Too quiet.

Shoto stood at the window in shirtsleeves, tie draped loose around his neck, watching the city pull itself into morning. Paris woke in soft colors—pale gold brushing limestone, a ribbon of traffic already threading the boulevard. Somewhere below, a café door chimed open. Fresh bread, coffee, rain on old stone; the air smelled like beginnings.

His phone lay faceup on the desk beside the neatly stacked briefing packet. Three unread messages from the delegation thread. One from the agency handler. None from home.

He wasn’t surprised. It was after midnight there.

He checked the itinerary anyway—panel at nine, breakout at eleven, bilateral at fourteen hundred—and rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness earned from too many handshakes and too much smiling without showing teeth. The suit jacket on the chair back waited like a promise he didn’t feel ready to keep.

I’m better at the work than the rooms about the work, he admitted to himself. The thought sounded like Fuyumi, fond and a little exasperated. He almost smiled.

His gaze drifted to the second pillow on the bed, still dented from sleep, still wrong. The room was generous, the kind they gave heroes whose names moved cameras, but it felt strangely hollow; every amenity only echoed how much space he had to himself.

He reached for the thread under his skin.

Resonance had quieted to a polite hum since he landed—distance smoothing sharp edges, time zones making their rhythm stutter. He’d kept his touch light the past two days, not wanting to pull when he couldn’t show up. He believed in clean lines, in not asking for comfort he couldn’t return in the same moment.

But he missed them.

He let his eyes close and breathed in for four, held for four, let go for six. The warmth answered slowly—the familiar, steady presence he’d come to recognize as her: soft and grounded, the kind of gravity that made choosing simple. Beneath it, farther away but unmistakable, the spark that was Katsuki—hot, restless, fiercely alive.

He almost laughed at himself. He was the one who’d insisted on framed boundaries and sensible schedules, on not flooding Resonance just because he could. And yet, alone in a too-white room above a too-beautiful city, he reached anyway.

“Good morning,” he said softly to no one, to them.

A taxi horn below. A bird sketched across the pale sky.

Then—like a match struck in his chest—Resonance flared.

It wasn’t the steady hum he’d been nursing across continents; it was bright, sudden, gold. A shock of feeling surged through him—heat, relief, an exhale that wasn’t his. It rolled through his ribs, expanding until he had to set a hand on the desk to steady himself. The afterglow was unmistakable: joy edged in disbelief, something tender and fierce braided tight.

Shoto’s breath caught. The corner of his mouth curved without permission.

“…I felt that,” he murmured, the words ghosting the glass.

He didn’t pry. He didn’t need to. Whatever had shifted at home had landed clean. The thread between the three of them vibrated like a plucked string, then settled into a fuller tone than it had held in weeks—warmer, richer, true.

He glanced at the bed again and finally picked up his phone. The camera caught the sliver of sunrise sliding along the neighboring façade; he framed it until it felt like a thing he could offer and snapped the picture.

To: You
For when you wake. Paris is soft in the mornings. Save me a dance when I get back.
To: Katsuki
Bring her coffee. The good kind. You know which.

He hovered, thumb over send, then added nothing else. No overexplaining. No apology for missing the reveal of a night he knew they’d tell him about later—and also not later, because Resonance had already told him the part that mattered.

The tie slid easily into a knot on the second try. He shrugged into the jacket, checked the pocket for the two small boxes he’d picked up yesterday in a quiet shop off Rue Montorgueil—nothing flashy, just thoughtful: a tea infuser shaped like a moon for her; a sleek, ridiculous keychain grenade for Katsuki because it had made Shoto think of him and smirk in spite of himself.

He tucked them back, satisfied, and lifted the briefing packet.

On his way out, he paused with a hand on the door and looked once more at the city—its sweep of rooftops, its early commuters moving like currents. He felt the now-steady pull across an ocean and let it sit where it belonged: not a distraction, a direction. Home wasn’t a location so much as a frequency that made his chest uncoil.

He sent the sunrise photo.

Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again. A minute later, her reply lit the screen:

It’s beautiful. Hurry back, okay?
— We miss you.

A second bubble popped in right after, Katsuki’s name stamped over it like a challenge:

Her coffee’s handled. Don’t die in a panel.

Shoto huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh and locked the phone, letting the door latch behind him. The corridor smelled faintly of lemon polish and the coffee cart someone had wheeled down earlier. His footsteps echoed, measured and certain.

The day ahead would be long. Cameras, policy, careful words. He would do the work—he was proud of the work. But for the first time since his plane touched down, the hollow in his chest wasn’t empty. It was open.

He pressed the elevator button and, because no one could hear him, allowed himself the indulgence of saying it out loud, just once:

“See you soon.”

The doors slid open on a mirrored box of light. He stepped in, the tie lying straight against his heart, and let the city carry him down.

Chapter Text

Shoto felt the Resonance before he felt the airport floor beneath his feet.

A warm pulse across his ribs.

A soft pressure at the base of his throat.
A tug — unmistakable, insistent, hers.

Home.

He adjusted his scarf with a practiced calm he didn’t feel and walked straight through the terminal, ignoring the handlers waiting near baggage claim.
The Paris delegation had sent him a stack of messages.
The agency had sent twice as many.

He ignored all of them.

landing now.
coming to you.

That was the only text he sent.

One Hour After Landing

Her phone buzzed against the kitchen counter while she was rinsing out her mug.
Unknown number at first glance — international.

Then it switched.

Shoto Todoroki.

Her breath caught.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hey,” she said, softness she couldn’t hide curling into the single word.

The line was quiet for a heartbeat. She heard airport ambience, a rolling suitcase, an overhead announcement faint in the background.

Then Shoto’s voice — low, steady, but carrying something warm beneath it:

“I’m back.”

Something fluttered hard in her chest.
“I can tell,” she teased gently. “You sound less like a diplomat and more like you.”

He exhaled — not a sigh, more like relief.
“I wanted to see you,” he said simply.

Her fingers tightened around the counter edge.
“I want to see you too.”

There was a rustle, his steps slowing as if he’d moved away from the crowd.

“Are you free tomorrow?” he asked. “I was thinking… brunch? Or a walk near the gardens? Just us. No schedules. No phone calls.”

Her lips curved.
“Tomorrow works,” she said. “I’d like that.”

Silence again — but not the awkward kind.
A warm, shimmering one. Resonance whispered at the edges without fully blooming, just enough to let her feel his eagerness, the soft ache of missing her.

Then he added:

“Actually,” his tone dipped, honest, “tomorrow feels too far.”

Her breath stuttered.

He didn’t let the silence stretch.

“Can I see you now?” he asked softly. “Just for a little. Even if it’s just the drive. I… want to be near you.”

Her heart clenched sweetly.

“Shoto,” she murmured, smiling without meaning to, “you can come now.”

He inhaled, shaky in that way he got when he let truths slip through the cracks.
“Okay. I’m on my way.”

“Drive safe,” she said automatically.

Another pause.

“I will. Especially because I’m driving toward you.”

The warmth of that line spread through her like a sunrise.

“Text me when you’re close?” she asked.

“You’ll feel me before you see me.”

Her breath caught — Resonance flickered at the edges, like a spark testing the air.

“See you soon,” she whispered.

“Soon,” he echoed. Then, lower: “Thank you.”

The line clicked off.

She exhaled and pressed her palm to her sternum, trying to quiet the flutter beneath her skin.

And 10 minutes later, his headlights swept across her driveway, her pulse rising in perfect time with the Resonance warming inside her ribcage.

Onto the road

She came out the front door still tying the cuff of her sleeve, looking soft, warm, and exactly like the thing he’d been starving for.

Shoto didn’t even pretend to play it cool — he leaned across the console and rested his forehead against hers the second she sat down.

Her breath caught. “Hi.”

His eyes softened, color warming.
“Missed you.”

Resonance fluttered between them, sweet and golden, like the first note of a song finally finding its key.

He pulled back just enough to drive.

They weren’t two blocks away before her hand found his thigh.

Grounding.

Gentle.
He let out a quiet exhale he’d been holding since Paris.

Then the car chimed.

ENJI TODOROKI — Incoming call

The resonance snapped tight.

She felt it before he did — a sudden twist low in her stomach, sharp and cold. Her quirk dragging his dread straight through her like a hook.

“You can take it,” she murmured softly. “I’m right here.”

He hesitated.

Then pressed the button.

The car’s Bluetooth filled with Endeavor’s voice — clipped, commanding, allergic to the concept of patience.

“Shoto. Good. You’re back. I need you at the house in thirty minutes. There are inconsistencies in the Paris press packet. The EU delegation is already requesting clarification, and your handler tells me—”

“Later,” Shoto said.

It wasn’t rude.
It wasn’t loud.
But it cracked the air like a shard of ice.

A beat of silence.

Then Endeavor’s voice turned hot and razor-sharp.

“You will come now,” he snapped. “Or I start pulling my percentage out of the agency. Don’t push me on this.”

Her stomach dropped so fast she nearly gagged — her quirk slamming the pressure into her viscera like a gut punch.

Shoto’s grip tightened on the wheel.

“Dad. I just landed.”

“And the world doesn’t revolve around your jet lag,” Endeavor shot back. “Show up. Now.”

Her throat tightened. Her hands trembled slightly against her lap — not fear, just absorbing too much. Resonance was a live wire burning through both of them.

“Enough,” Shoto snapped, rare and raw. “I said later.”

“Shoto—”

He hit END CALL.

The car went dead-quiet.

His breathing stayed shallow. Controlled on the surface.
Chaos underneath.

She leaned in, voice tender and precise — therapist mode without even trying.

“Talk to me,” she whispered. “What did that hit?”

Shoto didn’t answer.
A tear slid down his cheek first.

Then another.

His voice cracked open:

“He only has partial shares,” he said, the words tumbling out like he’d been holding them in for years. “He wanted me to sign over everything — the agency, my revenue streams, all of it — and I wouldn’t. So he kept just enough to hold leverage.”

Her stomach churned again, hard enough to make her cough — Resonance pulling the weight of his shame and anger straight into her body.

“One more year,” Shoto whispered. “One more year and the contract ends. Then it’s mine. All of it. And he knows it. So he… he does this. Reminds me he still can.”

Her fingers slid up, warm and gentle, cupping the back of his neck.

“That’s not pressure, baby,” she murmured. “That’s control. And you’ve been carrying it alone.”

His breath shivered. His lashes lowered.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to feel this hard — I didn’t want you to feel it.”

“Don’t apologize for being human,” she said softly. “I can handle you. All of you.”

His voice broke.

“I love you.”

Her whole body jolted—like Resonance punched light straight through her lungs. A small, choked sound tore from her throat before she could stop it.

Shoto’s hand flew to her thigh, gripping tight, grounding both of them.

“I love you,” he said again, stronger. “I realized it the moment I felt what happened with you and Katsuki. No jealousy. No fear. Just… clarity.”

Her eyes burned.

“And Katsuki…” he whispered, cheeks flushing faintly. “My fondness for him is growing too. I don’t want to lose either of you. I want… everything we are. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Resonance swelled — bright, hot, intoxicating — until she felt dizzy, drunk, full.

She grabbed his face with both hands.

“I love you,” she breathed. “I love all of this. Your feelings, your storms, your calm — all of you.”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled.
Leaned into her palms like she was the only soft thing left in the world.

She didn’t realize they had slowed.

Or stopped.

Until she looked up.

Endeavor Manor.
Iron gates, long driveway, too-big windows.

Shoto’s jaw flexed once.
He didn’t move yet. Just held her hand, thumb rubbing her knuckle, trying to pull himself together.

“I’m sorry it’s messy,” he murmured.

“It’s real,” she whispered. “And I’m here.”

The gates creaked open.

Shoto inhaled slowly, eyes finding hers.

“As long as you’re beside me,” he said, voice steadying, “I can face him.”

She squeezed his hand.

“Then let’s go.”

The car rolled forward, carrying them into the house of the man who built half his strength and almost all his wounds.

And the Resonance — still warm, still tangled between them — hummed like a promise neither of them was backing away from.

The car had just stilled in front of Endeavor Manor — that cold, polished tombstone of a house — but neither of them moved to get out.

Shoto’s jaw was set, his fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, knuckles pale, heart screaming. But under the dread, under the weight of obligation and old wounds, he felt her.

Warm.

Steady.

Radiant.

Her hand slid from his, slow and deliberate, only to curl under his jaw. She turned his face toward her, tilting his chin just enough to catch his eyes.

“Before you go face your father,” she murmured, “I want you to feel something real. Something that belongs to us.”

Shoto’s lips parted — a breath caught between disbelief and hunger — just before her mouth claimed his.

And gods, he shattered.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was deliberate.

She kissed him like she meant to brand her soul onto his — like if she could, she’d stitch their mouths together and never let go. Her hands framed his jaw, thumbs brushing just under his cheekbones, pulling him in with every ounce of feeling she’d been holding back.

Shoto groaned into her mouth — not the soft, patient sound he usually gave, but something rough, something raw, like a man finally letting himself want.

His hand found her waist and yanked — not enough to hurt, just enough to press her across the console and onto his lap. Her thigh slid against his hip, a warm line of pressure that made his breath stutter and catch again.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice wrecked and reverent, barely pulling back. “I needed this. You.”

Her smile was fire.

“Then take it,” she whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his throat. “Take what’s yours.”

The next kiss was darker. Deeper. His tongue slid against hers with a desperate sort of hunger, no longer restrained. Her fingers tangled in his hair as his hands roamed — over her back, down her waist, across the curve of her thigh, possessive and full of need.

Her moan was soft, but he swallowed it whole, pulling her tighter into his chest. Resonance was singing now — thrumming like a live wire between their ribs, like a matching pulse.

She shifted against him, hips moving just slightly, and the friction made his entire body seize.

“Gods,” he rasped, kissing her harder, like the air had gone thin and her mouth was the only thing keeping him alive. “You feel like home.”

Her forehead pressed to his, lips swollen, eyes burning.

“And you feel like mine.”

The heat between them grew thick — a storm barely held back. She could feel him, already hard beneath her, his body straining against the weight of restraint. Her fingers slid under his scarf, tracing the fluttering pulse at his throat.

“You can’t go in there like this,” she teased, voice husky and amused, lips brushing his jaw.

“I can’t go in there at all,” he murmured, burying his face in her neck. “Not after tasting this. You.”

Her nails raked gently through his hair.

“So don’t go yet.”

He froze.

Then he pulled back, eyes locked to hers, searching.

“You’d wait with me?”

She smiled, soft and fierce.

“For as long as it takes.”

Shoto didn’t answer with words.

He answered with hands.

Fisting her jacket.

Dragging her mouth back to his like she was oxygen and he’d been drowning in Paris.

The kiss cracked him open — teeth, tongue, want — and she moaned into it, gripping his hair like an anchor.

It wasn’t soft this time.

It was starved.

She felt the shift the moment he buckled under her, pulling her fully into his lap, her jeans grinding over the hard line of his cock, and he swore under his breath.

“I can’t—” he gasped. “I can’t wait.”

“Then don’t.”

That was all it took.

Shoto’s fingers dropped to her fly, tugging at the button with a desperation that left no space for doubt. She lifted her hips just enough to help, moaning when the denim finally gave way. He yanked the waistband down her thighs roughly, enough to bare her — panties soaked and clinging.

“Fuck,” he breathed, fingers brushing the heat between her legs. “You’re dripping.”

“And you’re still dressed,” she whispered against his jaw, breath shaky, “which is unacceptable.”

Her hand shoved past the waistband of his slacks and found him — thick, hot, twitching in her grip. His hips bucked helplessly into her palm as she stroked once, twice, then lined him up without breaking eye contact.

“No teasing,” she said. “I want you inside me now.”

Shoto’s jaw clenched, eyes blown wide — and then she sank down on him in one smooth, brutal motion.

The car groaned under the shift.

He did too — a strangled, guttural sound that tore from his throat like it hurt to feel this good.

“Fucking—gods.” His head fell back, hands locked on her hips, and his cock pulsed deep inside her. “I’ve wanted this since I got on the plane.”

Resonance hit like a fucking punch to the sternum.

She barely had time to gasp before Shoto grabbed the base of her braids, tugged her head back, and locked eyes with her—his pupils blown, lips parted, breath ragged.

“Look at me.”

God, his voice was shredded velvet, rough around the edges like it had been dragged through gravel and set on fire.

Her breath caught as their gazes fused, that psychic tether between them yanking tight, and the Resonance snapped—a thunderclap of golden heat ripping through her ribcage, her whole goddamn soul vibrating in time with his.

He yanked her down by the hips, planting her square on his lap, the driver’s seat leaned back as far as it could go to give them even an inch more room—not that it helped. The space was cramped, suffocating, the air thick with sweat and fogged breath. Her jeans were tangled around one ankle, twisted stupid at the knee, but she couldn’t stop—wouldn’t.

Not when he was already hard as steel beneath her, his cock straining against his open fly, hot and thick and fucking throbbing against the soaked cotton of her panties.

Her knees hugged the leather seat on either side of his hips, bare thighs trembling, skin sticking to the vinyl. She was wet—ruined—slickness dripping down between her legs, soaking him through.

“You want this?” he growled, grinding his cock against her soaked core, his hands braced tight on her ass, fingers bruising, pulling her down to drag against him again, again, again—

“Fuck—yes, yes, I need it—”

He reached between them and shoved her panties aside, fingers fumbling, too rushed, too starved, until he finally lined himself up. That first push inside made her choke on her own moan—deep, deep, like he was punching through the deepest part of her, no room to adjust, no time to think.

“God—Shoto—”

“Take it,” he bit out, jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his temple as she slowly, achingly slid down his cock. “Fucking take all of it.”

Her head dropped to his shoulder as she took him inch by inch, her pussy stretched tight, throbbing around him like it couldn’t decide if it was agony or salvation. His hands gripped her hips and yanked her the rest of the way down, his cock buried to the root, and they both gasped—raw, helpless.

“Shit—so tight,” he growled, hips twitching up into her. “You’re fucking perfect.”

She rode him with clumsy, frantic movements—nothing smooth, nothing practiced. The seat creaked beneath them with every bounce, her thighs burning as she fought for rhythm, one boot still on, jeans flopping around her ankle like a shackle.

Her ass slapped down against his thighs, and the sound was filthy, echoing in the tiny car like a thunderclap of sex and sweat.

“You feel what you do to me?” he rasped, hand coming up to grab her face, thumb sliding into her mouth. “You’re soaked. You were fucking made for my cock, weren’t you?”

She sucked on his thumb, moaning around it as she rode him faster, harder, her clit grinding against the line of his pelvis with every bounce. Her vision blurred with how good it felt, the stretch, the fullness, his cock hitting that perfect spot every fucking time.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” she gasped, eyes wide, pupils blown. “You, fuck—Shoto—I’m yours—”

“Damn right you are,” he growled, slamming his hips up into her, driving deeper than she thought was possible. “Fucking mine. Mine to fuck. Mine to love. Mine to ruin.”

The car rocked with them. Every window steamed over. Sweat dripped down their bodies, mixing where their skin pressed tight. He fucked up into her, meeting her thrust for thrust, one hand still wrapped in her braids, keeping her forehead against his so he could watch every broken expression she made.

“Look at me when you come,” he snarled. “I wanna see it.”

She could feel it building—pressure coiling so tight it felt like her whole body might shatter around him. Her thighs trembled, her pussy clenched, dragging him deeper, and when his thumb returned to her clit, rubbing tight circles—

“Fuck—” she sobbed, “I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

“Come on, baby,” he hissed, eyes locked on hers, his own body shaking. “Come for me.”

Her orgasm hit with the force of a car crash. Her whole body seized, hips locking as her vision whited out, her cunt clenching so hard around him it stole his breath too.

“Fuck—” he snarled, jerking inside her as he came, cock twitching, spurting hot cum deep, deep inside. “God—fuck—take it—take all of it—”

They rode it out like animals. Grunting. Gasping. Holding each other like they’d never let go.

And when it passed, when her forehead was pressed to his, her breath still shaking in her chest, she whispered it again—raw, cracked:

“You’re mine. You hear me? You’re mine. Not his. Never fucking his.”

Shoto cradled her face like she was the only thing that mattered.

“And you,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth, soft and reverent, “are my fucking home.”

“I love you, Shoto”

Shoto’s lips parted.

And then — slow, intentional — he kissed her again. This one was different.

A promise.

Not just desire, not just need. But commitment. Clarity.

Her breath hitched. Her hands tightened.

Outside, the gates of Endeavor Manor waited with their quiet threat.

Inside the car, wrapped in the heat of each other’s hands and mouths and breath, Shoto finally let himself feel what safety tasted like.

She kissed him like she could shield him from the world.

And for a while — maybe just for now — she did.

The moment the door closed behind them, the temperature changed.

Literally.

The interior of Endeavor Manor always ran a few degrees warmer than necessary—heat trapped in the walls, radiating from the floors, clinging like a second skin. It smelled faintly of cedar polish and old smoke.

A butler in a crisp black suit stepped forward immediately, bowing his head.

“Young Master Todoroki. Sir.”
His gaze flicked briefly to her. “Miss.”

Shoto’s hand brushed her lower back in a silent promise I’m right here, before following the butler deeper into the house.

She kept pace beside him—chin raised, boots silent against the marble floors, braids bouncing gently with each step.

The manor swallowed them whole.

High ceilings.
Dark wood beams.
Family portraits staring down like judges on a council.

The butler guided them toward the sunken family room—grand windows, heavy curtains, too much silence.

And that’s when she saw him.

Enji Todoroki.

Still broad.
Still imposing.
Still radiating authority like a heat source.

Except now—
He was seated in a wheelchair.

A blanket over his lap.
A cane rested horizontally across the arms.
A faint tremor in one gloved hand revealed more than he’d ever admit out loud.

His eyes snapped up when they entered.

They didn’t soften.
Not even a flicker.

Just sharpened.

Assessed.

Landed on Shoto.

Then on her.

Stayed there.

“Who,” Enji said, voice low, “is this?”

No hello.
No welcome.
Just interrogation.

Her stomach twisted—Resonance reacting violently, soaking in the spike of Shoto’s defensiveness, the flash of anger he swallowed back.

Shoto stepped closer to her, not an inch of hesitation.

“She’s with me,” he said evenly.

Enji’s brow arched.

“With you? In what capacity?”

Her heart stuttered—but her face stayed calm.

Shoto didn’t blink.

“Someone important.”

That wasn’t enough for Enji.

It never would be.

His gaze swept her again—from boots to braids—slow, calculating, picking apart what he perceived as unfamiliar, informal, untraditional.

“What’s your name?” Enji asked her, tone polite only in the technical sense. “And what, exactly, do you do?”

Shoto stiffened—subtly, but she felt it through Resonance like a punch to her ribs.
His body angled protectively in front of her.

“Father,” he warned.

But she placed a hand gently along Shoto’s arm.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.
A steadying murmur.
A therapist’s tone without trying.

Then—calmly—she met Enji’s eyes.

“My name is—”
She stated it clearly, with no tremor.

“I’m a licensed therapist and a quirk-safety specialist.”

A flicker.
He hadn’t expected that.

“And your quirk?” Enji pressed. “What does it do?”

Shoto inhaled sharply, resonance flaring—No.
A protective growl echoed in his chest even if no sound came out.

But she laid her hand on his forearm again, grounding him.

“My quirk amplifies emotional signals,” she said simply. “I can sense and interpret Resonance patterns that appear between individuals.”

Enji’s gaze sharpened.

Her posture straightened.

“And I help people navigate it,” she added, tone soft but firm. “Responsibly.”

For a moment—just a breath—Enji seemed… taken off guard.

He masked it quickly.

“Mm.”
His eyes narrowed.

“Useful,” he said slowly. Too slowly.
“Though I suppose that depends on how stable one’s… emotional environment is.”

The jab landed.
Aimed at Shoto.

Shoto’s jaw flexed.

Before he could speak—
before the air could fracture—

Another voice floated in from the left hallway.

Soft.

Warm.

Surprised.

“Shoto?”

They turned.

Rei Todoroki stood near the entrance of the room, hands lightly folded in front of her, hair pinned loosely away from her face. Her expression softened immediately, relief blooming across her features.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming today.”

Shoto’s entire body eased.
Not dramatically—just a subtle release of tension, like a single knot untying.

“Mother,” he said gently. “I wasn’t planning to.”

She approached, eyes kind, gaze drifting curiously to the woman beside him.

Then to their closeness.

To their matched breathing.

To the way Shoto subtly leaned into her presence without meaning to.

“Oh,” Rei said softly, smile blooming wider. “Who is your friend?”

Not judgment.

Not interrogation.

Just genuine warmth.

Shoto glanced at her—the woman who kept him steady in the car, who grounded him with a touch, who walked into this house knowing exactly what it held—and something in his expression shifted.

Pride.

Possession.

Clarity.

He rested a hand on the small of her back.

“She’s someone very important to me,” he said, voice soft but unwavering.

Rei’s eyes warmed instantly.

“Well… welcome,” she said, reaching out and gently taking her hand. “Any friend of Shoto’s is welcome here.”

Enji’s jaw tightened at the phrasing.

Rei felt it.
Everyone did.

But she ignored him, eyes flicking back to their son’s face.

“You look tired,” she murmured. “Sit. Both of you.”

Shoto hesitated only long enough to glance at her—the one beside him—and when she nodded once, reassuring, he moved.

Rei led them toward the sitting area.

Enji watched every step.

Judging.

Calculating.

Measuring.

She sat beside Shoto, close enough for their legs to brush—close enough for Resonance to hum steady again—and for the first time since entering the house, he breathed easier.

Chapter Text

Rei guided them into the sitting area, her hand resting lightly at the base of Shoto’s back—a quiet gesture of reassurance in a room thick with generational tension. Enji watched from his wheelchair, posture rigid, gaze evaluating. Nothing about him softened, not even out of paternal courtesy.

They sat. Shoto took the end of the couch; she settled beside him, close enough that their knees brushed. His hand found hers where it rested on her lap—unapologetic, intentional, and quietly intimate. Their fingers intertwined as if their bodies had learned the pattern long before their minds caught up.

Rei’s eyes flicked downward. A small, knowing smile bloomed, gentle as early spring.

“Oh,” she murmured, looking between them. “Are you two… together?”

Her breath caught, though she refused to look away. Shoto’s shoulders eased, only a slight shift, but unmistakable.

“Yes,” he said, voice low and steady. “But… not just us.”

Rei’s brows rose in surprise. “I see. When did this start? I would’ve liked to know sooner, Shoto.” She waved a maid over for tea and small bites, but Enji remained still—hands clenched around the throw across his lap, jaw tight with unspoken judgment.

Shoto continued, quieter this time. “Katsuki too.”

Rei blinked once, then again, her expression softening into unmistakable warmth. Enji, in contrast, inhaled sharply—his disbelief sharp enough to taste.

“You’re telling me,” Enji burst out, “that you’re sleeping with men?”

Shoto’s glare snapped toward his father, cold and direct. Resonance flared—the emotional pulse sharp and bright—forcing her to tighten her grip on his hand to pull him back from the edge.

“If you must know,” Shoto said evenly, “Katsuki and I are not ‘sleeping around.’ It’s a closed polyamorous triad—built on commitment, stability, and intention, not whatever narrative you’re constructing.”

Rei exhaled softly. “Shoto… you look lighter. Happier. I haven’t seen you breathe like this since you were a child.”

Shoto exhaled slowly through his nostrils, his hand closed over hers—protective, sure, fierce in a way that had nothing to do with violence.

Enji’s stare hardened, a last attempt to preserve the worldview he’d built his authority upon.

“And this… arrangement,” he said slowly, “is stable?”

The skepticism hit her first—her quirk registering it as a heated spike to her ribs. She inhaled sharply. Shoto felt it and immediately shifted closer, thigh pressing against hers, grounding her with the steady hum of his emotional field.

“It’s real,” he answered. “And it’s ours.”

The silence that followed was taut, disrupted only by the arrival of tea and appetizers that no one reached for. Shoto and Enji remained locked in a wordless power struggle—two men shaped by the same history, battling over different futures.

She feared for a moment that Shoto might slip into old patterns, into the emotional reflexes his father had forged in him.

But Rei reached forward, placing her hand gently atop theirs—a quiet bridge.

“Any relationship that brings you peace,” she said, “is worth nurturing.”

Enji scoffed and turned away, retreating from the conversation he had already lost.

The emotional backlash struck her quirk like a heatwave. She flinched involuntarily.

Shoto reacted instantly—thumb brushing slow circles against her skin, protective warmth radiating through his Resonance. A steady anchor.

Rei noticed. “You’re holding each other well,” she said softly.

Shoto finally exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening. She absorbed the remnants of his frustration—no longer sharp, simply heavy, but controlled. He wasn’t unraveling. He wasn’t drowning.

He was grounded—with her.

***********************************************

The manor had drained them both—Shoto in ways etched deep beneath the surface, and her in ways that echoed with the residual vibrations of another’s pain. But once they stepped into the cool night air, their hands brushing, their breaths syncing, the Resonance between them settled into something warm and coherent.

The drive back to Shoto’s condo was quiet—not tense, simply necessary. Silence felt safe again.

When they entered the condo, Katsuki was already waiting.

Arms crossed. One shoulder against the wall. Expression neutral, eyes anything but.

The moment Shoto crossed the threshold, Katsuki stepped forward and pulled him into a brief, firm pat-on-the-back embrace—unspoken affection in the way only they understood.

“’Bout time, IcyHot,” Katsuki muttered.

“I know,” Shoto exhaled.

Her chest warmed. Her boys—in one place, the energy between them realigning like pieces of a constellation falling back into place.

Katsuki turned to her. “You good?”

“Better now,” she said. “Both of you under one roof again? Yeah, I’m good.”

He smirked, pleased despite himself.

Then he looked back at Shoto. “You ready?”

Shoto nodded too quickly.

She narrowed her eyes. “Ready for what? What are y’all whispering about? You think you slick.”

Shoto cleared his throat. “Let me put my suitcase in the bedroom first.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Shoto disappeared down the hallway. When he returned, he’d changed into soft sweats and a relaxed long-sleeve shirt—comfortable, purposeful.

Before she could question it, Katsuki clapped his hands. “I’m drivin’.”

Shoto nodded again.

She crossed her arms. “Okay, no. What is going on? Y’all are whispering like toddlers plotting a heist.”

Neither of them answered.

Both looked suspiciously innocent.

Still, she got in the backseat, letting her quirk expand—feeling the steady hum of Katsuki’s calm joy and Shoto’s unusually grounded emotional field. Whatever they were hiding, they were aligned. United.

The love threading between all three of them vibrated like a quiet, steady chord.

She didn’t understand it yet. But she felt it.

The car turned onto a long road lined with old trees, branches interwoven like a cathedral ceiling. Stone pillars appeared, then a wrought-iron gate, then—

A manor.

A genuine, towering, stone-built manor.

Three stories. Vines trailing the columns. Warm light glowing from tall windows. The exact architecture she’d saved obsessively on Pinterest under boards titled “If God loves me, He will provide this.”

Katsuki cut the engine. Turned toward her.

“You ready to see the house?”

“What house?” she sputtered. “What are we doing here?”

Katsuki stepped out without answering. Shoto followed.

Shoto opened her door, offering his hand. “We know you said it felt too soon.”

“Too soon for what?” she demanded.

Shoto squeezed her hand gently. “But we decided to purchase a manor.”

Her soul left her body.

“YOU—WHEN—HOW—”

“And,” Shoto added, “we paid attention to your Pinterest boards. The styles you saved. The spaces you hovered over. The details you loved.”

“If you don’t like it, love,” he said softly, “we’ll change it.”

Katsuki scoffed. “We ain’t changin’ shit.”

Shoto shot him a look.

Katsuki grunted. “…Fine. Maybe a little.”

She stood trembling—between laughter, tears, disbelief, and the urge to scream.

“You—both of you—bought a manor?”

Shoto’s voice gentled. “Our manor. If you want it.”

Katsuki jerked his chin toward the front doors. “C’mon. Let us show you the life we’re trying to build with you.”

She stepped inside—and the air left her lungs.

The foyer opened into a sweeping space of polished stone floors, vaulted ceilings, and warm ambient lighting that made everything look like it had been dipped in gold. The furniture was modern but soft, curated with intention. Art she recognized from her saved posts hung along the walls. Even the scent—fresh linen with a hint of cedar—felt familiar.

Her Resonance flared, bright and overwhelming beneath her ribs. Emotion rose so sharp it almost hurt.

Katsuki walked ahead of them, chest out, chin high—a damn peacock who knew he had done something right. Shoto, beside her, moved with a looseness she rarely saw, a small, fleeting smile ghosting across his lips.

“How—” she whispered. “How did you both find time to do all of this?”

Shoto brushed his fingers along the banister as they moved further inside.

“It took a few weeks. The ‘extra hours of agency partner work’ we told you about?” He let out a sheepish exhale. “We were here.”

Katsuki shrugged, still glowing. “We hired a lot of people. Contractors, designers, movers—we oversaw everything. And we argued about damn near every rug in this place.”

Her Resonance shifted—sharply. The sweetness soured, curdling with the realization of just how much this must have cost.

Both men felt it immediately.

Shoto paused mid-step. Katsuki stopped so fast his boots squeaked.

She walked into the living room—airy, beautiful, impossibly curated—and turned to face them, arms crossing, voice trembling with disbelief.

“This cost way too much,” she said, unable to hold back. “Way too much. I’m not—I will not owe you back for something like this.”

Katsuki snorted—loud, dismissive, absolutely unimpressed with her panic.

 "The hell you talkin’ about owing us? We’re pro heroes, princess. Hero work has perks—and money’s one of ‘em. This barely made a dent."

Shoto nodded, stepping closer, voice calm but firm. "Finances are not an issue," he assured her. "Not for us. And not for you."

She opened her mouth to argue, but he gently took her hand again.

"You can still do your work," Shoto continued. "Therapy, consultations… even take private clients outside the agency if you’d prefer. None of this changes your independence, or your autonomy."

Katsuki crossed his arms, chin lifting. "Ain’t nobody tryin’ to buy you or trap you. We wanted to build somethin’—with you. Not for you to pay us back like this is some damn loan."

Her Resonance flickered—surprised, overwhelmed, softening despite itself.

Shoto squeezed her hand once more, steady and warm. "You don’t owe us anything. You never will.”

Her breath came out in a shaky exhale—first with disbelief, then with something loosening deep under her sternum. The tight, sour pull of her Resonance melted, softening like warm honey spreading through her ribs. The emotional tension she’d been clenching—fear, overwhelm, the instinct to protect her independence—finally eased.

It was like her quirk sighed.

A gentle pulse radiated outward, brushing against both men.

Katsuki’s shoulders dropped an inch. Shoto’s jaw unclenched, the line of his posture easing with visible relief.

She didn’t have to explain anything—her Resonance spoke for her, the emotional field settling into something warm, open, undeniably tender.

Katsuki huffed, but the edge was gone. “There she is.”

Shoto brushed his knuckles along the back of her hand, eyes softening. “Your emotions aren’t a burden,” he murmured. “You don’t have to brace around us.”

Her throat tightened—not with panic this time, but with something gentler. Trust. Safety. Belonging.

The house was beautiful. But this moment—this grounding—made it feel like a home.

“Okay,” she whispered, a smile tugging at her lips before she could stop it. “Show me the rest.”

Katsuki grinned like he’d won a prize. Shoto’s eyes warmed like sunrise.

Together, they led her deeper into the manor.

They guided her down a wide hallway that opened into more warmth, more intention. Every corner looked like it had been curated with a quiet whisper of you’d love this.

The dining room glowed with soft amber lighting, a long oak table framed by tall-backed chairs upholstered in the exact shade of moss green she had once pointed out in a magazine—months ago, in passing, in a voice she didn’t even think they heard.

Her Resonance fluttered again—lighter this time, shimmering like sunlight on warm water.

Shoto noticed immediately.

He slowed beside her, head tilting just enough to catch her expression.
“You like it,” he murmured—not a question, a soft confirmation.

She swallowed, blinking hard. “It’s… beautiful.”

Katsuki grinned, self-satisfied. “Damn right it is.”

They moved farther, into a kitchen large enough to host an army. Marble counters, brass fixtures, a double stove, cabinets stocked and organized with an attention to detail only two men who loved her could be capable of.

She ran her fingers along the counter’s edge, breath hitching as she took in everything:
The herb pots by the window.
The cast-iron set she’d always wanted.
The tiny, stupidly cute ceramic sugar bowl she’d saved in her online cart but never bought.

Her Resonance glowed gold.

Shoto stepped behind her, one hand hovering near the small of her back. “We wanted the kitchen to feel like yours.”

Katsuki snorted. “It’s ours. But I’m the only one who can cook without burnin’ the kitchen down, so consider this my domain.”

She laughed—soft, real, unexpected. Her whole body felt warm from the inside out.

Then—she froze.

Her Resonance shifted again, but this time… gentler. Deeper. Like something settling into place rather than sparking out of control.

She looked at both of them.

“This is really happening,” she whispered. “You two really… built this. For us.”

Shoto nodded, cheeks faintly pink.
“Yes.”

Katsuki shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, even though his energy radiated pride so strong she could feel it humming off him.

“We ain’t doin’ all this just to play house. We meant it. Every part of it.”

She exhaled, a trembling release of tension she didn’t even know she’d been holding.

And her quirk—
Her Resonance—
Softened again.

Not bright, not overwhelming.

Just… home.

Shoto’s eyes softened as he felt it wash through him.
Katsuki’s smirk gentled, just a touch.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his chin toward the staircase. “We ain’t even shown you the good shit yet.”

She raised a brow, amused. “There’s more?”

Shoto’s lips curved into the faintest, sweetest smile she’d ever seen him wear.
“Oh,” he murmured, offering his hand again,
“there’s so much more.”

They led her up the staircase, the soft thud of their steps echoing through the hall. The second floor opened into a wide landing, sunlight from tall windows pooling across the hardwood like spilled gold.

Katsuki stopped at the end of the hall, one hand already reaching for a double door carved with intricate patterns.
“Alright,” he muttered, almost under his breath. “This one’s my favorite.”

Shoto glanced at her, his expression softening with something almost reverent.

Katsuki pushed open the doors.

And she forgot how to breathe.

The bedroom wasn’t just big — it was vast, airy, designed like someone had taken every private wish she’d tucked away and made it real.

A bed—
Not a king.
Not a California king.

A custom, oversized, impossibly wide bed designed for three bodies to tangle without ever worrying about space. Plush, cloud-soft comforters. Pillows in every shape she loved. Soft neutrals, warm woods, and sunlight pouring in like a blessing.

But the view—

God.

The entire back wall was glass, looking out onto a private garden. Flowers in bloom. Stone pathways. A small pond reflecting the sky. Trees that swayed lightly, brushing shadows across the floor.

Her Resonance flared—soft, golden, shimmering.

Shoto felt it immediately. He moved closer, brushing his fingertips along the inside of her wrist. “We wanted you to have a view that felt peaceful,” he murmured, voice warm enough to melt steel. “A place to wake up calm.”

Katsuki walked past her to stand at the foot of the bed, crossing his arms as he surveyed the room like he was checking his own work.

“Took three damn designers to get this just right,” he muttered proudly. “We kept the tones warm so you’d feel grounded the second you stepped inside.”

“And the bed…” she whispered, voice catching.

Shoto’s cheeks warmed, that shy ghost-smile returning. “We wanted enough space for all of us.”

A pause—gentle, meaningful.

“For however we grow.”

Her throat tightened. Her Resonance pulsed again, blossoming warmth so rich both men sucked in a breath.

Katsuki looked away for half a second like the emotion hit him harder than expected.
“Tch. Don’t look at me like that,” he grumbled, but the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “We just want you comfortable. That’s all.”

She stepped further into the room, fingertips grazing the bed’s edge, her eyes drawn out the window like gravity itself was pulling her toward that blooming garden.

“This is…” she whispered. “You two… this is everything.”

Shoto moved behind her, his presence soft and steady. “It’s home,” he said quietly.

Katsuki added, voice low and certain,
“With you in it.”

Her knees nearly buckled.

The room felt like a promise—
not rushed,
not forced,
just… right.

A future built with intention.
With love.
With all three of them in mind.

While she was still absorbing the view — the garden, the bed, the clarity of what these two men had planned — Katsuki’s phone buzzed.

He grimaced, checked the screen, and let out a sigh that was both annoyed and resigned.
“Damn contractors,” he muttered. “They keep askin’ about the storage room setup.”

Shoto’s phone chimed an instant later, a more polite sound — but his expression matched Katsuki’s.
“The security consultant needs final confirmation on the perimeter cameras,” he murmured.

They shared a look.
The “hero responsibilities meets domestic life” look.

Katsuki clicked his tongue. “Fine. Lemme go handle this before they blow up my damn phone again.”

Shoto nodded once. “I’ll join you. It won’t take long.”

Before she could step out of the room behind them, Katsuki turned back, raising a finger in warning.

“Don’t touch the closet yet,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I’ll show you that myself.”

The playful threat in his tone made her laugh despite herself.
“I’m not gonna break anything, Katsuki.”

“You better not,” he muttered, disappearing down the hall.

Shoto lingered, moving closer, lifting her hand in his for a moment.
“We’ll be right downstairs. Just a few minutes.”

She smiled softly. “Go. Handle your important people.”

His brows softened at that phrasing — the subtle acknowledgment of his leadership, his independence, his life.

Then he leaned in, brushed a kiss against her temple, and followed Katsuki.

For a moment, the house went quiet — a gentle, peaceful quiet she could feel deep in her bones.

Footsteps approached a second later.

Two unfamiliar faces appeared in the doorway:

A butler—
Tall, middle-aged, dignified without being stiff.
Sharp black vest, silver cufflinks, and an expression that blended professionalism with warmth.

“Mitsuo Inoue,” he introduced himself with a small bow.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ll be managing the household staff and day-to-day operations.”

Beside him stood a woman—
Young, with soft brown curls pinned behind one ear, a warm smile, and the kind of gentle presence that instantly put her at ease.

“Hana Mori,” she said. “Housekeeping and organization. I’ll be helping maintain the home… and if you ever need help arranging anything, please feel free to tell me.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the formality — the reality of it.

“Oh—thank you,” she said quickly. “Really. I appreciate you both.”

Both staff members seemed relieved at her tone.

Mitsuo nodded. “The gentlemen requested discretion, efficiency, and comfort above all else. We intend to honor that.”

Hana added, “And if you’d ever like the house arranged differently… just say so. This is your home too.”

The words hit her harder than she expected.

Her Resonance fluttered warm, grateful — and both staff members straightened slightly, as if they felt the shift in the room without knowing what it meant.

She took a breath, steadying herself.

“Would it be alright,” she asked softly, “if I… toured the house alone for a moment?”

Mitsuo bowed slightly.
“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

Hana smiled warmly.
“I’ll prepare tea for when you’re done.”

Left alone again, she stepped deeper into the hallway — into the quiet, golden light — the entire house stretching before her like a story waiting to be read.

And for the first time, she let herself feel it fully:

This was hers.
Theirs.
A life unfolding with intention.

The farther she walked into the hallway, the quieter manor felt. Her fingertips grazed the warm wooden railings, the subtle glow of sconces washing the space in soft gold.

Everything was beautiful.
Everything was intentional.
Everything was for her.

And that was the problem.

The further she walked, the quieter the house became—
and the louder the thoughts grew.

Her Resonance, once warm and steady, wavered.

At first it flickered like candlelight.
Then it thinned.
Then it hollowed, the emotional echo inside her chest dimming into something weightless and frightening.

She pressed a hand to her ribs.

No—
not theirs.

Hers.

This was her own emotion.
Cold. Heavy. Whispering old fears she’d buried under trust and intimacy and hope.

What if I’m not enough for them?
What if this is too much for me to hold?
What if one day they wake up and realize I’m… ordinary? Replaceable?
What if they get bored?
What if this house—this life—is too big for me?

Her heart clenched, her breath faltering.

Her own Resonance—usually sharp, intuitive, precise—felt like a pressure inside her chest, building, building, building until her ribs strained beneath it.

She leaned against the hallway wall, eyes stinging.

The love between them felt real. Solid.
But her fear whispered louder:

What if they regret choosing me?
What if they realize they could’ve had someone easier? Softer? Less complicated?
What if I can’t be enough for both of them?

Her quirk pulsed inconsistently—small, tight waves of anxiety that made her chest cave inward.

Not golden.
Not warm.

Hollow.

She hadn’t felt this hollow in years.

She swallowed hard, pressing her palm flat over her sternum as if she could force the emotion back into place, force her quirk to behave, force her heartbeat to stay steady.

But the truth spilled through anyway:

They loved her.
They chose her.
They built a home around her.

And still—

She didn’t know if she could choose herself the same way.

She didn’t know if she could fill a space this large, this loving, this ready.

A shaky breath escaped her.
Her Resonance trembled—quiet, broken around the edges.

The house didn’t feel heavy.
Not oppressive.
Not wrong.

Just… big.

Bigger than she knew how to hold.

She closed her eyes, letting the wave of fear wash through her chest, letting the echo of it reverberate through her quirk until the air around her felt thin and sharp.

Alone in the corridor of the manor built for her, by two men who loved her—she felt small.

And terrified.

And as much as she wanted to shake it off, the truth pressed deeper:

She didn’t know if she deserved any of it.

Her breath hitched—quiet, nearly silent.

But the house heard it.
Her quirk heard it.
And somewhere downstairs…two men who loved her felt the tiny crack in the emotional field between them.

She didn’t know that yet.

For now, she stood in the quiet of the home made for her future—
and felt every ounce of her past tug at her heels.