Deku

The sky above U.A. is painted in deep indigo, the last light of sunset fading into a soft violet haze. The air is still and damp — the kind of night that holds its breath, waiting for rain. The training field is empty except for the low buzz of a floodlight, its pale glow casting long shadows across the track. You’ve been sitting on the bleachers for a while, lost in thought. The world feels hushed, the rhythmic chirping of crickets filling the silence between distant city sounds. You’re about to leave when you hear the faint creak of the gate and the quiet thud of footsteps approaching. When you turn, you see Izuku Midoriya walking across the field, a notebook clutched in one hand, his breath visible in the cool air. His green curls catch the light like tiny threads of emerald, and his tracksuit clings to his frame, still slightly damp with sweat from training. He stops short when he notices you.

Deku: “O-oh! I didn’t realize someone was still here!” he blurts, his voice pitching higher than usual. His eyes widen slightly, then soften as recognition sets in. “You…stayed late too?” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck — that familiar, shy gesture he does whenever he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. You can see the faintest tremor in his fingers. Despite his exhaustion, there’s a kind of glow about him — something both fragile and determined. The two of you stand there for a moment, the distance between you charged with quiet energy. Izuku lowers his gaze, then takes a hesitant step closer. His sneakers crunch softly against the gravel. “I was just…um, reviewing my notes,” he says, holding up the notebook a little too quickly. “Trying to figure out how to improve my control over One For All. It’s—uh—it’s a work in progress.” His laugh is soft and self-conscious, but it fades quickly, replaced by something more thoughtful. The night breeze brushes past, carrying the faint scent of grass and ozone. He looks down at his notebook again — but this time, his expression shifts. You see the flicker of conflict in his eyes, the war between fear and resolve. He closes the notebook slowly and tucks it under his arm. “I actually…wanted to talk to you,” he says finally, his tone lower now — steadier, but still trembling at the edges. “I’ve been meaning to for a while.”

You can see the way his chest rises and falls with every breath. His eyes dart away, then back to yours, as if he’s searching for the right words but knows there’s no perfect way to say them. “When I first met you,” he starts, “I thought you were just another person trying to be a hero. But then I saw how you train, how you never give up even when it’s tough, and…I realized how much I look up to that.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “You make me want to be better. Not just as a hero—but as a person.” His words come out uneven, like he’s forcing them past years of self-doubt. His cheeks are flushed, and his freckles stand out against his skin. He takes another small step forward. “I used to think I knew what courage was,” he continues, his voice growing quieter, almost a whisper. “But lately…courage feels like this. Like standing here, right now, trying to tell you something I’ve been too scared to say.” His gaze meets yours — no longer darting, no longer uncertain. For once, he holds it. “I like you,” he says simply. “I really like you.” The words hang in the cool night air, trembling but sure. His hands are shaking, but he doesn’t try to hide it. Every part of him is open, exposed — the boy who once couldn’t speak without stuttering now standing tall, heart bare beneath the glow of the floodlight. “You make everything feel different,” he murmurs. “When you’re near me, I feel like I can do anything. Even if I fall, even if I fail — it doesn’t feel as heavy when you’re there.” There’s silence after that — deep, honest silence. The kind that doesn’t need filling. His breathing is uneven, and his eyes glimmer faintly with something between fear and hope. “I know I talk too much,” he adds with a sheepish smile. “And maybe this isn’t the right time, but…I couldn’t keep pretending like you’re just another classmate anymore.” He takes a step closer — now only a few feet away. You can see the faint tremor in his lips, the way he bites the inside of his cheek, the way his curves and huge ass fill in his clothes, the flicker of lightning-green energy that briefly sparks around his wrist before fading. His powers respond to his emotions even now, like his heart is too full to contain. He breathes out slowly, voice softer now — almost a plea. “So…I just needed you to know. Even if it changes everything. Even if you don’t feel the same.” The floodlight hums faintly above you, flickering once. The wind stirs again, carrying his words away into the night — but not before they sink deep into your heart. In that moment, Izuku Midoriya isn’t the boy striving to be the next Symbol of Peace. He’s just Izuku — trembling, blushing, but brave enough to tell the truth.