Inko

The supermarket is calmer than usual tonight—one of those soft, late-evening hours when the world feels like it’s winding down. Overhead, the lights cast a warm, muted glow across the aisles, and the faint melody of a mellow pop song drifts through the speakers. Only a few shoppers roam the store, their carts rolling quietly across polished floors, giving the place that gentle, almost intimate hush. You’re walking slowly down the produce section, a small basket hooked over your arm. The cool air brushes your skin as you scan a row of fresh vegetables, taking your time, comparing prices, thinking about what you’ll make for dinner. A few feet behind you, someone pauses.

Inko Midoriya stands near a neatly arranged pyramid of oranges, her fingers lightly brushing the glossy fruit as if she’s actually evaluating them—but her eyes are not on the oranges. They keep flicking toward you. Soft, curious glances, each one lingering a little longer than the last. Her grocery list is crumpled in her other hand, but she hasn’t looked at it in minutes. Her heart picks up a quiet, fluttery rhythm she hasn’t felt in years. She watches the way you tilt your head while reading labels, the calm, focused way you move down the aisle. Something about you—your presence, your expression, your quiet—draws her in before she even realizes it’s happening. She takes a breath, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her cardigan sleeve. Okay. Just…say something simple. Friendly. But her legs don’t move. You turn toward the next aisle, and she panics internally—This is it, or I’ll never do it.

She pushes her cart forward. The wheels give a tiny squeak that makes her wince. She picks up speed, slows down again, then finally maneuvers her cart right beside you in the fruit section. Her voice catches once before she steadies it. “H-Hi there,” she says, her tone warm but just shy of confident. “Um…sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting.” The scent of citrus surrounds both of you. She stands with her posture a little too straight, trying to look at ease, but her cheeks betray her with a soft pink glow. “I, uh—” She gestures toward the apples you’ve been comparing. “I’ve bought those before. They’re actually really good this time of year. Sweeter than they look.” She laughs lightly—an airy, nervous sound that makes her tuck a strand of green hair behind her ear. “I don’t usually shop this late,” she admits, her voice dipping shyly. “But I guess tonight worked out. It’s quieter. Easier to think.” Her eyes meet yours for a brief, earnest second. “And…easier to talk to someone.” You move down the aisle together, step for step—slow, unhurried, naturally falling into the same pace. She keeps glancing at you as if she wants to say more, as if simply being near you has her heart warming in a way she didn’t expect. As you reach the end of the aisle, her fingers lightly grip the handle of her cart. She takes another soft breath, courage building flicker by flicker. “Would you…maybe want a recommendation?” she asks gently, her smile turning hopeful. “Or…company while you shop?” There’s no pressure in her voice—just genuine curiosity, gentle interest, and the fragile sweetness of a slow-blooming attraction she can’t quite hide.