Shoto Todoroki

Shoto had loved you for seventeen years.

It sounded pathetic when he put a number to it.

Seventeen years of watching you laugh. Seventeen years of knowing exactly how your face changed when you were irritated, how you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold, how your nose scrunched whenever you tasted something too sweet.

Seventeen years of wondering what might have happened if, just once, he had been brave enough to tell you.

He'd loved you at eighteen when the two of you graduated U.A.

He'd loved you at twenty-two when your careers had started pulling you in different directions, but you still found excuses to call him.

He'd loved you at twenty-eight when the two of you had sat together on a quiet beach, watching the sunset paint the water orange and pink.

That had been the day.

Shoto knew that now.

He hadn't known it then.

Or maybe he'd known and had simply been too afraid.

You'd been sitting beside him in the sand, your shoes abandoned somewhere behind you, talking about nothing particularly important. He remembered looking at you and thinking that he could do it.

He could finally say it.

I love you.

Three words.

That was all.

Then you'd leaned your head against his shoulder.

Shoto's heart had nearly stopped.

And he'd said nothing.

The next day, you met him.

The man you would eventually marry.

Shoto had watched everything happen from the sidelines after that.

The first date.

The relationship.

The engagement.

He remembered receiving the wedding invitation and staring at your name printed beside another man's until the letters blurred.

He still went.

Of course he went.

You were his best friend.

He stood there in an expensive suit while you married someone else, smiled when you hugged him afterward, and told you that he was happy for you.

It was the best lie he'd ever told.

Seven years later, you were dead.

Thirty-five years old.

Gone.

And everyone kept calling it an accident.

Shoto didn't believe them.

Especially not when your husband couldn't look him in the eyes at the funeral.

Especially not after everything Shoto had learned about the arguments, the bruises hidden beneath sleeves, the neighbors who remembered shouting coming from your home.

There wasn't enough evidence.

That was what the police said.

Shoto had nearly put his fist through the wall.

He was one of Japan's top heroes. He had spent his entire adult life saving strangers, and somehow he hadn't saved the one person who mattered most.

He hadn't even known you needed saving.

That night, Shoto sat alone in his apartment with your funeral clothes still hanging from his body.

He couldn't remember when he'd started crying.

He only remembered staring through the window at the stars. "Please."

His voice sounded broken.

He didn't know who he was speaking to.

God.

The universe.

The stars themselves.

He didn't care anymore. "Send me back."

Silence.

"I'll do anything."

Nothing.

Shoto closed his eyes.

"Anything." A soft chuckle came from behind him.

"People really should be more careful when they say that."

Shoto froze.

There was a man sitting in his living room.

No sound of a door opening. No warning from the security system. Nothing.

One moment Shoto had been alone.

The next, a stranger sat comfortably in his chair as though he'd been invited, dressed far too neatly for someone breaking into a pro hero's home.

Shoto was on his feet instantly.

Ice spread beneath his right foot. "Who are you?"

"Someone who heard you." The stranger smiled.

Something about that smile made every instinct Shoto possessed scream.

"The name is Crowley."

Shoto stared.

He knew enough folklore to understand what the name was supposed to imply.

"A demon."

"Very good."

Shoto didn't move.

Crowley gestured toward the window. "You want seven years."

Shoto's heart slammed against his ribs.

"You want to wake up at twenty-eight. You want your darling alive again. More importantly, you want to get there before they makes the rather unfortunate decision of falling in love with someone else."

"What do you want?"

Crowley's smile widened. "Part of your soul."

Shoto should have hesitated.

He should have asked what that meant.

How much?

What would happen when he died?

What would losing part of his soul do to him?

He should have asked a hundred questions.

Instead, he thought about your coffin.

"Fine."

Crowley actually blinked. "That's it?"

"Send me back."

"Mr. Todoroki, I haven't even explained the terms."

"I don't care."

"Oh, you will."

"Take it."

Crowley studied him for a long moment.

Then he smiled. "Done."

Pain tore through Shoto's chest.

He collapsed.

His forehead struck something soft.

Sand.

Shoto gasped.

Warm air filled his lungs.

His fingers dug into the ground.

For several seconds he couldn't understand what was happening.

There was sunlight against his skin.

Waves.

He could hear waves.

And someone was laughing.

Your laugh.

Shoto's entire body went rigid.

He looked up.

There you were.

Alive.

Sitting beside him.

Your shoes were behind you.

Your feet were buried slightly in the sand.

The evening sun painted your face in soft gold as you looked toward the horizon, completely unaware that Shoto was staring at you like he'd just witnessed the dead rise from the grave.

Because he had.

His hands started trembling.

Twenty-eight.

He remembered this.

Every detail.

This beach.

This sunset.

You.

Today.

His breathing caught.

It had worked.

That bastard had actually done it.

Seven years erased.

You were alive.

Shoto wanted to grab you.

He wanted to pull you against his chest and hold you until his arms gave out. He wanted to check your pulse, listen to your heartbeat, make sure this wasn't some cruel illusion Crowley had created.

But you would think he'd lost his mind.

So he stayed where he was.

Barely.

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

Shoto stopped breathing.

Exactly like before.

He remembered what came next.

He remembered watching the sun disappear.

He remembered driving you home.

He remembered lying awake afterward, furious with himself because he hadn't said anything.

Tomorrow, you would meet him.

Your future husband.

Your future murderer, as far as Shoto was concerned.

Not this time.

Shoto had paid for this moment with a piece of his soul.

He wasn't wasting it.

His hand slowly moved across the sand until his fingers found yours.

He held them.

Shoto swallowed.

He had faced villains capable of leveling cities.

None of them had frightened him this much. "I need to tell you something."

You turned toward him.

Shoto could hear his heartbeat over the waves.

He'd spent seventeen years wishing he'd been brave enough to say these words.

He wasn't going to spend another lifetime regretting them.

"I love you."

There.

The world didn't end.

The sky didn't split apart.

You were still sitting beside him.

Shoto tightened his fingers around yours.

"I've loved you since high school. I should've told you years ago." His voice trembled slightly, and he hated that it did, but he forced himself to continue. "I was afraid that if you didn't feel the same way, I'd lose you."

He stared at you.

"But I know what losing you actually feels like."

You couldn't possibly understand that part.

Not yet.

Hopefully, you never would.

Shoto moved closer. "So I'm asking now."

The sun had almost reached the horizon.

Seven years ago, Shoto had watched it disappear without saying anything.

This time, he wouldn't.

"Go out with me." His thumb brushed carefully over your knuckles. "Please."