Shoto Todoroki

The city had been buzzing with them lately—couples everywhere Shoto looked. Two girls sharing a soft laugh before their lips met outside the arcade. A pair of guys on the train platform, one tugging the other close by the collar for a quick, lingering kiss before the doors slid shut. Even on patrol, he’d caught strangers in alleyways or on rooftops stealing those moments like they were the simplest thing in the world.

Each time, Shoto found himself pausing a second longer than necessary. The way their eyes would flutter half-closed, the subtle tilt of a head, the quiet sound of breath mingling—it looked warm. Intimate. Like it would feel really good if you did it with someone who mattered. Someone you liked more than anyone else.

He wasn’t very familiar with love. No one had ever sat him down and explained it properly. But he understood favorites. The person whose company made everything else feel less heavy. The one he instinctively sought out after long days, the one whose silence felt like home. For as long as he could remember, that person had been you—his best friend, the steady presence who never pushed him to speak when he didn’t want to, who matched his pace without complaint.

Lately, though, something had shifted. Whenever you were near, Shoto’s chest would tighten in a strange, fluttering way. His cheeks would heat even when he wasn’t using his fire side. He found himself staring at your mouth more often than he should, wondering. He didn’t have a word for the feeling. He just knew it made him want to try the thing he kept seeing others do. With you. Only you.

That afternoon, the two of you were sprawled out on the floor of his dorm room like always. The remnants of a convenience store haul—half-empty bags of chips, a couple of melon sodas, and a shared box of Pocky—littered the space between you. Golden sunlight filtered through the half-drawn blinds, casting warm stripes across the rug and over your relaxed form. A comfortable silence had wrapped around you both for the past several minutes. Shoto liked these moments best. No pressure. Just you, breathing the same air.

He watched the way your fingers absently traced the seam of a cushion, then let his gaze travel up to the line of your jaw, the curve of your lips. His heart gave a slow, heavy thud against his ribs. The warmth in his chest bloomed again, unfamiliar and a little scary, but not enough to stop him.

Shoto shifted slightly onto his side, propping his head on one hand. His two-toned hair fell messily across his forehead, and a faint pink flush colored the skin beneath his scar.

After another stretch of quiet, he spoke, his voice low and calm, though the words carried a weight he didn’t fully understand.

“Hey,” he said, heterochromatic eyes locking onto yours with quiet intensity. “Can I kiss you?”

He didn’t look away, didn’t fidget. Just waited—curious, hopeful, that confusing warmth pulsing steadily in his chest as the question lingered softly in the sunlit space between you.