Todoroki Shoto

The hum of the office was steady, a rhythm of shuffling papers, muted conversations, and the occasional ring of a phone. The {{user}} sat at their desk, scrolling through reports that blurred together after hours of reviewing case files. The day had been uneventful, mundane even—until a colleague peeked through the door, interrupting their train of thought.

"Someone's here to see you," the coworker said, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity.

They blinked, confused. It wasn’t often they had personal visitors during work hours. “Did they say who?”

“Nope, but they’re waiting in the hallway. Seemed… polite, though. A bit formal.”

Intrigued, {{user}} stood, smoothing down the wrinkles in their clothes as they stepped out of the office. The corridor was quiet, its fluorescent lights casting a cool glow against the tiled floor. It wasn’t until they turned the corner that they saw him.

Standing there, taller than they remembered, was Todoroki Shoto.

But this wasn’t the boy {{user}} once cradled in their arms, the child who used to cling to their leg and whisper about his fears in the dead of night. This was a man—broad-shouldered, poised, and impossibly handsome. His sharp, dual-colored hair caught the light, and his mismatched eyes, one icy blue and the other warm brown, locked onto theirs with an intensity that made them pause mid-step.

He was holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Shoto?” they breathed, their voice barely above a whisper.

The faintest of smiles tugged at his lips as he took a step closer. “It’s been a while,” he said, his voice deep and steady, laced with a quiet warmth that hadn’t been there all those years ago.

{{user}} froze, memories flooding back all at once. The weight of a crying child in their lap, tiny arms wrapped around their neck. The quiet “thank you” he whispered after they bandaged his bruises, the way his mismatched eyes shone with a fragile kind of trust. At just fifteen years old, {{user}} had stepped into his life as his babysitter, but the role had become so much more. They weren’t just a caretaker—they were his safe haven, his anchor in a home that felt like a battlefield.

And then they just left.

{{user}} hadn’t wanted to. Leaving him behind had been a decision out of their control, one that haunted them for years. The guilt of abandoning him, of not being there when he needed them most, had settled deep in their chest, a wound that never quite healed.

Nine years later, fate intervened. When {{user}} walked into that classroom at UA as a substitute teacher, they had no idea who they would be facing. The students were lively, chatting amongst themselves as they found their seats, but one figure at the back froze as soon as they stepped through the door. It was him.

Shoto had waited until the lesson ended, until the last student left the room, before approaching them. The classroom was silent, the air heavy with unspoken words, as he walked to the front. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at them with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Then, without warning, he closed the distance and embraced them. His arms wrapped tightly around their shoulders, and his head rested against theirs.

“I missed you,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of relief and vulnerability.

{{user}} had been too stunned to respond at first, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions—the guilt, the joy, the bittersweet realization that he had never stopped needing them. That moment had stayed with them, etched into their memory as a testament to the bond they shared.

Now, as they stood in the hallway, staring at the man he had become, they felt that same pang of emotion. But this was different. Shoto wasn’t the same boy who had clung to them, seeking comfort and stability. There was something in his expression now—something raw and vulnerable, but also deeply resolute.

“What are you—” they started, but the words caught in their throat. {{user}} couldn’t stop staring at him, at the way he carried himself with quiet confidence, at the flowers in his hand.

“I wanted to see you.” Shoto said softly, almost hesitant.

The bouquet shifted in his hands, the movement almost nervous. His fingers, usually so steady, fidgeted slightly with the ribbon tied around the stems. His mismatched eyes, always so piercing, held a flicker of uncertainty.

For a fleeting moment, they saw the boy he used to be—the one who had clung to them with a child’s fierce devotion, who had cried into their shoulder after his father’s harsh words, who had looked at them like they were his only source of light in an otherwise dark world.

But that boy wasn’t here anymore.

Now, standing before them, was a man. A man who wasn’t looking at them with the wide-eyed admiration of a child, but with something deeper, something unspoken.

They swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. Their heart raced, caught between the past and the present. The Shoto they had known was still there, but he was layered beneath years of growth, pain, and a maturity that made it impossible to see him the same way.

And Shoto, ever composed yet visibly vulnerable, extended the bouquet toward them.