The lodge common room was a furnace of heat and noise. Somebody had cracked a window an hour ago—didn't help. The air was thick with the smell of cheap chips and something fruity from a bottle that had been passed around until it was mostly empty. I was in the middle of it, letting the current carry me.

"Mina! Another round!" Kaminari was already pink in the face, grinning like an idiot, a cup sloshing in his hand.

"You haven't finished the one you've got." I laughed, but I took the bottle he offered anyway, let him refill my cup. The liquid burned going down, cheap and sweet, and I didn't care.

Kirishima was yelling something at Bakugo across the room—something about arm wrestling—and Bakugo's response was a snarl and a small explosion that made a few people jump. Uraraka was doubled over laughing, her hand on Ashido's—on my arm, I mean, her grip warm and a little tipsy.

"This is so fun," she said, her words slightly blurred at the edges. "I'm so glad we get to do this."

I was glad too. I was. The music was loud enough to feel in my chest, the floorboards creaked under the weight of twenty bodies moving in different rhythms, and for a while I let myself be pulled into it. I danced. I cheered. I clinked my cup against whoever offered.

But my eyes kept drifting.

To the window.

To the dark pressing against the glass.

The first time I looked, it was nothing. Just my own reflection staring back—pink skin, gold eyes, horns curving out of my hair. The party behind me, a blur of movement and color. I turned back to Sero, who was telling some story about the bus ride, and I laughed at the punchline even though I'd only caught half of it.

Then I looked again.

And this time—

This time there was someone out there.

A figure. Sitting on the steps. Green hair, even in the dim light from the window. Hunched shoulders. Alone.

My chest did something strange. A pull. A heat that started somewhere behind my ribs and spread outward, making my fingers tingle, making my breath catch.

I knew who it was. Of course I did. There was only one person in Class 1-A with that shade of green, that slump, that way of folding into himself like he was trying to take up less space than he deserved.

Izuku Midoriya.

He wasn't at the party. I hadn't noticed—not consciously. But now that I was looking at him, I realized I'd been looking for him all night. Scanning the room without knowing it. Waiting for that messy green hair to appear in the crowd.

It hadn't.

And now I knew why.

"Hey, Mina, you okay?" Jiro's voice cut through. She was beside me, earphone jacks swaying, her sharp eyes watching me with that knowing look she gets.

"Yeah, fine." The words came out automatic. "Just—need some air. Be right back."

I set my cup down on the nearest surface—a windowsill, next to someone's discarded hoodie. I didn't look back as I pushed through the cluster of bodies near the door.

"Where you going?" Kirishima called, but I was already out, the door swinging shut behind me, cutting off the noise like a knife.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the light bleeding from the common room. The air was cooler here, but not by much. I walked past the rows of closed doors, past the bench where someone had left a pair of shoes, toward the front of the lodge.

My heart was beating faster than it should have been. I could feel it in my throat.

The front door was heavy, old wood with a handle that stuck if you didn't know how to turn it just right. I knew. I'd been here before, in a different life, at a different camp. Summer training, first year. Different faces. Different reasons for being alone outside.

The handle turned. The door swung open.

Cold air hit my face, sharp and clean, carrying the smell of pine and damp earth. The sky above was dark, scattered with stars I couldn't name. The porch stretched out in front of me, wooden boards creaking under my weight as I stepped onto them.

And there he was.

Izuku sat on the steps, his back to me, his head bowed. The light from the window fell across his shoulders, illuminating the curve of his spine, the way his hands gripped the railing on either side of him. His knuckles were white. His whole body was rigid, like he was holding something in by sheer force of will.

I stopped breathing.

For a second—just a second—I almost went back inside. This felt private. This felt like something I wasn't supposed to see.

But the pull was still there, that strange heat in my chest, and it was stronger now than it had been through the glass. Stronger, and harder to ignore.

I took a step forward. The board creaked.

His shoulders tensed. He didn't turn around.

"Hey." My voice came out softer than I meant it to. Almost a whisper. "Midoriya."

A long pause. The night air was so quiet I could hear the sound of his breathing—ragged, uneven, like he'd been crying.

"Hey, Ashido." His voice was rough. Cracked. He still didn't turn around.

I took another step. Then another. The porch wasn't that long, but it felt like it took forever to cross. Each step brought me closer to him, closer to the tension radiating off his body, closer to whatever was happening inside his head.

When I reached the top of the steps, I stopped. He was close enough to touch. I could see the tremble in his hands, the way his fingers were digging into the railing like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

I could see the blood.

Thin lines of it, running from his palms where the wood had bitten into his skin. Drops falling into the dark below.

The party sounds drifted through the window—muffled laughter, a burst of music. It felt like it was happening on another planet.

"You okay?" I asked. It was a stupid question. I knew it was a stupid question. But I didn't know what else to say.

He let out a sound that might have been a laugh. Bitter and broken. "Not really."

I waited. He didn't say anything else.

The silence stretched. I could hear his breath hitching, could see the tension in his jaw, the way his teeth were clamped together.

I sat down next to him.

Not too close—a foot of space between us. Enough that he could pretend I wasn't there if he wanted to. Enough that I could feel the cold from the steps seeping through my clothes, the rough wood against my thighs.

He didn't move away. That was something.

"I saw you through the window," I said. "You looked like you needed—" I stopped. What? What did he need? "I don't know. Company? Or maybe the opposite. I wasn't sure."

His hands were still gripping the railing. The blood was smearing now, dark against the pale wood. "I'm fine."

"You're bleeding."

He looked down at his hands. For a moment he seemed surprised, like he hadn't noticed. Then his jaw tightened, and he turned away. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing." My voice came out firmer than I expected. "Midoriya. Look at me."

He didn't.

I took a breath. The air was cold in my lungs, sharp and clean. I could see his profile in the dim light—the curve of his cheek, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his mouth was pressed into a thin line.

I could see the tear tracks on his face.

They were fresh. Still wet, catching the light.

Something in my chest cracked. Just a little. Just enough to let the heat through.

"You know," I said, keeping my voice light, "I didn't come out here to make you feel worse. I came out here because—" I paused, trying to find the right words. "Because I saw you, and I couldn't just... leave you out here. Alone."

His breath shuddered. "You should go back inside. The party—"

"The party will still be there in ten minutes." I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around them. "And I'd rather be out here. With you."

He went still.

I watched him process the words. Saw the way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his hands tightened on the railing, then loosened, then tightened again.

"Why?" His voice was barely audible.

"Why what?"

"Why would you—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Never mind."

"No, say it." I shifted closer. Just a few inches. "What were you going to say?"

He was quiet for a long time. The stars shifted overhead. Somewhere in the distance, an animal called out—a bird, maybe, or something else. The night was full of sounds I couldn't name.

When he spoke, his voice was raw. "Why would you want to be out here with me?"

The question hit me harder than I expected. It wasn't rhetorical. He genuinely didn't understand. He genuinely thought there was no reason someone would choose to sit with him.

I wanted to say something sharp. Something that would cut through whatever spiral he was in. But the look on his face—the brokenness in his eyes, the way his shoulders were curved inward like he was trying to disappear—made me swallow the words.

"Because I wanted to," I said simply. "That's the only reason I need."

He let out a breath. It sounded almost like a sob, but he swallowed it before it could take shape.

"I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "I don't deserve this. Any of it. The class. The quirk. All Might." His voice cracked. "Being here. Being one of you."

"One of us?"

"I'm not—" He shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. "I'm not like you. I'm not like Kirishima, or Uraraka, or Todoroki. I'm just—I'm just some kid who got lucky. Who got handed everything. Who doesn't belong."

"That's not true."

"You don't know that." His voice was bitter now. "You don't know what it was like. Before. Being quirkless. Being nothing. Watching everyone else have powers and knowing I'd never—" He stopped. His hands were shaking. "And then All Might gave me his quirk, and suddenly I'm in the hero course, and everyone's looking at me like I earned it, but I didn't. I didn't earn anything. I just got lucky."

His voice broke on the last word.

I didn't say anything for a moment. I just let the silence sit, let his words hang in the cold air between us.

Then I said, "Can I tell you something?"

He didn't respond. He was still staring at his hands, at the blood smeared across his palms.

"I wasn't always like this," I said. "I mean—I was always outgoing. Always the center of attention. But it wasn't always... real."

He looked up. Just a flicker of his eyes toward me.

"When I was younger," I continued, "I used to wonder if people liked me because of me, or because I made them laugh. Because I was fun. Easy to be around. I never let anyone see the parts of me that weren't fun. The parts that were scared. Or sad. Or tired."

I paused. The memory was old, worn smooth by time, but it still had edges.

"I thought that if they saw those parts, they'd leave. So I kept them hidden. I kept laughing, kept dancing, kept being the life of the party. And it worked. People stayed." I looked at him. "But I was still alone. Because nobody knew me. They knew the performance."

He was watching me now. Really watching. His eyes were red, his face blotchy from crying, but there was something else in his gaze—something curious. Something open.

"What changed?" he asked.

I smiled. "I met people who didn't want the performance. People who saw through it and stuck around anyway." I met his eyes. "You're one of them, Midoriya. You're one of the people who made me feel like I didn't have to perform."

His breath caught.

"I don't—" He shook his head. "I don't do anything."

"You do," I said. "You notice things. You ask questions. You care. You're the first person to check on someone when they're struggling. You don't do it for attention, you do it because you actually give a damn." I paused. "That's not nothing. That's not luck. That's who you are."

His lip trembled. He bit down on it, hard enough to draw blood.

"I don't know how to believe that," he whispered.

"That's okay." My voice was soft. "You don't have to believe it right now. You just have to let it sit. Let it be true, even if you don't feel it yet."

He was quiet for a long time. The night pressed in around us, cold and dark and full of stars. The sounds of the party drifted through the window, distant and muffled, like they belonged to a different world.

I watched his hands. The blood was drying now, dark against his skin. The cuts weren't deep, but they were real. They were proof of something I couldn't name.

I wanted to reach out. I wanted to touch him—his shoulder, his hand, anything. I wanted to let him know, through my skin against his, that he wasn't alone.

My hand lifted.

It moved toward him slowly, giving him time to pull away. Time to tell me no.

He didn't pull away.

My hand hovered in the space between us. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body. Close enough to see the way his breath was still uneven, the way his chest rose and fell like he was fighting to keep himself together.

I didn't touch him.

My hand hung there, suspended, trembling slightly in the cold night air. I could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on both of us, the thickness of everything left unsaid.

I opened my mouth to speak.

But no sound came.

There were no words for this. No clever line, no cheerful deflection. There was only the space between my hand and his shoulder, the heat waiting to bridge the gap, the question neither of us was ready to answer.

His breath was ragged. Mine was too.

The night air held us there, suspended in the stillness, two figures on the edge of something neither of us had words for yet.

My hand was still hanging there. Frozen. The space between my fingers and his shoulder felt like it had its own gravity, pulling me forward, holding me back.

He was watching me. Those green eyes, red-rimmed and wet, watching me like he was waiting for me to decide. Like he'd already decided he wouldn't survive whatever I chose.

The blood on his hands caught the light from the window. Dark and wet. Fresh.

I let my hand drop.

Not away from him — down. Toward his wrist. Toward the hand that was still gripping the railing like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

He flinched when my fingers brushed his skin. A small thing, barely a movement. But he didn't pull away.

I wrapped my fingers around his wrist. His pulse was there, hammering against my fingertips, fast and ragged. The heat of his skin was shocking against the cold night air.

"Let me see," I said. My voice came out quiet. Not a request. Not quite a demand. Something in between.

His grip on the railing tightened.

I waited.

The seconds stretched. The night pressed in. Somewhere behind me, muffled by glass and distance, someone at the party laughed — a bright, careless sound that belonged to a different world entirely.

Then his fingers loosened.

One by one, he let go of the railing. His hand hung in the air between us, palm up, open. Vulnerable.

I turned it over slowly. Gently. Like I was handling something fragile.

The wood had torn into his skin in a dozen places — thin ragged lines where the grain had bitten deep. Dirt and splinters mixed with the blood, dark against his palm. The cuts weren't deep enough to need stitches, but they were raw. Angry. Real.

My chest tightened.

"Midoriya." His name came out rough. "This is—" I stopped. Swallowed. "This is bad."

"I've had worse." His voice was hollow.

"That doesn't make this okay."

He didn't answer. His other hand was still gripping the railing, knuckles white, blood seeping between his fingers.

I ran my thumb across his palm. Feather-light. Tracing the torn skin, the lines of blood. He sucked in a breath — sharp, surprised, like he hadn't expected the touch to hurt.

Or hadn't expected it to feel good.

I couldn't tell which.

"There's splinters," I said, keeping my voice low. "Dirt. You need to clean this properly."

"I know."

"Do you have a first aid kit? In your room?"

A pause. "Probably. I think they gave us one."

I looked up at him. His eyes were still wet, his face still blotchy, but there was something else in his expression now. Something that wasn't quite hope, wasn't quite fear. Something caught in between.

"Come on." I released his wrist, but I didn't pull away. I stayed close, close enough to feel the warmth coming off his body. "Let me clean these."

His breath hitched.

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to." I cut him off, gentle but firm. "I want to."

The words hung in the air between us. Heavy. Honest.

He stared at me. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound came out.

I stood up. The cold air hit my legs where they'd been pressed against the wooden steps, raising goosebumps on my skin. I held out my hand — my right hand, palm open, fingers loose.

Waiting.

"Come on," I said again. "Let's get you patched up."

He looked at my hand like he'd never seen one before. Like it was something foreign, something he didn't know how to respond to. His eyes moved from my fingers to my face, searching for something — a trick, a joke, a punchline waiting to land.

He wouldn't find one.

I meant every word of this.

"Ashido, I—" His voice cracked. "I don't—"

"You don't have to say anything." I kept my hand steady. "You just have to take my hand."

He stared at it.

The seconds stretched. My arm started to ache from holding the position, but I didn't lower it. I didn't fill the silence with chatter. I just waited, my hand hanging in the cold air between us, an invitation he hadn't decided whether to accept.

I could see the war happening behind his eyes. The part of him that wanted to say no, to push me away, to curl back into himself and disappear. And the other part — the smaller part, the quieter part — that wanted to be pulled out of the dark.

I didn't know which part would win.

The night held its breath.

Then his hand moved.

Slowly. Trembling. His fingers brushed against mine, tentative, like he was testing whether I was real. Whether I would disappear if he reached for me.

I closed my fingers around his.

His hand was cold. Smaller than I expected, but calloused — hero training callouses, the kind that came from gripping things too hard for too long. His palm was wet with blood, smearing against my skin, warm and sticky.

I didn't let go.

He stood up, slow and unsteady, like his legs weren't sure they could hold him. I kept my grip on his hand, steadying him, feeling the tremble run through his arm.

Up close, he looked worse than he had from the steps. The shadows under his eyes were dark enough to look bruised. His face was pale beneath the freckles, his lips chapped and bitten. His hair was a mess of tangles and curls, plastered to his forehead in some places, sticking up in others.

He looked exhausted. Broken. Beautiful in the way that things are beautiful when they're falling apart and still choosing to hold together.

I pushed the thought away before it could take root.

"Your room," I said. "Which way?"

He blinked, like the question took a moment to process. "Uh—left. Down the hall. Third door on the right."

I nodded. I didn't let go of his hand.

We walked like that — me leading, him following, our fingers tangled together, his blood drying between our palms. The porch creaked under our feet as we crossed back toward the door. The light from the window fell across us, casting long shadows on the wood.

I pushed the door open with my free hand. The hallway was dim, lit only by the spill of light from the common room at the other end. The sounds of the party were louder here — voices overlapping, music thumping, someone yelling something about a drinking game.

It felt like a lifetime away.

We walked past the common room entrance. I caught a glimpse of Kirishima, his arm around Kaminari's shoulder, both of them laughing at something on Sero's phone. Uraraka was sprawled on the couch, her head in Tsuyu's lap, giggling about something I couldn't hear.

None of them noticed us.

We turned left. The hallway narrowed, the walls closing in, the floorboards creaking under our weight. The doors were numbered, plain wood with cheap brass handles. Third door on the right.

I stopped. Let go of his hand to reach for the handle.

The door swung open.

The room was small — two beds, a desk, a window that looked out onto the dark trees. A duffel bag sat on one of the beds, unzipped, clothes spilling out. A notebook was open on the desk, covered in the same cramped handwriting I'd seen him using in class.

I stepped inside. Let my eyes adjust.

The first aid kit was on the desk, next to the notebook. A small white box with a red cross on it, the kind they gave out at the start of camp. I picked it up, pried open the lid.

Bandages. Antiseptic wipes. Tweezers. Tape. The basics.

I turned back to him. He was standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, watching me with an expression I couldn't read.

"Sit," I said, gesturing to the bed. "On the bed. Let me see your hands."

He hesitated. For a second I thought he was going to argue, or make an excuse, or tell me he was fine and I should go back to the party.

But then his shoulders dropped. The fight went out of him like air from a punctured balloon.

He sat.

The bed creaked under his weight. He sat on the edge, his hands resting on his thighs, palms up, open. Waiting.

I crossed the room. Sat down on the bed across from him, close enough that our knees almost touched. I set the first aid kit beside me, popped it open, pulled out the antiseptic wipes and tweezers.

"This might sting," I said.

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "I've had worse."

"You said that already."

"Doesn't make it less true."

I picked up his right hand, cradled it in my palm. His fingers twitched when I touched him, but he didn't pull away. The blood had started to dry, tacky against his skin, dark in the creases of his palm.

I started with the tweezers. Picking out the splinters one by one — tiny slivers of wood that had buried themselves in his flesh. He flinched when I worked the first one loose, a sharp intake of breath that he tried to hide.

"Sorry," I murmured.

"Don't be." His voice was rough. "Keep going."

I did.

One splinter. Then another. Then a third, deeper than the rest, buried in the meat of his palm near the base of his thumb. I had to dig for it, my tweezers pressing into his skin, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth but didn't make a sound.

When it came free, a bead of blood welled up in its place. Dark and red and fresh.

I reached for the antiseptic wipe. Tore it open with my teeth. The sharp chemical smell hit my nose as I pressed it against his palm.

He hissed.

"I know," I said. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine." His voice was tight. "Keep going."

I cleaned each cut carefully, methodically, watching the dirt and blood come away on the white cloth. His hand was trembling in mine — from the pain, or the cold, or something else entirely. I didn't ask.

When his right hand was clean, I reached for his left. He gave it to me without resistance, his fingers loose, his palm open.

More splinters. More cuts. The same patient work, the same sharp chemical smell, the same tremble in his hand.

I worked in silence. The only sounds were the distant thump of music from the party, the creak of the bed when either of us shifted, the soft tear of antiseptic wipes being pulled from their packet.

When I finished, I reached for the bandages. Rolled them out, cut them to size, wrapped them around his palms. Not too tight — just enough to protect the wounds, to keep the dirt out, to let them heal.

I smoothed the last piece of tape down with my thumb.

His hands were clean now. Wrapped in white bandages. Resting in my palms.

I looked up.

He was watching me. His eyes were still red, his face still blotchy, but the tears had stopped. There was something else in his expression now — something raw and open and unguarded, like he'd let me see past all the walls he'd built.

Like he trusted me.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was barely a whisper.

I smiled. Small. Real. "You don't have to thank me."

"I do." He swallowed. "You didn't have to do this. You didn't have to come find me. You didn't have to—" He stopped. Shook his head. "You didn't have to care."

"But I do."

The words hung between us. I could feel the weight of them, the truth in them, the thing I hadn't said out loud until now.

I cared.

I cared about him. More than I'd realized. More than I had words for.

His breath caught. His eyes searched mine, looking for something — doubt, hesitation, the punchline of a joke I wasn't telling.

He wouldn't find it.

"Mina—" My name on his lips. Soft. Uncertain. Like he was testing how it felt to say it.

I didn't look away.

"Yeah?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

And then he leaned forward.

My hand came up before I knew what I was doing. Palm out. Flat. A wall he ran into before he reached me.

He stopped. Inches away. Close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his face, the shaky breath that washed across my fingers.

"Wait." My voice came out quiet. Not sharp. Not a rejection. Just—a pause. A moment to breathe. "Before you—before we—" I swallowed. "What were you going to say? Before you leaned in?"

He blinked. The question seemed to catch him off guard, like he'd been running on instinct and the sudden stop had left him disoriented. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"I—" He stopped. His eyes searched mine, looking for something I couldn't name. "I was going to say—"

Another pause. His throat moved when he swallowed.

"I was going to say your name," he said. "Again. Just—" A shaky breath. "Just to hear what it sounded like. When I was close enough to feel it."

My chest tightened.

"Mina."

He said it softly. Carefully. Like he was holding something fragile, something that might break if he said it too loud. His voice was rough from crying, raw at the edges, but the word itself—my name—landed like a touch.

I didn't pull my hand away.

"That's not all," I said. It wasn't an accusation. Just an observation. "There was more. I could see it in your eyes."

He looked down. His bandaged hands were resting on his thighs, fingers curled into loose fists. The white wrapping was stark against his skin, clean and fresh and still smelling faintly of antiseptic.

"There was," he admitted. His voice was barely audible. "But I don't—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I don't know if I can say it out loud."

"Why not?"

"Because if I say it, it becomes real. And if it becomes real, then I have to deal with it. And I don't know if I'm ready for that."

The honesty of it hit me square in the chest. No deflection. No joke. Just raw, unfiltered truth.

I lowered my hand. Slowly. Not pulling away from him—just letting it fall to my lap, where it rested next to his knee. Close enough to touch. Not quite touching.

"Try me," I said. "Say it. And if it's too much, we'll deal with it together."

His eyes met mine. In the dim light of the room, with the distant thump of music bleeding through the walls, he looked younger than I'd ever seen him. Vulnerable in a way he never let himself be in front of the class.

His mouth opened. Closed. His hands twisted in his lap, the bandages rustling.

"I don't know how to let someone catch me," he whispered.

The words hung between us. Heavy. Honest. Raw in a way that made my throat tight.

"I've spent so long—" He stopped. Swallowed. "So long being the one who reaches out. Who tries. Who fails and gets back up and tries again. I don't know how to be the one who gets caught. Who gets to rest."

His hands curled into fists against his thighs. The bandages pulled tight, the white fabric straining.

"I don't know how to let someone take care of me without waiting for them to leave."

I felt those words in my chest. In the space behind my ribs where I'd been holding my breath without realizing it.

I knew that feeling. Knew it in my bones, in the way I laughed too loud at parties, in the way I touched shoulders and squeezed arms and filled every silence with chatter. I knew what it was like to perform your own worth because you were terrified that the real version of yourself wasn't worth keeping.

I reached out. Slowly. Giving him time to pull away, to tell me no.

He didn't.

My fingers found his. Bandaged and warm and trembling. I wrapped my hand around his, gentle, careful not to press too hard on the wounds underneath.

"I'm not going to leave," I said. My voice was steady, even though my heart was hammering. "I'm not going to disappear in the morning and pretend this didn't happen. I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere."

His breath hitched. His eyes were wet again, the tears threatening to spill over.

"Why?" The word came out broken. "Why do you care so much? I'm not—I'm not special. I'm not amazing like Todoroki or strong like Bakugo or—"

"Stop."

The word came out sharper than I meant it to. He flinched.

I softened my grip. Ran my thumb across his knuckles, feeling the bones beneath the bandages.

"You're not them," I said. "You're Izuku. You're the guy who runs into burning buildings without a second thought. Who writes pages and pages of analysis about people's quirks because you want to understand them. Who makes everyone around them better just by being there."

I paused. Let the words sink in.

"You're the guy who sat alone on those steps because you were too busy carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders to let anyone help you carry it."

A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away.

"I'm not special," he repeated, but his voice had lost its conviction. It sounded like a reflex now. A script he'd recited so many times he'd forgotten it wasn't true.

"You're special to me."

The words came out before I could stop them. They hung in the air between us, raw and unguarded, and I felt my face heat up as I realized what I'd said.

His eyes widened.

"I mean—" I started, but the words tangled in my throat. "I didn't mean—"

I stopped. Took a breath. Let the silence settle around us.

"I meant it," I said quietly. "You're special to me. I don't know exactly when it happened, or how, but—" I met his eyes. "You are."

He stared at me. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes red-rimmed and wet, his face a mess of emotions I couldn't untangle.

"Mina—" My name on his lips. Broken. Wondering. Like he'd never really heard it before.

"Yeah." My voice was barely a whisper. "That's me."

He laughed. It was a wet, shaky sound, half sob, half something else. "I don't know what to do with that."

"You don't have to do anything." I squeezed his hand. "You just have to let it be true."

He was quiet for a long moment. The room was small and close, the walls pressing in, the distant music a heartbeat we couldn't escape. The light from the single bare bulb cast long shadows across his face, across the tears still tracking down his cheeks.

Then he said, "Can I tell you something?"

"Anything."

He took a breath. Let it out slowly. His hand tightened around mine, the bandages rough against my skin.

"When I came out here tonight, I wasn't planning to go back inside."

The words landed like a stone in my chest. Heavy. Cold.

"I wasn't planning anything. I just—I couldn't be in there anymore. With all those people. With all that noise. I couldn't pretend to be okay for one more second."

His voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. Like he was describing something that had happened to someone else.

"I sat down on those steps and I thought—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I thought, maybe I'll just stay here. Until someone notices. Or doesn't. Either way, it didn't matter."

I felt the air leave my lungs.

"But then you came out." His eyes met mine. "You sat next to me. You didn't try to fix me. You didn't tell me to cheer up. You just—sat there. And that was enough."

His voice cracked on the last word.

"That was more than enough."

I didn't realize I was crying until I tasted salt on my lips.

I blinked, and the tears fell, hot against my cold cheeks. I didn't wipe them away. I let them fall, let him see them, let him know that his words had landed somewhere deep inside me.

"I'm glad you came out," he whispered. "I'm glad it was you."

I squeezed his hand. Felt the bandages shift under my fingers. Felt the heat of his skin through the layers of gauze.

"Me too," I said. "I'm glad it was me."

The room was quiet. The party was still going somewhere down the hall, muffled and distant, a reminder that there was a world outside this small room, outside this moment we had carved out of the night.

But right now, that world didn't exist.

There was only him. Only me. Only the space between us that was getting smaller by the second.

He leaned forward again. Slower this time. Giving me time to stop him, to pull away, to raise my hand again.

I didn't.

He stopped when his forehead was touching mine. His breath was warm against my lips, his eyes closed, his lashes dark against his freckled cheeks.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he whispered. "I've never done this before."

"Neither have I." My voice was soft. "Not like this."

"What if I mess it up?"

"Then we'll mess it up together."

A shaky breath. His hand found mine again, fingers intertwining, bandages and all.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

I closed my eyes. Felt the warmth of his skin against mine. Felt the weight of the night pressing in around us, the darkness outside the window, the distant thrum of music and laughter.

And then, softly, barely a whisper against my skin, he said my name again.

"Mina."

Like it was a prayer. Like it was the only word that mattered.

I didn't answer with words.

I leaned forward and closed the last of the distance between us.

His lips are soft. I feel the slight chapped roughness against mine, the salt from tears he hasn't wiped away, and underneath it all—something warm. Something that's just him.

For a heartbeat, he doesn't move. He's frozen, his whole body locked up like he's waiting for the punchline. My chest tightens, a sharp spike of fear—did I read this wrong?—

Then he breaks.

A sound catches in his throat, a broken, desperate noise that vibrates against my mouth. His hand, still wrapped in the bandages I just cleaned, lifts from his lap and lands on my side. His fingers curl into my shirt, clutching, like he's afraid I'll evaporate if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

I feel the shudder run through him. It starts in his chest and travels outward, making his lips tremble against mine. He's shaking. He's shaking.

I kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower. Letting him feel that I'm real, that I'm not running. He breathes in sharply through his nose, and his other hand comes up to find mine, his bandaged fingers sliding between my own, squeezing so hard it aches.

He's kissing me back.

The thought cuts through the haze in my head, sharp and bright. He's actually kissing me back. His lips move against mine, clumsy and unpracticed and so earnest it makes my chest hurt. He kisses me like he's never done this before—like he's been saving it up his whole life and didn't know it until now.

I tilt my head. Sink deeper into the kiss. My free hand finds his jaw, my fingers tracing the line of his cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his skin, the stubble that's just starting to come in. He leans into my touch like he's starving for it.

When I break the kiss, just an inch, just enough to breathe, he follows me. His lips chase mine, his eyes still closed, his face tilted up like he's reaching for the sun. The sight of him like that—so open, so vulnerable, so wanting—makes something in my chest crack wide open.

"Izuku." His name comes out like a prayer. I don't open my eyes. I don't want to break the spell. "I'm here. I'm right here."

I feel him nod against my forehead. His breath is warm and uneven on my lips. "I know," he whispers. His voice is wrecked. Raw. Like he's been holding back a flood and the dam is finally cracking. "I know. I just—I don't—"

"Hey." I open my eyes. He's so close I can see the individual lashes clinging to his eyelids, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his lips are slightly parted and pink from the kiss. "You don't have to have the right words. I don't either."

He opens his eyes.

The green of them is almost swallowed by the black of his pupils. His eyes are wet, the tears threatening to spill over, but there's something else there now. Something that wasn't there on the steps. It's fragile, small, barely flickering—but it's hope.

"Mina." My name on his lips sounds different now. Like it belongs to him. "I... can I kiss you again?"

The question sends a wave of heat through my chest. The fact that he asked. The way his voice cracked on the word. The innocent, desperate need in his eyes.

I answer by pressing my lips to his.

This time I feel him relax into it almost immediately. His hand on my side slides around to my back, pulling me closer, the bandages rough against my spine. He kisses me like he's learning me—the shape of my lips, the way I taste, the soft sounds I make when he gets it just right.

My fingers slide into his hair. It's exactly as soft as I always imagined. The curls catch on my fingers, springy and unruly, and I feel him shiver when I scratch my nails lightly against his scalp.

He breaks the kiss with a gasp.

"Sorry," he says quickly, his face flushing beneath his freckles. "I just—that—" He swallows, his eyes darting away. "That felt—"

"Good?" I finish for him, my voice soft. "It's supposed to feel good, Izuku. It's okay."

He looks back at me. His eyes search mine, looking for the joke, the catch, the moment I'm going to laugh and tell him this was all a prank.

He doesn't find it.

"I'm not used to things feeling good," he admits, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm used to things hurting. I'm used to surviving. This—" He gestures vaguely between us with his bandaged hand. "This feels like something I'm not allowed to have."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I feel them land somewhere deep, somewhere tender, and I have to blink back tears of my own.

"You are," I say. My voice is fierce, even though it's barely above a whisper. "You are allowed to have this. You're allowed to be happy. You're allowed to be held, and kissed, and loved."

He sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes go wide, the tears finally spilling over.

I reach up with my thumb and wipe them away. The tracks are warm against his skin. His hand tightens on mine, the bandages pressing into my palm.

"I don't know how to do this," he confesses. His voice cracks. "I don't know how to be worth this."

"Then let me show you."

I kiss him again. Gently. Tenderly. I put everything I can't say into that one kiss—every hope, every promise, every assurance that he is enough. That he's always been enough.

He kisses me back, and this time his hand comes up to cup my face. His palm is warm through the bandages, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheekbone like I'm something precious.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine. Our hands are tangled together. The light from the bare bulb is harsh and yellow, but somehow it makes him look beautiful—all shadows and sharp angles and soft, trembling lips.

"I think—" He stops, swallows, tries again. "I think I've wanted this longer than I realized."

The confession is quiet, almost an afterthought, but it hits me square in the chest.

"Yeah?" I can't keep the smile out of my voice. "How long?"

He lets out a shaky laugh. "I don't know. I think since you asked me to dance at the party."

I blink. "That was like three hours ago."

"I know." He laughs again, wet and broken and beautiful. "I'm a quick study when it comes to realizing I'm in trouble."

"Trouble, huh?"

He looks at me, those green eyes meeting mine. "Yeah. The good kind. The kind I never thought I'd get to have."

I lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. Then his jaw. Then the corner of his mouth. He lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes closing, his hand tightening on mine.

"You deserve this," I whisper against his skin. "You deserve to be wanted, Izuku. You deserve to be caught."

His breath hitches. I feel him trembling against me.

"I'm going to keep telling you that," I say. "Every day, until you believe it."

He turns his head and presses his lips to my palm, a desperate, grateful gesture that makes my heart stutter. "Mina."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For coming outside. For not giving up on me." He opens his eyes. They're wet, but he's smiling—a real smile, small and fragile but real. "For being the one who caught me."

I feel tears prick at my own eyes. I don't try to hide them. I let him see them, let him see that he's done the same for me.

"Always," I say. "I'll always catch you."

He pulls me into his chest. His arms wrap around me, bandages pressing into my back, his heart hammering against my ear. I feel his breath in my hair, the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body against mine.

The silence that follows isn't empty. It's full—full of everything we said and everything we didn't need to say. The party is still going somewhere down the hall, muffled and distant, a world away from this small room, this small bed, this small moment that feels infinite.

I feel his breath even out. His hand finds mine, his fingers interlacing with mine on his chest. The bandages are warm from his skin, and I can feel his pulse beating against my wrist.

"Mina."

"Yeah?"

He pauses. His thumb traces circles on my hand. "I think I'm going to be okay."

The words are simple. Quiet. But they carry so much weight that I feel the tears slip down my cheeks.

"Yeah," I say, my voice thick. "I think you are too."

The light from the bare bulb casts our shadows on the wall—two figures tangled together, holding each other like they've found harbor after a storm. The night presses in around us, dark and cold, but in here, in this room, there's warmth.

His lips press against my hair. Soft. Reverent. A promise sealed in silence.

I close my eyes and let the moment hold us. Let the silence breathe. Let the night have its darkness, because I have him, and he has me, and for now, that's everything.

I feel his breath change. It's not the shaky, wet breath from before. It's sharper. Quicker. His fingers tighten on my waist, and there's a desperation in the movement that wasn't there a moment ago.

I lift my head. Meet his eyes.

Something's shifted. The air between us is thicker, charged with a current I can feel in my chest, in my stomach, in the space between my thighs. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the green of his irises. His lips are parted and pink and slightly swollen from our kisses.

He looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world.

I don't think. I just act.

I lean forward and kiss him again, but this time I don't hold back. This time I pour everything into it—the fear I felt when I saw him on those steps, the relief when he took my hand, the ache that's been building in my chest since I first saw him through the window. I kiss him like I'm trying to tell him every word I don't have the courage to say out loud.

He makes a sound against my mouth. A low, desperate noise that vibrates through me. His hand slides up my back, fingers pressing into my spine through the thin fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us.

I feel him. Every inch of him. The heat of his body, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the press of his thighs against mine. The bandages on his hands are rough against my skin, a texture that shouldn't feel good but somehow does, because it's him.

My hand finds the hem of his shirt. I pause, my fingers resting against the warm skin of his stomach.

He breaks the kiss. His breath is ragged, his eyes searching mine.

"Is this—" He swallows. His voice is hoarse. "Is this okay?"

I answer by pulling his shirt up. He gets the message, raising his arms, and the fabric slides over his head and falls somewhere on the bed behind him.

I forget how to breathe.

He's beautiful. I knew he was fit—hero training, all the drills, all the workouts. But seeing it up close, in the dim light of this small room, is different. The muscles in his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. The scars—small ones scattered across his ribs, a larger one near his collarbone. The way his breath makes his whole body rise and fall, like he's just as affected as I am.

I reach out. My fingers trace the edge of the scar on his collarbone.

He shivers.

"You're beautiful," I whisper. The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel my face heat, but I don't take them back. They're true.

He lets out a shaky laugh. "I was about to say the same thing."

His hand comes up to my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone, feather-light, like he's memorizing the shape of me. His eyes follow the movement of his own fingers, watching himself touch me like he can't believe it's real.

"Mina." My name, soft and wondering. "I've never—" He stops. Looks away. "I don't know what I'm doing."

I take his hand—the one resting on my cheek—and press a kiss to his palm. Right over the bandages. Right over the wounds I cleaned.

"Neither do I," I say. "But we can figure it out together."

His eyes meet mine. There's still fear there. Still vulnerability. But there's something else too—a hunger I haven't seen before. A need that matches my own.

I pull my shirt over my head.

The air hits my skin, cool and sharp. I'm wearing a simple bra—black, nothing fancy—but the way he looks at me makes me feel like I'm wearing silk and diamonds. His breath catches. His hand hovers in the air, trembling, like he's afraid to touch.

"Can I?" His voice is barely a whisper.

I take his hand and press it to my chest. Right over my heart.

He feels it. I know he does. The way it's hammering against my ribs, desperate and alive.

His fingers trace the edge of the bra. Slowly. Reverently. Like he's handling something sacred. The bandages brush against my skin, rough and tender at the same time, and I feel a shiver run down my spine.

"Tell me what you want," he says. His voice is low and rough, and I feel the words in my stomach, in the heat pooling between my legs. "Tell me, and I'll—I'll do it. Whatever you want."

I reach behind my back. Unclasp my bra. Let it fall.

His eyes go dark.

"Touch me," I say. "I want you to touch me."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

His hand finds my breast, warm and hesitant. His thumb brushes over my nipple, and I gasp—a sharp, surprised sound that I can't hold back. He freezes.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No." I laugh, breathless. "No, Izuku. That's—that's a good sound."

He exhales. His forehead drops to mine. "Okay. Good. That's—okay."

I guide his hand. Show him how I like to be touched—circles, light pressure, firmer when I press his palm against me. He's a fast learner. His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer, and I feel the heat of his skin against mine, chest to chest.

The kiss that follows is sloppy. Desperate. All teeth and tongue and hungry breath. His hands are everywhere—my back, my hips, the curve of my waist. The bandages catch on my skin, a rough counterpoint to his gentle touch, and I find myself craving it. The contrast. The proof that he's real, that this is real.

I push him back onto the bed.

He lands with a soft thud, his head hitting the pillow, his eyes wide. I climb on top of him, straddling his hips, feeling the length of him pressed against me through our clothes. His hands find my thighs instinctively, sliding up my bare skin, his fingers digging into the flesh like he's trying to anchor himself.

"Mina—" His voice cracks. "I don't—I'm not going to last long if you—"

I lean down and kiss him. "That's okay." I roll my hips against his, feeling him twitch beneath the fabric. "We have all night."

He groans. His head falls back, his eyes squeezing shut, his hands tightening on my thighs.

I reach down. Find the button of his jeans.

He opens his eyes. Watches me. His breath is coming in short, sharp gasps, his chest rising and falling beneath me.

I pop the button. Slide the zipper down. The sound is loud in the quiet room, sharp and final.

"Is this okay?" I ask, echoing his question from earlier.

He nods. His throat moves when he swallows. "Yeah. Yes. Please."

I slide his jeans down his hips. He lifts his hips to help me, and the fabric catches on his thighs before falling away. He's wearing boxers—black, plain—and the tent in them is obvious. I feel a rush of heat at the sight of it, at the proof that he wants me as much as I want him.

I trail my fingers along the waistband of his boxers. His stomach tenses under my touch.

"Can I?" I ask.

He lets out a breath that's almost a sob. "Yes. God, yes."

I pull his boxers down.

His cock springs free, hard and thick, the tip already wet with pre-cum. I wrap my hand around him, and he gasps—a sharp, broken sound that makes my thighs clench.

"Fuck, Mina." His hips buck into my grip. "That—that feels—"

"Good?" I stroke him slowly, watching his face. His eyes are screwed shut, his mouth open, his hands fisting the sheets.

"Yes."

I lean down and take him in my mouth.

His whole body jerks. A sound tears out of his throat—half moan, half sob—and his hand finds my hair, fingers tangling in my curls. He doesn't pull. He just holds, like he needs something to anchor himself while I work him with my tongue.

I take him deeper. His taste is salt and skin and something unmistakably him. I hear him whimpering above me, his breath hitching, his hips twitching as he fights the urge to thrust.

"Mina, I—" His voice is wrecked. "I'm close. Too close. I don't want to—not yet."

I pull off. Look up at him. His eyes are glazed, his face flushed, his chest heaving.

"Good," I say. "I want you to come inside me."

The words hang in the air. Raw. Unfiltered. The most honest thing I've said all night.

He stares at me. His mouth opens and closes. His hands are trembling.

Then he flips us.

I'm on my back before I process what's happening, and he's above me, his body covering mine, his eyes burning with a fire I haven't seen before. The shyness is gone. The hesitation is gone. In its place is pure, desperate need.

"Tell me you want this," he says. His voice is low, rough, demanding in a way that makes my stomach flip. "Tell me you want me."

I reach down. Guide him to my entrance. I'm soaked—I can feel it through my shorts, through the fabric of my underwear, slick and ready.

"I want you, Izuku." I hold his gaze. "I want you inside me."

He pushes my shorts down. My underwear follows. The cold air hits my wet skin, and I shiver.

He positions himself at my entrance. The tip of his cock presses against me, and I feel the heat of him, the promise of what's about to happen.

"Look at me." My voice is soft. Commanding. "I want to see your eyes when you do it."

He looks at me. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown, his face a mask of desperate want.

He pushes inside.

The stretch is sharp and perfect. I gasp, my back arching, my hands finding his shoulders. He's thick, thicker than I expected, and the feeling of him filling me inch by inch is almost too much.

He stops when he's fully sheathed. His forehead rests against mine. His breath is ragged, his whole body trembling.

"Mina." My name on his lips. Broken. Worshipful. "You feel—I can't—"

"Move." I dig my nails into his shoulders. "Please, Izuku. Move."

He does.

The first thrust is slow. Deep. He pulls out almost all the way and pushes back in, and I feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein. My hands slide down his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath his skin, feeling the tension coiled in his body.

He finds a rhythm. Not fast, but deep. Each thrust hits a spot inside me that makes my vision blur, makes my nails dig deeper into his skin.

"Like this?" His voice is strained. "Is this—"

"Yes. Yes. Don't stop."

His hand slides between us. His fingers find my clit, circling, pressing. The bandages are rough against the sensitive skin, and the sensation is overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once.

"Izuku, I'm—"

"I know." His voice is a whisper against my lips. "I can feel you. Let go. I've got you."

And I do.

The orgasm crashes through me like a wave, starting in my core and spreading outward until every muscle in my body tenses and releases. I cry out—his name, a broken sound I don't recognize—and he keeps thrusting through it, pushing me higher, further, until I'm gasping for air.

I feel him shudder. Feel his rhythm falter.

"Can I—" His voice cracks. "Can I come inside you?"

"Yes. Yes. I'm on the pill. Please."

He buries his face in my shoulder. His hips stutter. I feel him pulse inside me, hot and deep, and the sensation triggers another wave of pleasure that rolls through my exhausted body.

We lie there, tangled together, breathing hard. His weight is on top of me, warm and solid, and I don't want him to move. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer, feeling his heartbeat against my chest.

His voice is muffled against my skin. "That was—"

"Yeah." I laugh, breathless. "It was."

He lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed again, but this time it's not from crying. It's from something else. Something that looks a lot like wonder.

"I didn't know it could be like that." His voice is soft. Honest. "I didn't know it could feel like—" He stops, searching for the words. "Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be."

My chest aches. I reach up and cup his face, running my thumb across his cheekbone.

"Me neither," I say. "Me neither."

He kisses me again. Soft. Tender. A promise sealed with salt and warmth.

When he pulls out, I feel the loss immediately. A physical emptiness that makes me want to pull him back in. But he settles beside me, pulling me into his arms, pressing his lips to my forehead.

The party is still going somewhere down the hall. I can hear the muffled thump of music, the distant laughter. It feels like it's happening on another planet.

His hand finds mine. Our fingers interlace, his bandages rough against my palm.

"Stay," I whisper. "Don't go back out there tonight."

He presses a kiss to my hair. "I wasn't planning to."

I close my eyes. Let the warmth of his body seep into mine. Let the night wrap around us, dark and private and ours.

Tomorrow, the world will be waiting. The camp. The training. The questions. The looks.

But tonight, there's just him. There's just me. There's just this.

And for now, that's everything.

The warmth of his body against mine is a slow, steady pulse. His breathing has evened out, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek, his arm draped loose across my waist. I can feel his heartbeat through his ribs—still fast, but slowing. Settling.

I should be sleepy. I am sleepy. My muscles are loose, my limbs heavy, my mind drifting in that warm, hazy space between waking and dreaming.

But there's a heat still coiling in my stomach. A restlessness that won't quite settle.

I shift against him. My thigh brushes against his, and I feel it—the soft press of him, half-hard against my hip. My breath catches.

He stirs. His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer, and I feel the length of him press more firmly against my skin.

"Mina?" His voice is rough with sleep. "You okay?"

I don't answer with words. I slide my hand down his chest, over his stomach, lower. His muscles jump under my fingers as I trace the line of hair below his navel.

He inhales sharply.

My fingers find him, wrap around him. He's already thickening in my grip, the heat of him flooding my palm. I stroke him slowly, watching his face in the dim light—the way his eyes flutter, the way his lips part, the way his breath turns ragged.

"Mina—" His voice cracks. "I just—we just—"

"I know." I slide my thumb over the head of his cock, feeling the pre-cum slick against my skin. He gasps, his hips bucking into my hand. "But I want more. I want all of you."

His eyes open. They're dark, pupils blown wide, the green of his irises nearly swallowed. He looks at me like I'm something he can't quite believe is real.

"I don't think I can—" He swallows. "Not yet. I need—"

"Then let me." I shift, moving over him, straddling his hips. His cock presses against my stomach, huge and hard, and I feel the weight of it—the length, the thickness. My thighs tremble at the thought of taking him again.

He reaches up, his hands finding my waist. The bandages are still there, rough against my skin, but I don't care. I want them there. I want every part of him touching every part of me.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers. His voice is raw, reverent. His eyes trace the curve of my body—my breasts, my hips, the spread of my thighs. "I can't—I don't have words for how beautiful you are."

I feel a flush spread across my chest, up my neck. I've been called beautiful before. Boys at parties, strangers on the street. But the way he says it—like he's discovering something sacred—makes it mean something different.

I lean down, my hair falling around us like a curtain. "Then show me."

He sits up, meeting me halfway. His lips find mine, soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. His hands slide up my back, pulling me closer, and I feel the full length of him pressed between us, trapped against my stomach.

I reach down. Guide him to my entrance.

The tip of his cock presses against me, and I feel the stretch before he even enters—just the promise of it, the size of him, and I'm already dripping, already aching.

I sink down.

We both gasp.

He's so much thicker than I remember. Every inch of him spreading me open, filling me, pushing deeper than I thought possible. I feel myself clench around him, trying to adjust, and the sensation makes my head fall back, a moan tearing from my throat.

"Mina. Fuck." His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh. I feel his breath against my chest, hot and uneven. "You feel—I can't—"

I start to move.

Slow at first. Rising and falling, letting myself feel every inch of him, the drag of his cock against my walls. Each time I sink down, he hits deeper, and I feel myself stretching to take him, my body adapting to his size.

His hands find my breasts. They're huge, heavy, and he cups them like he's trying to hold the whole world. His thumbs trace my nipples, circling, pressing, and I whimper at the sensation.

"Izuku. Please—" I don't know what I'm asking for. More? Faster? Harder? All of it?

He answers by leaning forward and taking one of my nipples in his mouth.

The sensation shoots through me like lightning. My hips stutter, my rhythm breaking as his tongue works against the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks behind my eyes.

"Yes. Yes." I grip his hair, pulling him closer, pressing his face deeper into my chest. He sucks harder, his hands squeezing my other breast, pinching and rolling my other nipple between his fingers.

I'm riding him now. Fast and desperate, my thighs burning with the effort, the sound of our bodies meeting filling the small room. He's so deep inside me—deeper than I've ever felt anyone—and every thrust hits a spot that makes my vision blur.

His mouth releases my breast with a wet sound. He looks up at me, his lips swollen, his eyes dark. "I want to taste you."

The words don't register at first. Then they do, and I feel my entire body flush.

"What?"

"I want to taste you." His voice is hoarse, desperate. "Please. I want to—I've never—but I want to—"

I don't let him finish. I climb off him, and he makes a sound at the loss, but I push him back onto the bed, my hands pressing his shoulders down.

"Lie back." My voice is low, commanding. "Let me."

He complies, his head hitting the pillow, his chest heaving. I position myself over his face, my knees on either side of his head, the heat of my core inches from his mouth.

I look down at him. His eyes are wide, his lips parted, his hands trembling at his sides.

"Is this okay?" I ask.

He nods. His throat moves when he swallows. "Yeah. Yes. Please."

I lower myself.

His tongue meets me immediately, warm and tentative. He's unsure at first—licking, exploring, learning the shape of me. I gasp at the first contact, my hips bucking forward, my hands bracing against the wall above his head.

"Like this." I guide him, pressing my hips down, showing him where I need him. "Right there. Yes."

He finds his rhythm. His tongue circles my clit, presses against it, flicks in ways that make my thighs shake. I hear him moaning against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body, and the sound—the fact that he's enjoying this as much as I am—makes my head spin.

His hands find my hips. His grip is strong, holding me steady while he works me with his mouth. I feel the bandages rough against my skin, feel the heat of his breath, feel the wet slide of his tongue.

"Izuku. Izuku." His name falls from my lips like a prayer. "I'm close. I'm so close."

He doubles his efforts. His tongue presses harder, faster, and one of his hands slides between my thighs, his fingers finding my entrance, sliding inside.

The combination breaks me.

I cry out—a sound I don't recognize, raw and desperate—as the orgasm crashes through me. My body clenches around his fingers, my hips grinding against his face, and he doesn't stop. He keeps licking, keeps sucking, drawing every wave of pleasure out of me until I'm gasping, trembling, collapsing forward onto my hands.

I feel him slide out from under me, feel his hands guiding me down onto the bed beside him. I'm still shaking, still trying to catch my breath, when I feel his body cover mine.

His cock presses against my thigh. It's still hard, still huge, and I realize he didn't come. He held back, waited for me.

"Izuku." I reach for him, pulling him closer. "You didn't—"

"I wanted to watch you." His voice is husky, his lips brushing against my ear. "I wanted to feel you come apart. Fuck, Mina, you're so beautiful when you let go."

I feel a shiver run down my spine at his words. The shy boy from the steps is gone, replaced by someone who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to take it.

I want him to take it.

I roll onto my stomach, pushing myself up onto my hands and knees. The position exposes me completely—my ass, my thighs, the wet heat between my legs. I look back at him over my shoulder.

"Take me," I say. "From behind. I want to feel every inch of you."

He stares at me. His eyes trace the curve of my spine, the swell of my hips, the way I'm presenting myself to him like an offering.

Then he moves.

His hand grips my hip, his fingers digging into the flesh. He positions himself at my entrance, the tip of his cock pressing against me, and I feel the size of him again—how thick he is, how long. My body is still sensitive from my orgasm, still clenching and fluttering, and I wonder if I can even take him like this.

He pushes in.

The stretch is blinding. I gasp, my hands fisting the sheets, my forehead dropping to the bed as he fills me inch by inch. He's so big—his cock as long and thick as one of my thighs, the girth spreading me open in a way that feels impossible and perfect.

When he's fully inside me, he stops. His hands are on my hips, his breath ragged, his whole body trembling.

"Mina." His voice is broken. "You feel—I can't—"

"Move." The word is a gasp. "Please, Izuku. Move."

He does.

The first thrust is slow, deep, deliberate. He pulls out almost all the way, then pushes back in, and I feel every ridge, every vein, every inch of him sliding against my walls. I'm so full, so stretched, so completely taken that I can barely think.

He finds a rhythm. Fast. Hard. Each thrust drives him deeper, and I hear myself moaning, babbling, words I don't recognize falling from my lips. His hand grips my hip, the other sliding up my spine, pressing me down into the mattress as he takes me from behind.

I look back at him. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, his mouth open. The muscles in his stomach are taut, his thighs flexing with each thrust. I can see the length of his cock sliding in and out of me, glistening with my wetness, and the sight makes me clench around him.

He groans. "Fuck, Mina. You're so tight. So perfect."

I push back against him, meeting his thrusts. The angle changes, and suddenly he's hitting a spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes. I cry out, my arms giving out, my face pressing into the mattress as he drives into me again and again, each thrust hitting that perfect spot.

His hand finds my hair. He pulls, gently, lifting my head off the bed, arching my back. The new angle pushes him even deeper, and I feel the orgasm building, coiling in my stomach, ready to break.

"Izuku—" My voice is a sob. "I'm going to—"

"Not yet." His voice is low, strained. "Not yet. I want to feel you come on my cock. I want to watch you fall apart."

His words push me over the edge.

I scream his name as the orgasm rips through me, my body convulsing around him, my walls clenching and fluttering. He keeps thrusting through it, driving deeper, harder, and I feel myself coming again—a second wave that builds on the first, pulling me under.

Then I feel him shudder. Feel his rhythm falter.

"Mina. Mina." His voice breaks. "Can I—I need to—"

"Yes. Yes. Come inside me. Fill me up."

He buries himself to the hilt, and I feel him pulse inside me, hot and thick. The sensation triggers another wave of pleasure that rolls through my exhausted body, and I feel his cum leaking out of me, dripping down my thighs.

We collapse.

He falls forward, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his chest heaving against my back. I feel his lips press against my shoulder, soft and reverent, and I let out a shaky breath.

"That was—" He stops. Laughs, a breathless, disbelieving sound. "I don't have words."

I laugh too. It comes out weak and trembling. "Me neither."

He pulls out slowly, and I feel the loss immediately. The emptiness. The warm trickle of his cum sliding down my thigh. I feel him shift, feel the bed dip as he lies down beside me.

His hand finds mine, his bandaged fingers intertwining with mine. He pulls me close, wrapping his arm around my waist, pressing his chest to my back.

His lips brush my ear. "I love you."

The words hang in the air. Three syllables that change everything.

I turn in his arms. Face him. His eyes are wet, his face flushed, his expression open and vulnerable and terrified all at once.

"You don't have to say it back," he whispers. "I just—I needed you to know. I've never felt like this before. I've never felt seen like this. And I know it's fast, and I know we barely know each other, but—"

I kiss him.

The kiss says everything I don't have words for. It's soft and deep and full of the same wonder I see in his eyes. When I break away, I'm crying too.

"I love you too," I whisper. "I don't know how I know, but I do."

He laughs, a wet, broken sound, and pulls me into his chest. I feel his heartbeat against my cheek, feel his arms wrapped tight around me, feel the warmth of his body seeping into mine.

The party is still going somewhere down the hall. I can hear the muffled music, the distant laughter, the sounds of a world that isn't ours anymore.

In here, in this room, there's only us.

His lips press against my hair. "Mina."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For catching me."

I smile against his skin. "Always. I'll always catch you."

I feel it before I understand it. A warmth that spreads from where his chest presses against mine, radiating outward like he's lit some furnace deep inside himself. The air around us thickens, charged with something electric, and I feel his body go rigid beneath me.

His breath catches. A sharp, startled sound.

Then I feel it.

Against my thigh, where his cock rests soft and spent from our last round—it stirs. Not gently. Not the slow rise of a man waking from sleep. It surges. Grows. I feel the length of it pressing against my skin, thickening, lengthening, pushing against my leg with a weight that wasn't there a moment ago.

I lift my head. Look at him. His eyes are wide, his pupils blown, his face caught somewhere between shock and something darker.

"Izuku—" My voice comes out breathless. "What's—"

"I don't—" He swallows. His hands find my hips, gripping, his fingers digging into my flesh. "I think my quirk—it's reacting. To you. To—" He stops. A shudder runs through him. "To everything."

I shift, pushing myself up on my elbows, looking down at where our bodies meet. The sight of it steals my breath.

His cock is huge now. Not just bigger—huge. It stretches down his thigh, long and thick, the head brushing against his knee. The girth of it is obscene—as wide around as my thigh, maybe wider. I can see the veins pulsing along the shaft, the way it twitches and strains, the pre-cum already beading at the tip.

I feel my mouth go dry.

My thighs press together involuntarily, and I feel the slick heat between them, the flutter of anticipation. He's massive. Impossibly massive. I don't know if I can take him like this.

But the thought of trying—the thought of feeling that stretch, that fullness—makes my cunt clench around nothing.

"Mina." His voice is strained, desperate. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I can't control it. It just—"

I press my fingers to his lips, silencing him.

"Don't apologize." My voice is low, thick with want. "Don't you fucking apologize for being able to fill me like this."

I slide down his body, positioning myself between his legs. The new angle lets me see him fully—the length of him stretching from his groin to his knee, the thickness that makes my thighs ache just looking at it. I wrap my hand around him, and my fingers don't meet. They can't. He's too thick.

The sound he makes when I touch him is broken. Animal. His hips buck into my grip, and I feel the weight of him in my palm, the heat of him searing against my skin.

"I don't know if I can—" He stops. Gasps as I stroke him slowly. "Mina, I'll hurt you."

I look up at him. Meet his eyes.

"You won't." My voice is steady. "I'll tell you if it's too much. But I want to try. I need to feel you like this."

He stares at me, his chest heaving, his hands fisting the sheets. I see the war in his eyes—the fear of hurting me versus the desperate need to be inside me.

The need wins.

He sits up, his hands finding my waist. His fingers span the width of it, and I feel the impossible narrowness of my own body against his grip—my waist small enough that his thumbs and middle fingers touch easily, the curve of my hips flaring out beneath his palms, my breasts heavy above, my thighs thick and strong below. He looks at me like I'm a dream he's having.

"How is this possible?" He whispers. His thumbs trace the dip of my waist, the sharp inward curve that shouldn't be real. "You're—"

"I don't know." I laugh, breathless. "But stop asking questions. I need you inside me."

I shift, positioning myself over him, my knees on either side of his hips. His cock presses against my stomach—long enough to reach past my navel, thick enough that I can feel the weight of it even through the contact. I reach down, guide the head to my entrance.

The tip alone is the size of a fist.

I feel the pressure as I press against it. The impossible girth, the stretch before I've even begun to take him. I bite my lip, lower myself slowly, and feel the head push past my entrance.

The sensation is blinding.

I gasp, my hands gripping his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin. He fills me in a way I've never been filled before—stretching me open, forcing my body to accommodate his impossible size. I feel every ridge, every vein, every inch of him as I sink down, taking him deeper, deeper, until I feel the head pressing against my cervix.

I'm only halfway down.

"Mina—" His voice is ragged, desperate. "You're so tight. So fucking tight. I can feel you clenching around me."

I take a breath. Let my body adjust. The pain is there, sharp at the edges, but it's eclipsed by the fullness, the sense of being completely and utterly filled.

I push down further.

Another inch. The stretch burns, but I don't stop. I feel my walls struggling to accommodate him, feel the slick of my own arousal mixing with the pre-cum that's leaking from him, feel the way my body is being reshaped to take him.

When I'm fully seated, his cock is buried so deep inside me I can feel it in my throat.

We stay like that for a moment. Both breathing hard. Both trembling. His hands are on my hips, gripping, steadying me. His eyes are closed, his head thrown back, his jaw tight.

I start to move.

Slow at first—rising and falling in a rhythm that lets me feel every inch of him dragging against my walls. Each movement is deliberate, careful, a conversation between my body and his. He's so big that I can't take him fast—not yet. I have to work up to it.

But god, the feeling of him stretching me open is worth every careful second.

"Look at me." My voice is soft, commanding. "I want to see your eyes when I ride you."

He opens them. The green is nearly swallowed by black, his pupils blown wide, his expression raw and unguarded. He looks at me like I'm the center of his universe, like nothing exists beyond the space where our bodies meet.

I speed up.

The sound of our bodies meeting fills the room—wet and rhythmics, a counterpoint to our ragged breathing. I feel myself opening for him, my body learning to accept his impossible size. The pain fades, replaced by a pleasure so intense it makes my vision blur.

"Mina." His voice cracks. "I'm close. I can't—you feel too good—"

"Not yet." I press down harder, taking him deeper. "I want to come on this cock first. I want to feel myself fall apart around you."

His hands find my breasts. They're huge in his palms, heavy and full, and he squeezes them, rolls my nipples between his fingers. The sensation sends sparks through me, and I ride him harder, faster, chasing the edge.

His thumb finds my clit.

The contact breaks me.

I cry out—his name, a broken sound I don't recognize—as the orgasm rips through me. My body convulses around him, clenching and fluttering, and I feel his cock pulse inside me as the waves of pleasure wash over me. I keep moving, keep riding through the aftershocks, and I feel him tense beneath me.

"Mina—I can't—I'm going to—"

"Do it." The words are a gasp. "Fill me up. I want to feel you come inside me."

He groans, a low, desperate sound, and I feel him pulse and pulse and pulse, emptying into me in long, hot waves. His cum floods my cunt, thick and warm, leaking around the base of his cock even as he keeps coming. I feel it dripping down my thighs, pooling on the sheets below us.

He collapses back onto the bed, pulling me with him. I land on his chest, his cock still buried inside me, his arms wrapped around me like he's never letting go.

We lie there, tangled and sweaty and spent, as the world slowly comes back into focus.

His lips press against my hair. "I love you." The words are soft. Reverent. Like a prayer he's still learning to believe.

I lift my head, look at him. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed, his breathing slowly evening out. He looks younger like this. Softer. Like the weight he carries has finally been set down.

"I love you too," I whisper.

I feel him smile against my skin.

Outside, the party is still going—distant laughter, muffled music, the sounds of a world that doesn't matter anymore. In here, in this room, there's only us. Only this. Only the warmth of his body against mine, the slow pulse of his heartbeat, the quiet certainty that we've found something neither of us was looking for.

His cock softens inside me, and I feel the loss of fullness, the emptiness where he was. But it's okay. He's still here. I'm still here. We'll have time for more.

For now, I let myself drift, held in his arms, caught in the gravity of a boy who didn't know he could be caught.

His breath evens out, and I feel him slip toward sleep. I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart, and close my eyes.

Tomorrow will come. The camp, the training, the world waiting outside this door.

But tonight, there's this.

And it's everything.