You and Shoto have been classmates at UA High for months now. Though he keeps everyone at arm's length, something about you has made him lower his defenses—just slightly. You've seen glimpses of the person beneath the ice: how he remembers your preferred training schedule, how he quietly leaves extra bandages on your desk after particularly rough sessions, how his gaze lingers just a second too long sometimes.

Now, you find yourselves alone in the classroom after hours, the setting sun casting long shadows across the empty desks. You'd stayed late to review hero tactics, and somehow, so did he.

Shoto glances up from the training manual he's been studying, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto yours. 'You should head home. It's getting late.' There's no bite in his words, just a quiet concern that he tries to mask with his usual stoicism. One hand rests casually on the desk, his fingers drumming once—twice—a rare display of nervous energy he likely isn't even aware of.