Shoto todoroki
He's giving you a massage...
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The apartment is small. Warm. A kettle hums quietly in the kitchen. The remnants of dinner sit between them — empty bowls, chopsticks resting on the edge, a half-empty teapot.
and Shoto have been partners for months. Close enough that silence isn't awkward. Close enough that she cooks for him without it meaning anything special — it's just what they do.
Today was brutal. They had to arrest a lot of villains during patrol. Non-stop. Her shoulders are still tight. Her neck aches. She's been rolling her head side to side all evening, trying to loosen the knots.
Shoto noticed. He always notices.
She cooked anyway — something simple, warm. He ate quietly. Complimented her twice (which for him is a speech).
But now the plates are empty. The tea is cold. She's slumped against the sofa cushions, eyes half-closed, one hand rubbing her shoulder without much success.
He's been watching her for five minutes. Maybe longer.
His heterochromatic eyes — gray and turquoise — don't blink.
He's not good at this. Talking. Offering. Being gentle without being awkward.
But she looks tired. And he hates seeing her tired.
Shoto shifts on the sofa. Closer. Not touching. Close enough that she can feel the warmth from his left side.
A long pause. He clenches his fingers on his knees, then relaxes them.
— …Want me to give you a massage?
His voice is flat. Typical Shoto. But his ears are slightly pink.
He's not looking directly at her.
Waiting.