Recap:
(Y/N) looked from Natsuo to Fuyumi, her world starting to tilt. "What terms, Natsuo? What is he talking about? Shoto told me... he told me he wanted this. He told me he *chose* me." Not in so many words, but he did.
^ • ^
The heavy, suffocating silence of the kitchen was shattered by the shrill, frantic vibration of (Y/N)'s phone against the countertop.
She didn't want to look at it-her mind was screaming for answers about the "terms" Natsuo had just thrown in her face-but the vibration didn't stop.
It was a *Level 4 Emergency*. A siren-like alert blared from her screen, a sound reserved only for catastrophic events.
"I... I have to go," (Y/N) stammered, her voice shaking as she checked the notification. A massive villain breakout was happening in the industrial district.
Suddenly, the phone flashed with an incoming call: *MIRKO*.
(Y/N) answered with trembling fingers. "Hello?"
"Kid! Where are you?" Mirko's voice was strained over the sound of wind and crashing debris. "I don't care what you're doing. I need your Time-Anchor Quirk at Sector 7 now. The structural integrity of the bridge is failing and there are hundreds trapped. Move it!"
The line went dead.
(Y/N) looked up, her eyes wide and glassy. Natsuo was still standing there, looking shaken by the realization that he had just destroyed her world right before she had to go into battle.
Fuyumi was staring at the shattered bowl on the floor, her face pale.
"I have to go," (Y/N) repeated, her voice suddenly hollow, her "Hero" training kicking in even through the emotional trauma. "I'm a Pro. I have to..."
"Wait, (Y/N)-" Fuyumi reached out, but (Y/N) was already backing toward the door.
"Don't tell Shoto I was here," (Y/N) whispered, her hand on the doorframe. "Please. He's already going to be at the scene. He doesn't need to know... he doesn't need to worry about me."
She didn't wait for a response. She ran out of the Todoroki estate, her heart a tangled mess of Natsuo's accusations and the duty she owed to the civilians.
^ • ^
The industrial district was a war zone. Smoke choked the sky, and the massive bridge connecting the district to the mainland was groaning, its supports sliced through by a high-frequency Quirk.
Shoto was already there. From a distance, (Y/N) could see his massive glaciers stabilizing the foundation, his flames repelling a group of low-level villains trying to take advantage of the chaos.
He looked every bit the "Symbol of Peace" he was meant to be-powerful, focused, and heroic.
But as (Y/N) took her position under the bridge, her hands glowing with the golden hue of her Time-Anchor, she couldn't stop seeing him through the lens of Natsuo's words.
*Is Shoto expected to keep playing the part of the happy husband until the contract says he's allowed to stop? Is he here because he wants to be?*
"Focus, (Y/N)!" Mirko yelled, landing beside her with a thud, her suit covered in dust. "Anchor the central pillar! If that drops, the ice snaps and everyone on top is dead!"
(Y/N) slammed her hands against the cold steel of the pillar. "Time-Anchor: Stasis!" she screamed.
The vibration of the collapsing bridge slowed, then froze in time, the golden light locking the atoms in place.
Across the debris, Shoto's head snapped toward her. He hadn't expected her to be assigned to this sector. His eyes widened with a mix of relief and a strange, sudden dread as he saw the expression on her face.
She wasn't looking at him with her usual warmth. She looked at him like he was a stranger she had never truly met.
The golden glow of (Y/N)'s Quirk pulsed rhythmically as she held the weight of the bridge in a temporal lock. Her muscles screamed under the strain, but the physical pain was a welcome distraction from the war raging in her mind.
*Natsuo is wrong,* she told herself, her teeth gritted against the exhaustion. *He's always been bitter. He doesn't see the way Shoto looks at me when he thinks I'm not watching. Shoto wouldn't lie. Not about us.*
But as she watched Shoto move through the chaos-efficient, cold, and perfect-the doubts Natsuo had planted began to fester like a wound. Her mind, betraying her heart, began to catalog every moment of their three-month marriage.
He never kissed me. Not once on the mouth. Always the cheek, the forehead, or the hand.
She had told herself it was respect, a slow-burn romance from a man who had never been taught how to love. But now, it felt like distance. Like he was afraid to touch the "asset" too closely.
And then there was the wedding night. The memory hit her like a physical blow. The smell of the expensive alcohol, the way Shoto's eyes had been glazed and unfocused, the mechanical way he had moved.
She had been a virgin, terrified and hopeful, and he had been... gone. Drowning himself in alcohol just to get through the duty of a husband.
"No," she whispered, her golden light flickering for a second. "He was just nervous. We were both nervous."
"Keep it steady, Hakamada!" Mirko shouted from above, kicking a piece of falling rebar. "Don't let the anchor slip!"
(Y/N) pushed more power into the pillar, her vision blurring. She loved him. She loved the way he liked his soba, the way he looked at the sunset, the way he had defended her father's arrival even when it was awkward.
She wouldn't let Natsuo's cynicism destroy that. Not until she saw proof.
^ • ^
Four hours later, the bridge was cleared, the villains were in custody, and the sun was beginning to set over the jagged skyline.
Shoto was drenched in sweat, his hero suit torn at the shoulder. He scanned the crowd of emergency workers until he found her. She was sitting on the back of an ambulance, a gray blanket wrapped around her shoulders, looking small and pale.
He started toward her, his heart heavy. He hadn't known she'd be here, and the way she had looked at him earlier haunted him.
"(Y/N)!" he called out, stepping over a pile of rubble.
She looked up. For a split second, the old warmth was there-the love she had nurtured for three months-but then it was clouded by a shadow.
She saw him as the man she loved, but she also saw him as the man who might have been bought.
"Shoto," she said softly. Her voice lacked its usual chime.
"Are you hurt? I didn't know you were assigned to Sector 7," he said, reaching out to cup her face, his thumb brushing a smudge of soot from her cheek.
She didn't lean into his touch. She didn't pull away, but she stayed still-perfectly, terrifyingly still. "I'm fine. Mirko needed help. I'm just... tired."
"Let's get you home," he said, his protective instincts flaring. "I'll drive. You shouldn't be behind the wheel after a Level 4."
She looked at his hand-the left one, the one that carried the fire-and thought of the desk in his study. The desk he always kept locked. The desk where he spent hours staring at "reports" he never shared with her.
"Yes," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, a newfound resolve hardening in her chest. "Let's go home, Shoto."
She wasn't going to accuse him. She wasn't going to scream. She was going to find that key. She was going to see the paper for herself, because if the man she loved was a lie, she needed to hear it from the ink, not from his brother.
^ • ^
The drive back was suffocatingly quiet. Shoto's phone had buzzed in his pocket while they were leaving the scene-a frantic, apologetic text from Fuyumi: *"Natsuo said too much. I'm so sorry, Shoto. (Y/N) knows about the funding and the contract. Please talk to her."*
He knew. He knew the glass house they had been living in was cracking. But as he glanced at (Y/N) in the passenger seat, watching her stare blankly at the passing streetlights, he saw the exhaustion etched into her features.
He saw the woman who had just held a bridge together with her bare hands.
He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to talk about legalities or his brother's big mouth. For the first time in his life, Shoto Todoroki felt a desperate, selfish urge to simply be a man who loved his wife, regardless of how they had started.
As they entered the villa, the air was cool and smelled of the lilies (Y/N) had placed in the foyer days ago.
Usually, they would bid each other a polite goodnight and retreat to their respective sides of the bed, or Shoto would disappear into his study.
Not tonight.
(Y/N) headed toward the stairs, her movements mechanical. "I'm going to wash the soot off," she whispered, her voice devoid of its usual light. "I'll... I'll see you later, Shoto."
She reached for the banister, but his hand caught her wrist. It wasn't a hero's grip-it was gentle, grounding, and pulsing with a heat she hadn't felt from him before.
"Don't," he said, his voice low and roughened by the day's smoke.
She turned, her eyes wide and rimmed with the red of exhaustion and unshed tears. "Shoto, I'm tired. And I... I have things I need to think about." Her mind flickered to the study, to the desk, to the secrets she was sure were waiting for her there.
"I know what happened today," Shoto said, stepping closer until the heat from his left side radiated against her. "I know what Natsuo told you. I know you think this house is a cage built on a contract."
(Y/N) felt her breath hitch. "Is it?" she whispered, her heart breaking. "Did you stay because of the contract? Did you... was our wedding night just a debt you were paying?"
Shoto winced, the memory of that night-the shame, the alcohol he'd used to numb his fear -hitting him hard. He let go of her wrist and instead framed her face with both hands. His thumbs traced the line of her jaw, tilting her head up.
"The wedding night was a disaster because I was a coward," he confessed, his heterochromatic eyes burning with an intensity that made her knees weak.
"I was terrified that if I took even that from you, I'd be no better than the man who arranged the deal. I thought if I kept my distance, I was protecting you."
He stepped even closer, closing the gap until their chests were almost touching.
"But I'm done being a coward." His gaze dropped to her lips, his breath ghosting over her skin. "I want you, (Y/N). Not because I have to. Not because of a clause. Because I can't breathe in this house when you aren't in the room."
(Y/N) searched his eyes, looking for the lie, but she only found a raw, desperate honesty. The denial she had been clinging to began to melt.
"Shoto..." she breathed, her hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart.
He didn't wait for her to finish. He leaned down, and for the first time in their marriage-for the first time in their lives-he kissed her.
It wasn't a polite peck on the cheek or a formal greeting. It was deep, hungry, and full of the three months of repressed longing he had been hiding behind his stoic mask.