We were the last two out of the building. Three days left. The sun slanted low across the stairwell, turning each step into a bar of gold that Midoriya winced to cross.
"Hey." I caught his elbow before he missed his footing. "You're walking like a marionette with cut strings."
"I'm fine," he lied. Which would've been more convincing if his face didn't look like a before photo.
We paused on the landing where no one was watching. Bandages ghosted under his sleeve. His hands shook—worn-out nerves, not fear.
"Let me try something," I said.
"Try what?"
"Hold still." I set the satchel against my hip, but didn't reach into it. No scroll. Calm casting was cleaner. Two fingers pressed just above the angry knot along his forearm. I pictured the model the way I'd written it a hundred times: not miracles—stitches. Not new flesh—closure. A slow turn of pain's volume knob.
"Mend," I breathed.
Warmth gathered under my fingertips, a low, steady thrum. No flashy glow—just easing. The tightness went out of his shoulders. He took a careful breath like it no longer had teeth.
He stared at his arm, then at me, eyes wide. "H-Harry… it actually—" He flexed his fingers, surprised. "It still hurts, but… it's like someone turned it down."
"Basic stuff," I said. "Closes edges. Tells your body to stop panicking. You still need rest." I tilted my head. "Remember sleep?"
He huffed a laugh that sounded dangerously close to relief. "Is that… your quirk?"
"Complicated. Hard to use." The usual answer. He nodded like that fit something he'd already decided about me.
He bowed his head slightly—awkward, earnest. "Thank you. Really."
"Don't mention it." I nudged his shoulder. "Save the big speeches for after we pass—in three days."
Color rose in his cheeks, but he smiled. We took the next step together. He didn't flinch this time.
At the gate, he looked like he wanted to say something heroic and embarrassing. He settled for, "You're amazing," and turned red.
"Tell the exam robots," I said. "I'm not sure they read reviews."
We split at the corner. The satchel bumped gently against my side, listening. The scar stayed quiet. Three days. His way and mine—we'd both be ready.