The sun rose over the ocean, flooding the glass walled bedroom with a light that felt far too bright for how (Y/N) felt.
She hadn't slept. She lay on the very edge of the bed, her body feeling heavy and strange, staring at the way the light caught the dust motes in the air. Beside her, the bed shifted.
Shoto woke up with a sharp, ragged intake of breath. The hangover hit him instantly, a dull, rhythmic throbbing behind his eyes but the memories of the night hit him harder.
He remembered the smell of the whiskey. He remembered the way (Y/N) had looked at him with those wide, terrified eyes. He remembered the cold, mechanical way he had touched her.
He felt a wave of self-loathing so strong he wanted to be sick. He had become the very thing he hated.
He sat up, keeping his back to her. The silence in the room was suffocating. He wanted to apologize, but what could he say? 'I'm sorry I had to drink to touch you?' 'I'm sorry I'm using you to save my father?'
He stood up and began to gather his clothes from the floor, his movements stiff and robotic.
"Shoto?"
Her voice was small, barely a whisper, and it sounded like it was coming from miles away.
He paused, his hand gripping his shirt so hard his knuckles turned white, but he didn't turn around.
He couldn't face the expression he knew would be on her face. "I have to get to the agency," he said, his voice flat and devoid of the alcohol fueled grit from the night before.
"Did I... did I do something wrong?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Shoto closed his eyes. Every word she spoke was like a needle under his skin. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful. He wanted to tell her he was sorry.
But the image of her father smiling as he traded her life for a debt flashed in his mind. He reminded himself that she was a Hakamada. She was the reason he was in this room.
"Everything is exactly as it's supposed to be, (Y/N)," he said, his voice turning into that freezing, professional mask she had come to dread.
He walked out of the room, the click of the door sounding like the final turn of a key.
(Y/N) curled into a ball under the silk sheets, the scent of him still lingering on the pillows.
She didn't understand. She had given him everything her heart, her innocence, her future and he had treated it like a chore he was forced to perform.
^ • ^
(Y/N) sat at the kitchen island, her legs tucked under her oversized sweater, staring at a bowl of cereal she hadn't touched. She felt sore, confused, and incredibly small in the vast, high-tech kitchen.
Shoto walked in, now fully dressed in his hero uniform. He looked perfect, but his eyes were bloodshot.
He didn't look at her not because he was "evil," but because he was a twenty-year-old man who had gotten drunk and treated his wife like a checklist, and he had no idea how to apologize.
He reached for the coffee pot, his hand stopping just inches from hers. The air between them didn't crackle with tension, it was just heavy with the smell of burnt toast and regret.
"I left some medicine on the nightstand," he said, his voice scratchy. He still wouldn't look at her. "For... the headache. If you have one."
(Y/N) looked at his hand the scarred, powerful hand of a hero and felt a lump in her throat. He wasn't a monster; he was a wall. "Shoto? Did you even wanted to get married?"
The question hung there, raw and ugly. Shoto finally looked at her, and for a second, the "gentleman" mask slipped. He looked tired. Not "hero tired," but "soul tired."
"It doesn't matter what I wanted," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "We're here now."
He turned and walked out, the heavy front door thudding shut.
(Y/N) sat in the silence, watching a single Cheerio float in the milk. She didn't feel like a princess.
She felt like an accidental roommate in a very expensive, very lonely life. But she isn't someone who gives up easily, she believed there was still hope for them.
^ • ^
(Y/N) didn't linger on the soggy cereal for long. The silence of the villa was starting to feel like a weight, and she needed to breathe air that didn't smell like peppermint and regret.
She stood up, dumped the bowl, and headed for the dressing room. Ten minutes later, she wasn't the girl in the silk nightgown; she was a pro-sidekick in a sleek, reinforced tactical suit.
She checked her gear, adjusted her gloves, and felt her pulse finally steady. Out there, in the streets, she wasn't a "Hakamada asset" or a "Todoroki bride." She was a professional.
She reached the downtown district and marched into the Mirko Agency. The lobby was usually a disaster zone of broken training equipment and protein shake bottles, which was exactly why (Y/N) loved it.
"Hey! Frenchie's back!"
Mirko was currently upside down, doing handstand pushups against a concrete pillar.
She dropped to her feet with a heavy thud, her white rabbit ears flapping wildly as she grinned.
"What's the matter? Did the 'Prince of Ice and Fire' bore you to death already? I told you, those UA types are all sticks-in-the-mud. No rhythm!"
"I'm not here to talk about my husband, Mirko," (Y/N) said, grabbing a roll of athletic tape.
"Husband? Gross. Don't use that word in here, it's a mood-killer," Mirko laughed, throwing a sweaty towel at (Y/N)'s head, which (Y/N) caught with a sharp snap of her fingers, slowing time just enough to snatch it out of the air.
"There we go! Those reflexes are still sharp. I was worried you'd spent the night getting soft on high-thread-count sheets."
Mirko hopped over, throwing a heavy arm around (Y/N)'s neck and dragging her toward the door.
"Come on, (H/N). I've got a lead on some quirk-enhanced street racers. Let's go show 'em why studying abroad was a good idea. And if you cry, I'm leaving you on a rooftop, got it?"
The day was loud, violent, and exactly what (Y/N) needed.
Mirko spent the whole time cracking jokes at the villains' expense and howling with laughter every time (Y/N) paused a criminal mid-air so Mirko could use them as a literal footstool.
By 3:00 PM, they were at a central precinct. (Y/N) was leaning against a filing cabinet, her face smudged with soot and a small cut on her lip.
She was actually smiling the first real smile in weeks at one of Mirko's ridiculous stories about an encounter with a mutant type villain.
The precinct's front doors hissed open.
The temperature dropped. Shoto walked in with his team, looking like a statue of perfection. He was mid sentence when his eyes locked onto (Y/N). He stopped dead.
Mirko didn't miss a beat. She let out a loud, obnoxious whistle, leaning her hip against the desk and pointing a thumb at (Y/N).
"Whoa, look at the scowl on that guy!" Mirko cackled, her voice echoing through the quiet station.
"Hey, Todoroki! You look like someone just peed in your fancy tea! Relax, I haven't broken your wife yet. In fact, she's the only thing keeping this afternoon from being a total snooze-fest."
Shoto's jaw tightened. He walked toward them, his boots echoing. He ignored Mirko, stopping just a few feet from (Y/N).
He looked at the dirt on her cheek, the cut on her lip, and then at the genuine, lingering remnants of a smile on her face, a smile he hadn't seen once since last night.
"You're bleeding," he said, his voice low and strained. He reached out, his thumb hovering near her lip, but (Y/N) tilted her head back, moving out of his reach.
"It's just a scratch, Shoto," she said, her voice steady and professional. "Mirko and I are in the middle of a report. Did your team need something?"
Mirko grinned, showing off her sharp teeth as she looked between them. "Yeah, Todoroki. You need something? Or did you just come here to admire the scenery? Because (H/N) is on my clock today."