The sun was beginning to crest over the ocean, sending sharp, cold needles of light through the glass walls of the villa. The house was spotless, Shoto had spent the night cleaning every trace of their food war, unable to sleep while she was out.
He was sitting on the sofa, still in his clothes from the day before, when he heard the front door's heavy electronic lock click open.
(Y/N) didn't announce herself. She stumbled in, her movements heavy and uncoordinated.
Shoto was on his feet in a second. "(Y/N)?"
She stopped in the foyer, swaying slightly. She looked like a ghost. Her hero suit was torn at the shoulder, her knuckles were raw and split, and a steady trail of dark blood was leaking from her nose, staining the white collar of her gear. But it was her eyes that stopped him they were wide, glassy, and fixed on something miles away.
"I couldn't stop it," she whispered, her voice sounding like crushed glass. "The time anchor... I held it as long as I could, Shoto. But the supplier... he killed the informant right in front of me. I watched the blade move in slow motion for ten seconds and I couldn't move my legs fast enough to stop it."
She collapsed forward, her strength finally giving out. Shoto caught her before she hit the floor, his heart hammering against his ribs. He pulled her into his lap right there on the cold marble of the foyer, his cool right hand pressing against her burning forehead.
"You're overextended," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Your Quirk-you pushed past the limit."
"There was so much blood," she choked out, a sob finally breaking through her shock. She buried her face in his chest, her injured hands clutching at his shirt, leaving smears of grime and red on the fabric. "It wasn't like the rail yard. It wasn't a win. It was just... death."
Shoto didn't know how to comfort her with words. He had seen death he was a pro hero in a city that never slept but seeing the light dimmed in *her* eyes felt like a personal failure. He scooped her up into his arms, carrying her toward the bathroom.
He sat her on the edge of the tub and moved with clinical, gentle efficiency. He used a warm cloth to wipe the blood from her nose and the soot from her cheeks. When he got to her hands, he winced. The skin was shredded from where she had gripped a concrete pillar to stabilize her temporal field.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, tilting her chin up.
(Y/N) blinked, her focus finally snapping back to him. The warmth from his left side was radiating out, trying to stop the shivering that had taken over her body.
"It's not your fault," Shoto said firmly. "Mirko's missions are high risk. You did your job."
"Is that all we are?" she asked, her voice trembling as she looked at him through tear filled eyes. "Just people doing a job? Does it ever stop feeling like this?"
Shoto froze. He thought of the contract. He thought of how their marriage was technically a "job". He looked at her battered hands in his and felt a surge of protectiveness that was entirely un-professional.
"No," he said, leaning forward until his forehead rested against hers. "But you don't have to carry it alone. That's why I'm here."
He spent the next hour tending to her, dressing her wounds and helping her into clean clothes. He didn't leave her side for a second. When he finally tucked her into bed, the room was bright with morning light. He moved to leave, to give her space to sleep, but her hand bandaged and weak caught his wrist.
"Stay," she whispered. "Please."
Shoto didn't hesitate. He climbed in beside her, pulling her small, broken form against his chest. As she drifted into a restless sleep, Shoto stared at the ceiling. Three days ago, he thought he could handle a business arrangement. Now, watching her suffer, he knew he was in over his head.
^ • ^
The following evening, the villa was hushed, the only sound of the distant rhythm of the tide. It had been nearly a month since they'd moved in a month of building a fragile, beautiful peace. (Y/N) was curled on the oversized sofa, her legs tucked under a wool throw.
The trauma of the previous night's mission, the murder she'd witnessed, the blood, and the bone deep exhaustion of overextending her Quirk still hung over her like a heavy fog. Shoto had moved through the house today with a quiet, protective intensity, making sure she ate, making sure she rested.
He walked into the living room, two bowls of warm soup in his hands, but stopped when he heard the soft, grainy audio coming from her laptop. It was an old recording, the colors faded and warm.
On the screen, a younger (Y/N) was running through a garden in Provence, her laughter bright and melodic. A woman with the same elegant jawline and soulful eyes was chasing her, her sundress catching the wind.
*"Maman, regarde! Je vole!"* the little girl shouted, leaping off a stone bench. *Mom, look! I fly!*
The woman caught her, spinning her around with a joyous laugh. *"Doucement, ma petite lumière,"* she whispered into the girl's hair. *Slowly, my little light.*
(Y/N) didn't look up as Shoto sat beside her. Her chin was rested on her knees, her eyes fixed on the loop of her mother's smile. Her mother had been gone for years, leaving her in the cold shadow of her father's expectations.
"She's beautiful," Shoto said softly, setting the soup down. "You have her eyes."
(Y/N) finally turned to him, her expression fragile. "She was the only one who didn't care about my Quirk. To my father, I was a clock to be wound up and set to his time. To her, I was just... me. She used to say that time wasn't something to control, but something to cherish."
She looked back at the screen, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. "After last night... watching that life slip away when I couldn't stop the clock... I just really missed her. I wanted to hear her call me 'petite lumière' one more time."
Shoto felt a familiar ache in his own chest. He thought of the years he'd spent visiting his mother in the hospital, the shared silence of a lost childhood. He reached out, his hand covering her bandaged one, radiating a steady, comforting warmth.
"I think she was right," Shoto murmured. "About the light."
(Y/N) leaned her head onto his shoulder, closing her eyes. "Sometimes I feel like I'm losing that part of myself. Between the missions and... the expectations of our families. I don't want to just be a 'Hakamada' or a 'Todoroki.' I just want to be happy."
Shoto shifted, pulling her closer so she was tucked against his side. He felt a fierce surge of protectiveness. For a month, he had watched her paint, dance, and turn this sterile villa into a sanctuary. He realized then that he didn't just admire her he was starting to need her.
"You are happy here, aren't you?" he asked, his voice low.
"I am," she whispered, her fingers lacing through his. "This month... it's the first time I've felt like I could breathe."
Shoto tightened his grip, the guilt of the contract stinging like an open wound. She was finding her light again in a house that was technically a business transaction. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers in the dim light of the laptop screen.
"I won't let them take that from you," he promised.
(Y/N) smiled, believing he meant their fathers' overbearing nature. She didn't know he was promising to protect her from the very secret he was keeping.
The soft blue light of the laptop flickered out as the video ended, leaving them in the warm, amber glow of the living room lamps. (Y/N) remained tucked against Shoto's side, but her gaze was distant, thoughtful.
"Shoto?" she asked softly, her thumb tracing the edge of his palm.
"Yeah?"
"We've been living together for a month now. We've built this... this life," she gestured vaguely to the room she had painstakingly decorated. "But you never talk about your family. Not really. I know things are complicated with your father, but what about the others?"
Shoto's body went slightly rigid. The "healing" process in the Todoroki household was like walking on thin ice; it was beautiful, but one wrong step and everything could crack.
(Y/N) looked up at him, a flicker of insecurity in her eyes. "When am I going to meet them? Or... do you think they won't like me? Is that why you're keeping me away?"
Shoto felt a sharp pang of conflict. Over the last few weeks, seeing her genuine grief for her mother and her sincere efforts to make him happy, the truth was starting to dawn on him: (Y/N) wasn't a part of the scheme. She wasn't an actress playing a role in a business deal; she was a girl who thought she had found a real partner.
The realization made his stomach churn. If he took her to meet his family now, it would be a disaster. Fuyumi was fiercely protective and was already angry on Shoto's behalf, thinking he'd been forced into a loveless arrangement. Natsuo was even worse-he'd likely snap and call the marriage a "disgusting transaction" right to (Y/N)'s face.
Even Endeavor, who was genuinely trying to atone and be a better father, might accidentally let the "business" side of the union slip. Shoto couldn't let them hurt her not when she was finally starting to feel like her "light" was returning.
"It's not that they won't like you," Shoto said, his voice carefully level. "They would love you. That's actually the problem."
(Y/N) pulled back slightly, confused. "How is that a problem?"
"My family... we're still healing," he explained, choosing his words like he was navigating a minefield. "My sister, Fuyumi, and my brother, Natsuo... they're very protective of me. Things are intense right now. I want to wait until things are calmer. I want them to see you, (Y/N). Not just the 'Hakamada' name."
(Y/N) softened, misinterpreting his protectiveness. She thought he was shielding her from the lingering trauma of his past. "I'm a pro-hero, Shoto. I can handle a little family intensity."
"I know you can," he murmured, pulling her back into his arms and resting his chin on her head. "But let's just have this for a while longer. Just us. Please?"
(Y/N) nodded against his chest, feeling a sense of warmth. "Okay. Just us."
As she fell asleep in his arms, Shoto stared out the glass walls at the dark ocean. He had to figure out a way to tell his family the truth that (Y/N) was innocent in all of this before they met her. If he didn't, the "healing" his family had worked so hard for would be the very thing that broke her heart.