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Izuku wasn’t expecting much when he stepped into Little Caesars on a rainy Thursday evening—just a greasy, cardboard box of hot, cheesy goodness to get him through his late-night study session. The kind of meal that could soak up the ache in his brain and the restlessness in his chest.
The rain was that soft, persistent kind that soaked through every layer without fanfare. Not quite a storm, but relentless, coating Izuku's hoodie in a fine sheen that clung to his back and dripped steadily from the ends of his curls. His socks were damp through his sneakers. The legs of his jeans stuck to his calves like paper mache.
He shuffled beneath the flickering orange glow of the sign buzzing above the door. One of the bulbs had gone out, so the "a" in "Caesars" blinked intermittently, as if the place itself was too tired to keep up appearances. The scent hit him as soon as he cracked the door open—yeasty, tangy tomato sauce, the sharp warmth of pepperoni, and something vaguely sweet and artificial from the soda fridge.
Inside, it was too warm. Overheated, even, like the ovens had been working overtime and no one had bothered to turn on the ventilation. The windows were fogged near the corners. The tiled floor beneath him was slick with a layer of humidity and faint grease. A playlist of muffled 2000s pop played from the ceiling speakers, static breaking through every fourth song.
Izuku was still shaking off his hood and brushing damp sleeves against his thighs when a sharp voice sliced across the space like a blade.
"Name?"
He startled slightly, looking up.
Behind the counter stood a guy who looked like he’d sooner throw a punch than make change. The cashier had his arms crossed tight over his chest, muscles flexing beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his uniform polo. One eyebrow arched, bored and judgmental. His hair was a jagged mess of ash-blond spikes, like he’d styled it by sticking his head out the window during a windstorm. A faded plastic nametag hung crookedly off his apron, the word "Katsuki" scrawled across it in blocky Sharpie like it was written in a rush—or with spite.
“Uh—Midoriya. Izuku Midoriya. I did a mobile order?”
Katsuki snorted. "Hot-n-ready. You actually ordered ahead like a civilized human. You'd be surprised how many dipshits come in here demanding a pizza in thirty seconds." He tapped at the tablet beside the register, barely glancing down. "Pepperoni. One 2-liter soda. Cheesy bread. You basic as hell, huh?"
Izuku blinked. “I—uh. I like the cheesy bread.”
“So do half the population. You’re not special,” Katsuki said, already turning toward the warming shelf.
The box thunked onto the counter with a satisfying heaviness. The scent was immediate and glorious—rich tomato, bubbling cheese, and just a hint of garlic. Grease had already begun to darken the corners of the cardboard, making the box slightly tacky under Izuku's fingers. A waft of oregano and toasted crust made his stomach grumble in appreciation.
He was just wrapping his hands around the box when the door behind him slammed open with a metallic shriek that made the bell above it screech like a bird caught in a blender.
“YOU LITTLE SHIT!”
The pizza box nearly slipped from Izuku’s grasp.
His stomach dropped. That voice—that furious, guttural snarl—was all too familiar.
He turned around slowly, dread crawling like cold molasses down his spine.
Enji Todoroki stood in the doorway, rainwater dripping from his massive trench coat, steam practically rising off his shoulders. His face was red—not from the cold, but from rage . His thick brows were furrowed so deeply they cast shadows over his eyes. He was breathing hard, nostrils flaring with each inhale like a charging bull.
“You think you can cut me off in traffic and hide in a goddamn pizza place?!” he bellowed, each footstep thundering against the tile as he advanced. His boots squeaked wetly, leaving thick, grimy prints behind.
Izuku backed up instinctively, his heel knocking into the counter. The 2-liter bottle of soda he'd just paid for teetered, then hit the ground with a heavy thud and rolled away, fizzling faintly.
“I-I didn’t even realize it was you,” Izuku stammered, heart pounding. "I wasn't trying to cut you off—"
“I had the right of way, you green-haired little—”
“Dad.”
The new voice was soft. Flat. Almost disappointed.
A second figure had followed Enji inside, raindrops glistening on his hair like melting ice. Shoto Todoroki looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—his coat dripping onto the floor, shoulders hunched, expression unreadable as he watched his father implode.
“Dad, please. Not again.”
There was a pause. A beat of hesitation.
Then another voice cut through, lower, sharper, dripping with menace:
“Oh, hell no.”
Katsuki’s shoes scream-squeaked as he launched into motion.
Before Enji could take another step, Katsuki was moving like something out of an action movie. He pushed off the register shelf with one foot, vaulted onto the display case, and flung his entire body over the counter with terrifying grace.
His boots hit the floor with a heavy thud , landing directly between Izuku and Enji.
The air shifted .
Enji blinked in surprise.
“Get the fuck outta my store, Old Man,” Katsuki growled, voice low and dangerous.
“Who the hell do you think you—”
Crack.
The punch sounded like a firework going off in a too-small room.
Izuku flinched hard, eyes wide as Katsuki’s fist connected squarely with Enji’s jaw. The older man staggered back, shoulders slamming into the soda fridge with a dull, metallic clang . Bottles cascaded to the floor, one exploding open with a hiss, spraying sugary foam into the air like a popped champagne cork.
“You wanna fight someone, you pick a fuckin' fight with me. You don’t touch my customers, you crusty Cheeto.”
“Holy shit ,” Shoto muttered, eyes wide as he pulled out his phone and began filming.
Enji, now snarling, reeled forward to swing, but Katsuki was already ducking beneath his arm. Quick as a spark, Katsuki jabbed him in the ribs, then drove an uppercut into his chin with enough force to send the older man airborne—just an inch or two, but enough.
Enji crashed into the Hot-N-Ready signage behind him, snapping the plastic like brittle candy. He crumpled to the floor in a pile of faux-orange lettering, twitching slightly.
There was a moment of absolute silence.
The radio crackled.
Outside, the rain tapped on the windows like cautious applause.
Katsuki stood over Enji’s groaning form, chest heaving slightly. His apron was crooked now, hanging off one shoulder, and a lock of hair had fallen into his eyes. He wiped his knuckles against his shirt, unconcerned.
Then he turned to Izuku.
“You okay?”
Izuku nodded numbly, still gripping the pizza box like a life raft. “That was—uh. That was really impressive.”
Katsuki snorted. “Bitch,” he said, tone bone-dry. “This is Little Caesars. We’re always hot and ready.”
Shoto stepped over the wreckage of his father without much ceremony, reaching into his coat. Something heavy dropped onto the counter with a solid thunk .
Katsuki looked down.
A wallet. Leather. Embossed with the Todoroki family crest.
Shoto pulled out a crisp 10,000 yen note and placed it gently next to the cheesy bread.
“For the trauma. And the show.” He paused. “Also, please don’t call the cops. I really don’t want to fill out paperwork.”
He grabbed Enji by the ankle and began dragging him toward the exit, phone still recording with his free hand.
“This is going straight on Tweeter,” he muttered.
The door slammed shut behind them.
The bell gave one last pathetic jingle.
Grease and glory hung in the air.
The door swung shut behind Shoto with a final clink of the bell, leaving only the hum of the flickering fluorescents and the soft hiss of carbonated foam bleeding from several battered 2-liters sprawled across the tile. The air was thick with heat, grease, and something that could only be described as the scent of victory—tangy tomato, burnt plastic, and the unmistakable metallic tang of adrenaline still pumping just under the skin.
Izuku hadn’t moved. He was still rooted to the same spot, one hand clamped around the greasy edge of his pizza box and the other braced on the counter like he might float off the ground if he let go. His fingers trembled slightly, fingertips sticky with humidity and oil. His heart had begun to slow its frantic pace, but his skin still buzzed faintly, like it hadn’t caught up with the rest of him.
Across from him, Katsuki exhaled through his nose, the sound low and steady. His shoulders, previously rigid and combat-ready, sagged slightly under the weight of the aftermath. He adjusted his apron with a sharp tug and nudged a rogue bottle of soda with the toe of his boot, sending it rolling toward the mop bucket with a hollow clatter.
“Goddamn,” Katsuki muttered, rubbing at his jaw with the back of his hand. His voice was gravel over smoke, roughened by effort but not breathless. Just grounded. As if this kind of madness didn’t even register as particularly out of the ordinary.
“Do you… do you get that a lot?” Izuku asked, his voice thinner than he expected, high-pitched with disbelief. The air tasted stale on his tongue, thick with steam and artificial pepperoni spice.
Katsuki raised an eyebrow, lips twisting. “People losing their minds in here? More than you’d think.” He grabbed a roll of paper towels from beneath the counter and tore off a sheet with mechanical efficiency. “Old pro fighters picking fights in a pizza shop? That’s a first.”
Izuku let out a laugh—an involuntary, breathless bark that startled even himself. He covered his mouth quickly, half in apology and half to ground himself. “Sorry, sorry—just… that was so much .”
Katsuki didn’t look up as he crouched, mopping up the puddle of soda with brisk, angry movements. “Yeah, well. Guy looked like he was begging to be clocked. I just gave him what he wanted.”
Izuku watched him move—lean muscles flexing beneath his sleeves as he scrubbed, the sleeves of his uniform clinging to his arms in the lingering humidity. Every movement was sharp and purposeful, like his body only understood action. There was a single curl of blond hair sticking to his forehead now, damp with sweat or maybe water from the broken bottles. And he was unfairly attractive.
“Still,” Izuku said, shifting his weight slightly, the squeak of his shoe echoing awkwardly on the tile. “You didn’t have to step in like that.”
Katsuki paused just long enough to glance at him, one brow raised in offense. “You think I was gonna let some 60-year-old rage monster clock a customer in my store?”
Izuku blinked, caught off guard by the vehemence in his voice. “You don’t even know me.”
Katsuki stood, paper towels soaked and limp in his hands. For a moment, he just looked at Izuku—really looked at him. The heat in his gaze wasn’t anger now. It was something else.
Then he smirked. Slowly. Lazily. Like he knew exactly what kind of effect it would have.
“You ordered cheesy bread,” he said.
Izuku flushed so fast it felt like a slap. “I—I guess that makes me worth defending?”
Katsuki leaned against the mop handle, chin tilted slightly upward, that smug little glint never leaving his eyes. “Nah. Makes you smart.”
Izuku ducked his head to hide the laugh bubbling in his throat. His cheeks were starting to ache from smiling, but he didn’t stop. He turned the pizza box in his hands slowly, the cardboard still warm against his palms, slightly soggy at the edges. His fingertips left shallow indentations in the grease-stained surface.
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. It settled around them softly, like the air had exhaled, too. Somewhere in the back, the ovens hummed a low note. One of the fluorescent bulbs buzzed and then popped, sending a flicker of shadow across the counter.
Katsuki shifted behind the register again, pushing the last of the soda toward the fridge with the mop. It sloshed lightly as it slid, the mop head dragging wet lines behind it.
“So…” Izuku started, voice quieter now, more unsure. “What happens now? Do you, uh, file a report? Call your manager?”
Katsuki straightened with a small, satisfied grunt. “I am the manager.”
Izuku blinked. “Wait, really?”
Katsuki shot him a look. “What, because I’m not fifty with a clipboard?”
“No, I just—I didn’t expect…” Izuku trailed off, realizing there was no good way to say he didn’t expect him .
Katsuki smirked again. “I run this location. Best performing in the district.” Then he muttered under his breath, “Not that it says much, since the competition’s brain-dead.”
Izuku laughed—warm, genuine, and a little giddy now. It felt strange to be laughing after everything, but it also felt weirdly right . Like maybe the universe was offering him a weird, cheesy kind of blessing.
Katsuki wiped his hands on his apron and reached for the 10,000 yen note left behind. He held it up between two fingers, crisp and almost smug in its presence.
“So,” he said, tone casual but intent. “What do you say we put Endeavor’s retirement fund to good use?”
Izuku blinked. “What?”
Katsuki nodded toward the money. “Dinner. On me. I mean—on him , technically. But I’m paying.”
Izuku’s brain short-circuited for a beat. His mouth opened, then closed, and then opened again. “You want to take me out? Like… right now?”
Katsuki tilted his head. “You did call me impressive. And you didn’t scream when a grown man got suplexed into the soda fridge. That’s gotta count for something.”
Izuku just stared. Everything about this night had gone completely off the rails. And somehow, that had led to this .
To a boy with gold-flecked eyes and bruised knuckles, offering him dinner like it was just another Thursday night.
And also? He was hot.
And also? He was ready.
Izuku grinned, stepping forward just a little, warmth curling low in his stomach.
“Talk about hot and ready,” he teased, his voice dipping, playful and daring. “Is that your line with everyone, or just the guys you bodyguard mid-shift?”
Katsuki didn’t miss a beat. “Only the ones with good taste in carbs.”
Izuku turned bright red. “Oh.”
Katsuki leaned across the counter now, elbows braced, watching him with the air of someone already plotting the night out. His grin was crooked, confident, and just a little cocky—like he knew he’d already won.
“So what do you say, nerd?”
Izuku looked around at the battlefield: the broken fridge door, the puddles of soda, the scent of garlic and combat still clinging to the air. Then he looked at Katsuki—all messy hair and flushed skin and something burning just beneath the surface.
“I say,” Izuku replied, lifting the pizza box and cheesy bread with purpose, “you better still be hot and ready by the time I finish this.”
Katsuki barked a laugh, loud and real. “Fuckin' deal.”
They didn’t go anywhere fancy.
Katsuki refused to spend Endeavor’s money on anything that required a dress code, and Izuku had cheese grease on his hoodie anyway. The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time they left the pizza place, mist curling in the air like steam rising off pavement. They walked two blocks under the dim glow of streetlamps, still electric from the chaos, still buzzing from the contact—the shared adrenaline, the heat of something unspoken between them.
Katsuki led the way, hands shoved into the pockets of his bomber jacket, shoulders tense like he hadn’t yet figured out how to relax. Izuku followed beside him, close enough that their arms brushed every so often, like a current running between them.
They ducked into a ramen shop Katsuki swore by—a cramped little place tucked between a laundromat and an out-of-business game store. The windows were fogged from the inside, steam curling along the panes, and the scent of soy broth, roasted garlic, and sesame oil hit them like a warm slap in the face the moment they opened the door.
Inside, the space was cozy and lived-in. Six red vinyl booths lined one wall, their tabletops faded from years of bleach and sunlight. The laminate menus were tucked under the salt shakers and chili oil bottles, corners curled with wear. A single radio played somewhere near the back, its signal fuzzy, letting loose a lo-fi jazz track that didn’t quite match the clatter of bowls and kitchen clinks behind the counter.
The cook behind the bar looked up, saw Katsuki, and gave him a single nod—like he’d witnessed the chaos earlier and decided not to ask questions.
Izuku slid into the nearest booth, the vinyl cool against the back of his legs. His cheeks were still pink, maybe from the heat, maybe from the fact that Katsuki had ditched the apron and now wore a dark, slightly wrinkled t-shirt under his jacket. It clung a little to his chest from the rain, and the sleeves hugged his arms like they’d been tailored by fate.
He looked… good.
Really good.
“I still can’t believe that actually happened,” Izuku said, fumbling with his disposable chopsticks. They splintered slightly as he pulled them apart. “Enji Todoroki. In a Little Caesars.”
Katsuki scoffed, grabbing a menu even though he already knew what he wanted. “I can. Asshole drives like he owns the road. I’ve seen him flip off an ambulance.”
Izuku choked on his laughter. “You’re joking.”
Katsuki looked up. “I’m not. One time he came in, saw we were out of sausage pizzas, and tried to ‘intimidate’ me into microwaving one from frozen.” He rolled his eyes. “I threw a breadstick at him.”
Izuku barked a laugh—loud, bright, unguarded. He covered his mouth like it would help, but it didn’t hide the way his eyes crinkled with delight. Katsuki blinked at him, and for the first time, looked a little flustered himself. He glanced down at the menu like it had just become the most fascinating thing in the universe.
They ordered—tonkotsu with extra egg for Izuku, spicy miso for Katsuki, thick with chili paste and garlic. When the bowls arrived, steaming and massive, both of them stared in reverent silence.
“Wow,” Izuku whispered, nose twitching at the scent of slow-cooked pork.
“Told you,” Katsuki muttered, already digging in. “Better than chain food.”
Izuku lifted his chopsticks, ready to start eating—only to find Katsuki staring.
“…What?” he asked, flustered.
Katsuki looked away quickly, shoving a mouthful of noodles into his face like it would distract from the faint pink blooming on his ears. “Nothin’.”
Izuku smiled into his broth.
The conversation flowed easier as the steam curled around them.
They swapped stories—Katsuki’s worst customers (a guy who tried to pay in Pokémon cards and told him they were ‘limited edition’), Izuku’s worst job (a summer camp lifeguard gig where he’d been assigned to deep water duty despite not knowing how to swim). Laughter came easy, and so did curiosity.
“So,” Katsuki said after a while, poking at the yolk in his egg, “what do you do? Besides being a cheesy bread connoisseur.”
Izuku paused, chopsticks midair. “I’m a student at Tokyo U. Double majoring in psychology and public policy.”
Katsuki blinked. “Shit. Really?”
“Yeah.” Izuku rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a lot. But I like it. I do peer mental health work, too. Volunteer stuff. Crisis lines, disaster support, stuff like that. It helps me feel like I’m actually doing something.”
Katsuki stared at him for a moment, then gave a small, sharp nod. “That’s badass.”
“What about you?” Izuku asked, nudging a bit of narutomaki toward Katsuki’s side of the table.
“Chemical engineering,” Katsuki replied, like he was daring Izuku to laugh. “Tokyo U, too.”
Izuku’s jaw dropped. “Wait—no way.”
“Yeah. Night classes. Transferred in last year. I run the pizza joint in the afternoons to pay rent.”
Izuku shook his head, grinning. “You’re full of surprises, Kacchan.”
Katsuki scowled. “Don’t call me that.”
Izuku just laughed again.
Somewhere between slurping noodles and stealing bites from each other’s bowls, the conversation softened.
“Seriously,” Izuku said quietly, “thank you. For stepping in like that.”
Katsuki leaned back against the booth, eyes shadowed beneath the cheap pendant light above them. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that kinda shit.”
Izuku fidgeted with his chopstick wrapper. “It was brave.”
Katsuki looked at him, long and searching. “You’re not used to people doing that, are you?”
Izuku blinked, thrown. “Doing what?”
“Backing you up.”
The truth hit too close, too fast. He lowered his gaze.
“No,” he admitted. “Not really.”
Katsuki’s mouth twisted. Not in pity. But something like it.
“Well,” he said. “Get used to it.”
Izuku’s throat tightened.
Katsuki looked like he regretted the weight of the words, so he shoved the last of his egg into Izuku’s bowl without fanfare. “You’re a damn nerd, but you’re a good one. Cheesy bread taste and all.”
Izuku laughed again—warm and unguarded. “You’re really not what I expected.”
“No one is,” Katsuki muttered.
They paid with Enji’s crumpled yen note. There was even enough left for an ice cream sandwich each from the vending machine out front, and they ate them standing beneath the flickering streetlamp while steam curled from the gutters and puddles mirrored the neon.
Izuku shivered as the night wind brushed past, but he wasn’t cold. Not really.
Katsuki handed him the last bite of his sandwich, half-melted, sweet and sticky on Izuku’s fingertips.
“So, Deku,” Katsuki said.
Izuku blinked. “What?”
“That’s your name now. You earned it.”
Izuku’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Okay. Kacchan.”
Katsuki made a face like he hated how much he liked that.
Then he added, gruffly, like he was daring Izuku to argue, “You’re my boyfriend now, by the way. Just so we’re clear.”
Izuku blinked again. “Wait—what?”
Katsuki scowled at the sidewalk. “You heard me. Don’t make me say it again.”
Izuku’s grin nearly split his face. His whole chest felt warm, full, like something had clicked into place.
“Okay,” he said, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. “Then I guess you’re mine, too.”
They stood there for a beat longer, silence folding gently around them, broken only by the soft buzz of the flickering streetlamp above and the hum of vending machines cooling half-melted treats inside.
Izuku glanced up at Katsuki, heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to make itself known. His fingers, still sticky with ice cream, twitched at his sides.
Katsuki noticed.
“Don’t look at me like that unless you’re gonna do something about it,” Katsuki muttered, voice low, rough, and only barely teasing.
Izuku’s breath hitched.
He stepped closer. Tentative at first. Then all at once.
Their mouths met in the kind of kiss that started soft but unraveled fast—tension spilling out like carbonation finally freed. Katsuki tasted like sugar and salt and something stubbornly, unapologetically his. His hand cupped the back of Izuku’s neck like he’d been waiting to do it all night, grounding him, pulling him in.
When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads touched, breath mingling in the space between them.
Katsuki didn’t open his eyes. “Still hot and ready?”
Izuku laughed into his chest. “Always.”
Later that night, the video of Enji’s takedown went viral. Tweeter was ablaze.
@shoto.todoroki:
My dad tried to fight a cashier at Little Caesars. The cashier won.
Attached was a grainy photo of Katsuki mid-punch, Enji half airborne, and Izuku frozen in the background with his arms clutching a pizza box like a shield.
The top comment, from @allmightyboyIzu:
Boyfriend privileges include front row seats and ice cream after.
The next morning, they were trending.
Izuku tried to play it cool. Katsuki didn’t bother.
He posted a photo of Izuku curled up on his couch in his hoodie, cheesy bread box balanced on his lap, scribbling notes in a beat-up spiral notebook.
@GreatExplosionMurderGodDynamight:
My boyfriend’s smarter than you and orders better carbs.
And that was that.