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Snow fell softly over U.A.’s grounds, the kind that muted sound and slowed the world down until everything felt a little more manageable.
Izuku Midoriya stood near the edge of the winter festival lights, hands tucked into the sleeves of his coat, shoulders slightly hunched as if bracing against something more than the cold. The glow from the lanterns reflected in the snow at his feet, turning it gold and white, but he barely noticed.
Nejire Hado, by contrast, looked entirely at ease. She spun once beneath the falling snow, arms outstretched, laughing softly as flakes clung to her hair and lashes.
“Okay,” she said, breath puffing out in a cloud, “I officially understand why everyone likes winter festivals.”
Izuku smiled despite himself.
“They’re… quieter,” he said. “At least outside the main crowd.”
Nejire nodded, then glanced over at him, really looked this time.
“You okay, Midoriya?”
The question was gentle, but precise.
Too precise.
Izuku hesitated.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
Nejire hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t call him out. Instead, she stepped closer, boots crunching softly in the snow.
“You always say that,” she observed.
“Even when your shoulders do that.”
He blinked.
“Do… what?”
She mimicked the slight inward curl of his posture with exaggerated seriousness, then grinned when he startled.
“See? That.”
Izuku laughed quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t realize I was that obvious.”
“You’re obvious to me,” she said easily, without weight or implication, just fact.
The ease of it almost hurt.
They stood together in silence for a moment, watching snow gather on the railing nearby. Somewhere behind them, laughter rose and fell, music drifting faintly through the cold air.
Izuku’s thoughts, however, were nowhere near the festival.
You’re standing here because they let you.
Because you’re useful.
Because you’re needed, until you aren’t.
The old thoughts crept in quietly, the way they always did when things were calm enough to let his guard down.
Nejire broke the silence.
“You know,” she said, rocking back on her heels, “I overheard Monoma earlier saying that people tend to ‘orbit’ around you.”
Izuku stiffened.
“He- he was probably making fun of me.”
“Nope,” she replied brightly. “He sounded annoyed.”
Izuku frowned. “Why would that annoy him?”
Nejire turned fully toward him now, head tilted, eyes sharp with curiosity and something warmer underneath.
“Because people gravitate toward you,”
she said. “Like… naturally. Without trying.”
Izuku’s chest tightened.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“I mean-” He stopped, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeves. “People talk to me because we’re classmates. Or because we’re in the same program. Or because I’m… useful in a fight.”
Nejire’s expression didn’t change, but she stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth from her Quirk, subtle and steady.
“That’s not why,” she said calmly.
Izuku swallowed. “It is, though. Before I had my Quirk, no one noticed me unless I messed something up. And even now, I still feel like- like if I stop being helpful, I’ll disappear again.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
He flinched, waiting for the moment she’d try to reassure him, or correct him, or tell him he was wrong.
Instead, Nejire smiled.
Not softly. Not sadly.
Proudly.
“Midoriya,” she said, “you’re cute when you spiral.”
He froze. “I-what?”
She laughed, bright and unashamed.
“You get all thoughtful and tangled up, like your brain is running five simulations at once. It’s adorable.”
His face went red instantly. “That’s not- that’s not the point.”
“It kind of is,” she said, stepping around him so she stood directly in front of him.
“You’re not thinking about what you are.
You’re thinking about what you’re afraid of losing.”
Izuku looked at her, startled by the certainty in her voice.
She met his gaze without hesitation.
“I see you as a hero,” she said. “Not because of your Quirk. Not because you’re strong. But because you care in a way that changes people.”
Snow settled gently into Izuku’s hair as the words sank in.
“You stayed with Eri in the snow today even though you were freezing,” Nejire continued. “You didn’t rush her. You didn’t talk at her. You just… stayed.”
She smiled, softer now, but no less sure.
“That’s heroic.”
Izuku felt something loosen in his chest, something he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.
Above them, a small sprig of mistletoe swayed between two light posts, green stark against the white sky.
Nejire glanced up, eyes lighting with recognition.
“Oh! That thing again.”
Izuku followed her gaze, heart
stuttering. He didn’t step back this time, but he didn’t step forward either.
Nejire noticed.
She crouched slightly so she wasn’t looking down at him anymore, snow crunching beneath her boots.
“Hey,” she said lightly. “I’m not teasing you.”
He shook his head quickly. “I know. I just, sometimes my brain tells me I don’t get to have things like this.”
She studied him for a beat, then smiled again.
“Well,” she said, standing on her toes just enough to close the distance, “your brain is wrong.”
She leaned in, not rushed, not dramatic.
Just intentional.
The kiss landed gently against his
cheek, warm against the cold air. It lingered, not long, but long enough to mean something.
Izuku felt it all the way through him.
When she pulled back, she was still smiling.
Izuku didn’t move right away.
Nejire’s footsteps faded into the snow beside him as she turned back toward the lights, but he stayed where he was, fingers curled loosely at his sides, cheek still warm where she’d kissed him.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t overwhelming.
And somehow, that made it worse, in the best way.
She didn’t hesitate.
That thought echoed louder than anything else.
She hadn’t checked his reaction first.
Hadn’t asked if it was okay. Hadn’t apologized or second-guessed herself afterward. She’d just… decided. As if it was obvious. As if he was someone worth choosing without debate.
Izuku swallowed.
She sees me.
Not the symbol. Not the Quirk. Not the expectations or the legacy or the endless comparisons.
Him.
The boy who used to flinch when people raised their voices.
The kid who learned to disappear quietly so he wouldn’t be in the way.
The hero who still woke up some nights convinced he’d somehow fooled everyone.
Nejire hadn’t corrected him when he
spiraled.
She hadn’t told him he was wrong.
She’d told him he was cute.
The thought made his face burn again,
but this time he didn’t try to push it away.
Maybe… maybe I don’t have to earn being here every second.
Snow landed on his sleeve, melting instantly.
For the first time in a long while, Izuku Midoriya let himself stand still, without rehearsing, without proving, without preparing to apologize for existing.
And that felt terrifying.
And freeing.
“Merry Christmas, hero,” she said.
Izuku stood there, breath uneven, snow melting unnoticed on his lashes.
For the first time in a long while, the old voice in his head didn’t speak.
And that, more than anything, felt like a gift.
“Hey.”
Nejire’s voice cut through his thoughts, bright and casual.
“You coming? Or are you planning to emotionally monologue out here until spring?”
Izuku startled, then laughed, actually laughed, as he hurried to fall into step beside her.
“S-sorry.”
She grinned. “Don’t be. You get that look when you think too hard. Like your brain is buffering.”
“That’s… oddly accurate.”
They walked together toward the festival lights, boots crunching in sync. The warmth returned gradually, lanterns, laughter, music drifting through the cold air.
Nejire tucked her hands into her coat sleeves.
“You okay now?” she asked, not looking at him.
Izuku considered lying.
Instead, he said, “Yeah. I think so.”
She nodded, satisfied, as if that was enough.
They passed beneath strings of lights, classmates waving as they went. No one made a big deal of it. No one stopped them. The world didn’t shift on its axis.
And yet, everything felt subtly different.
At one stall, Nejire stopped abruptly.
“Oh! Takoyaki.”
Izuku smiled. “You just got food.”
“Yes,” she said seriously. “And now I want different food.”
She glanced at him, eyes sparkling.
“You’re sharing.”
“I-I am?”
She leaned closer, conspiratorial.
“Heroes share.”
He sighed, fond. “Okay. But only because it’s for hero work.”
They ate standing shoulder to shoulder, steam rising between them. At some point, Nejire bumped his arm lightly with hers.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Just presence.
Izuku realized, distantly, that he wasn’t counting the seconds anymore.
Izuku was in the common room when
Nejire found him again.
He was sitting on the floor, notes spread around him, muttering under his breath as he scribbled furiously. She watched him for a moment before speaking.
“You know,” she said, “most people use tables.”
He jumped. “H-Hado!”
She laughed, dropping down beside him without hesitation, legs crossed easily.
“Relax. You look like you’re about to apologize to the furniture.”
“I-I wasn’t-”
She tilted her head. “You’re doing it again.”
He stopped.
“…Sorry.”
She smiled, softer this time.
“You don’t have to stop being you,” she said. “Just… don’t be so hard on him.”
Izuku stared down at his notes.
“Can I ask you something?” he said quietly.
“Sure.”
“Why… why me?”
Nejire didn’t answer right away.
Then she reached out and gently tapped his notebook closed.
“Because you listen,” she said.
“Because you care even when no one’s watching. Because you make people feel safe without meaning to.”
She met his eyes.
“And because you don’t realize how extraordinary that is.”
Izuku felt that familiar tightening in his chest, but it didn’t spiral this time.
He nodded slowly. “I’m… working on that.”
She grinned. “Good. I’ll help.”
He hesitated, then asked, “Does… does this mean anything to you? Us, I mean.”
Nejire blinked, then smiled wide.
“Well,” she said, standing and offering him a hand, “I don’t kiss people under mistletoe for practice.”
He took her hand.
And this time, he didn’t feel like he had to prove he deserved it.
Izuku barely realized he was holding Nejire’s hand.
It had just… happened. Somewhere between leaving the training grounds and cutting through the courtyard, their fingers had found each other naturally, her grip loose but confident, his careful at first and then steady.
They were halfway across the open space when a familiar voice floated over.
“…Wait.”
Izuku froze.
Nejire didn’t. She glanced over easily, still holding his hand.
Near the steps, Mina Ashido, Ochaco Uraraka, and Tsuyu Asui stood in a loose cluster, conversation clearly abandoned.
Mina’s eyes flicked from their hands… to their faces… and then back again.
Her grin spread slowly.
“Ohhh,” she said, drawing the word out.
“So that’s what that is.”
Izuku’s brain short-circuited.
“I-this isn’t- I mean-”
Nejire squeezed his hand lightly.
Ochaco smiled, soft and genuine. “You look happy, Deku.”
That stopped him.
“I- yeah,” he said, quieter now. “I am.”
Tsuyu nodded, unbothered. “That makes sense. You walk lighter like that.”
Mina clasped her hands together dramatically. “I knew something was up. You’ve been less stress-scribbly.”
“I don’t, what does that even-”
“Trust me,” Mina said cheerfully. “It’s a thing.”
Before Izuku could recover, a familiar laugh rang out behind them.
“Well, look at that.”
He turned to see Mirio Togata approaching with Tamaki Amajiki just behind him.
Mirio took one look at their joined hands and beamed.
“Good for you, Midoriya!”
Tamaki flushed instantly. “I-um-y-you don’t have to look at us, I mean- I’m happy for you- just- quietly-”
Nejire laughed, bright and warm.
“Thanks! We’re taking it slow.”
Mirio nodded approvingly. “Best way to do it.”
Izuku glanced down at their hands again.
For once, he didn’t feel the urge to pull away.
Nejire didn’t either.
And as they walked on, teasing voices fading behind them, Izuku realized something quietly important:
Being seen like this didn’t make him feel exposed.
It made him feel… real.