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Snow changed U.A. in ways Izuku hadn’t realised he needed.
It softened everything, the sharp geometry of the buildings, the echo of footsteps, even the constant tension he carried without noticing. Lights glowed warmly behind windows, laughter sounded muffled rather than loud, and the world felt smaller in the safest way possible.
Izuku noticed all of this absently as he walked through the grounds, scarf pulled high against the cold.
What he noticed most, though, was Eri.
She walked beside him in careful steps, bundled in a thick coat that nearly swallowed her whole. One small hand was tucked into the sleeve of his jacket, not gripping, not desperate, just there. A habit formed from a long time of needing to stay close without asking.
Izuku slowed without thinking.
He always did.
“Is it too cold?” he asked gently.
Eri shook her head after a moment.
“It’s… quiet,” she said. “I like that.”
Izuku smiled. “Yeah. Snow helps with that.”
They reached the small courtyard near
the dorms, untouched except for a thin layer of fresh powder. Lights from the surrounding buildings reflected softly off the ground, turning the snow a warm gold instead of white.
Eri stopped.
Izuku stopped too.
She stared at the courtyard, hands fisting lightly in her sleeves.
“…I’ve never really been allowed to play in snow,” she said.
The words were simple.
They hit Izuku like a weight.
Of course you weren’t, his mind supplied instantly, unbidden, angry, aching.
Not because snow was dangerous.
But because joy had been.
He thought of all the things he’d taken for granted growing up, scraped knees, cold fingers, falling down and knowing someone would help him back up.
Things that hurt briefly and healed naturally.
Things Eri had never been given the chance to experience safely.
Izuku bent down immediately, resting on one knee so he was level with her. Not looming. Never looming.
“That wasn’t fair,” he said softly, not accusing, not loud. Just honest.
Eri looked at him, surprised. Then thoughtful.
“Can I try?” she asked.
His chest tightened.
“Yes,” he said at once. “If you want to.”
He gestured gently to the courtyard.
“And if you don’t like it, or it feels weird, we stop. Okay?”
Choice mattered. He’d learned that the hard way.
Eri nodded.
Izuku stepped into the snow first, exaggerating the crunch beneath his boots so she could hear it, see it. Eri followed, her boots sinking slightly.
“Oh-”
She froze.
Izuku stayed still.
“It’s cold,” she observed.
“It is,” he agreed.
She crouched slowly, touching the snow with her glove, then pulling back.
“…But it doesn’t hurt.”
Something in Izuku’s chest loosened just a little.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
They spent time there, not rushing, not playing at first. Just existing. Eri experimented cautiously, and Izuku stayed nearby without hovering, fighting the instinct to intervene unless she asked.
When she gathered a small pile of snow in her hands, she hesitated.
“…What do I do with it?”
Izuku smiled. “Like this.”
He showed her, gently packing the snow between his hands.
She copied him. Her snowball came out uneven, lopsided.
She tossed it.
It broke apart harmlessly.
Eri froze, shoulders tense, waiting.
Izuku’s mind raced. Don’t react too fast.
Don’t scare her.
He just smiled. “Nice throw.”
The tension melted from her posture like ice under sunlight.
She tried again. And again. Each attempt came with a little more confidence, a little more curiosity.
Eventually, Izuku tossed a snowball gently toward her boots. Snow puffed around her feet.
Eri stared.
Then she laughed.
The sound was soft at first, almost surprised, like she hadn’t expected herself to do it. But it grew, light and unguarded, ringing through the quiet courtyard.
Izuku didn’t move.
He just watched.
This, he thought, this is what heroes are for.
Not battles. Not glory.
Moments like this, where someone learned, for the first time, that the world didn’t always hurt.
“…Can we do it again?” Eri asked, cheeks pink.
“As many times as you want,” he said.
They didn’t realise how long they stayed out until Eri’s movements slowed, fingers stiffening from the cold.
Izuku noticed immediately.
“How about we head inside and warm up?” he suggested.
Eri nodded. “Okay.”
The common room was warm and softly lit. A few members of Class 1-A were scattered around, Kaminari and Mina arguing about music, Uraraka and Tsuyu hanging lights, Kirishima wrestling tape away from Sero.
No one crowded them.
No one stared.
Izuku helped Eri with her coat and handed her a mug of hot chocolate, reminding her to sip slowly. She cradled it carefully.
“It’s sweet,” she said after a sip.
“It is.”
They sat together on the couch. For a while, there was only the hum of the room and the quiet tap of snow against the windows.
“…Midoriya?” Eri asked.
“Yeah?”
“…Why is that plant hanging there?”
Izuku followed her gaze to the doorway.
“Oh, that’s mistletoe,” Mina said, keeping her tone gentle as she approached. “It’s a holiday thing.”
“What does it do?” Eri asked.
Tsuyu answered calmly. “It’s about appreciation and saying thank you ribbit. About people who care about each other.”
Eri nodded slowly.
“And it's for kissing!” Mina added with glee causing Eri’s cheeks to tinge pink
Izuku stayed silent.
He didn’t move.
After a moment, Eri stood up.
She tugged Izuku’s sleeve, a little firmer than before.
“Come with me.”
He followed.
They stepped beneath the mistletoe.
Izuku immediately bent down again, resting on one knee so he wasn’t towering over her.
Eri looked at the mistletoe, then at him.
“…It means thank you?” she asked.
“It can,” Izuku said.
She nodded, decision made.
Eri stood on her toes and kissed Izuku’s cheek.
Soft. Certain. Unhurried.
Izuku stayed where he was for a moment longer, one knee still pressed into the snow, the cold seeping through his trousers unnoticed.
His cheek felt warm.
Not embarrassed-warm. Not flustered-warm.
Just… real.
He lifted a gloved hand and touched the spot gently, as if the moment might vanish if he didn’t anchor it somehow.
That wasn’t a kiss like the ones people whisper about, he thought. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t confusing.
It was gratitude.
Trust.
Proof that she felt safe enough to do something spontaneous, something joyful, without fear or hesitation.
Izuku exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at his lips before he could stop it.
This, he realised, this is what it means to save someone.
Not dramatic rescues. Not broken buildings and shattered ground.
But being there long enough that the snow stops being scary.
That the silence doesn’t hurt anymore.
That a child can laugh, and choose kindness freely.
He pushed himself back to his feet.
“Thank you,” she said. “For being with me in the snow.”
Izuku felt his throat tighten.
This, he realised, is trust.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just given.
He smiled, steady, even as his eyes stung.
“Anytime, Eri.”
She smiled back, relaxed, safe.
As they stepped away, Izuku touched his cheek unconsciously.
I’ll keep earning that, he thought. Every day.
Outside, snow continued to fall, quiet, harmless, and kind.