After they both bathed—separately, much to Rumi's loud disappointment—they headed out together as the evening settled over the city.
Shibuya was alive in the way only it could be.
Neon signs flickered to life one after another, splashing the streets in pinks, blues, and golds. The smell of grilled yakitori mixed with sweet crepes and fried dough, while music drifted out from open storefronts. People laughed, talked, hurried past—students in uniforms, salarymen loosening their ties, couples lingering under glowing billboards.
Izuku walked beside Rumi at an easy pace, hands in his pockets, taking it all in. After the intensity of training and the chaos of the Sports Festival, the normalcy felt grounding.
Rumi, meanwhile, moved with relaxed confidence, eyes sharp as they scanned the street, ears twitching slightly at sudden noises. Even out of costume, she carried herself like a pro—alert, comfortable, unbothered.
The nearest retail store wasn't far.
The automatic doors slid open with a soft ding, cool air washing over them. Bright fluorescent lights reflected off polished floors, and rows of neatly stacked shelves stretched out ahead.
They barely made it three steps inside before heads started turning.
A whisper rippled through the aisle.
"Is that…?"
"No way, it's him—"
A kid in a hero hoodie froze mid-step, eyes widening. "M-Midoriya?!"
Izuku blinked, then smiled. "Hey."
That was all it took.
"Can I get a photo?!" "Please sign my notebook!" "My little brother loves you—can you say hi?!"
Within minutes, a small crowd had formed. Phones were raised, hands stretched out, voices overlapping in excitement. Even an elderly woman shuffled forward, smiling warmly.
"I just wanted to thank you, dear," she said softly, squeezing his hand. "You fought so bravely."
Izuku bowed slightly, cheeks faintly pink. "Thank you. That really means a lot."
He took every photo, signed every autograph, answered questions patiently. No rushing, no irritation—just that same calm, genuine smile.
Rumi leaned against a freezer a few steps away, arms crossed, watching the scene with a slow, amused grin.
'Hah… he really doesn't even realize it yet,' she thought. 'This kid's already dangerous—and not just in a fight.'
Eventually, the crowd thinned, people drifting away with excited chatter and satisfied smiles.
Izuku exhaled once they were finally alone again and grabbed a shopping trolley. "Sorry about that."
Rumi snorted as she fell into step beside him. "Don't apologize. That was entertaining."
He scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Feels weird. I'm not used to that kind of attention."
"Well, get used to it," she replied casually. "You don't steamroll the Sports Festival and walk away anonymous."
They moved into the grocery aisles, the cart wheels rattling softly over the floor.
"Nah," Izuku said with a small laugh. "It's probably just a phase. Give it a month or two and they'll forget about me."
Rumi stopped walking and looked at him sideways.
"…You're serious?"
He shrugged. "Yeah?"
She huffed a short laugh and turned toward the meat section. "Kid, people still recognize me from my festival years ago."
"For real?" Izuku blinked.
She grabbed a pack of steak, inspecting it before tossing it into the cart. "You underestimate how obsessive hero fans can be. Once you're burned into their memory, that's it."
Izuku nodded thoughtfully. "True diehard fans probably dig up everything about you. Online forums, theories, fan clubs…"
"Exactly," Rumi said, pointing at him with the package. "And trust me, you've definitely got at least three already."
He winced. "That's… terrifying."
She laughed and continued down the aisle. "But once you go pro, most people stop caring about your civilian face. It's the mask they remember."
"Guess that makes life easier," Izuku said, pushing the cart forward. "Shopping without getting mobbed sounds nice."
Rumi smirked, grabbing vegetables as they passed. "That's the perk of not wearing a costume everywhere. Civilian me gets peace. Hero me gets chaos."
She glanced back at him. "You'll figure out your balance eventually."
Izuku smiled, the city lights reflecting faintly in his eyes. "Yeah… I think I will."
They continued shopping side by side, the noise of the store fading into comfortable background sound—two fighters walking through an ordinary evening, unaware of just how much their paths were about to intertwine.
They moved through the aisles at an easy pace. Izuku pushed the cart while Rumi casually reached out, grabbing things almost at random—fruit here, bottled water there, protein bars stacked higher than seemed reasonable.
Izuku glanced into the cart and raised an eyebrow. "Do you… normally eat this much?"
Rumi didn't even look at him as she tossed in another pack of chicken breasts. "You try fighting villains for eight hours straight and not eat like this."
"That's fair," he admitted. "I go through food pretty fast too. My mom's already complaining about grocery bills."
Rumi smirked. "Heh. Rookie problem."
They stopped by the produce section. Izuku picked up apples, inspecting them carefully.
"Red or green?" he asked.
"Red," Rumi said instantly. "Green tastes like regret."
He laughed softly and dropped a bag of red apples into the cart. "Noted."
As they turned the corner, Izuku noticed several cartons of energy drinks piling up. "Uh… how many of those do you drink a day?"
Rumi shrugged. "Depends. Patrol day? Four. Fight-heavy day? Six."
"That can't be healthy."
She glanced at him sideways, unimpressed. "I'm a pro hero with a mutation quirk and absurd stamina. If caffeine kills me, it deserves the win."
"…I can't argue with that logic," Izuku conceded.
A few aisles later, he caught her slipping instant noodles into the cart with suspicious speed.
He stopped walking. "Rumi."
She froze, then slowly turned her head. "Yes?"
"You just added instant noodles."
"So?"
"You lecture me about proper fuel, and then you do that?"
She grinned shamelessly. "Emergency food. Sometimes I come back dead tired and don't feel like cooking."
Izuku sighed, shaking his head. "At least let me cook sometimes. Balanced meals matter."
Her ears twitched. "Oh? You cook?"
"Yeah," he said casually. "Nothing fancy, but I'm decent."
Rumi studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. You cook, I eat. Fair trade."
"That feels one-sided."
"Welcome to hero society," she replied dryly.
By the time they reached the checkout, the cart was full—meat, vegetables, snacks, protein, energy drinks, and enough food to sustain a small squad.
As the cashier scanned the items, Rumi leaned closer and muttered, "If anyone asks, this is all for me."
Izuku smirked. "Right. Because one person definitely needs this much food."
"Exactly."
They paid and stepped outside, the automatic doors sliding shut behind them. Cool evening air washed over them, carrying the distant sounds of traffic and city life.
Rumi adjusted the grocery bags in her hands and glanced at him. "Not bad for your first night here."
Izuku nodded, feeling strangely at ease. "Yeah… this feels nice. Normal."
She snorted. "Don't get used to it. Tomorrow, I'm running you into the ground."
He smiled, unfazed. "Looking forward to it."
Side by side, they headed back toward the building, bags swinging lightly, the city glowing around them—an ordinary walk that quietly marked the beginning of something far from ordinary.
When they got home, the door barely had time to shut before the scent of fresh groceries began to fill the space—raw meat, herbs, vegetables, and the faint metallic tang of packaged protein. The rooftop house felt warmer now, lived-in, the earlier quiet replaced by motion and sound.
Rumi dropped the grocery bags onto the counter with a solid thump and immediately got to work. She tied her hair back with a quick flick of her wrist, rolled up her sleeves, and cracked her knuckles like she was about to spar rather than cook.
"Alright," she said, pointing at Izuku without looking at him. "You. Assistant duty. Hand me that pan."
Izuku leaned back against the counter, arms folded, watching her with open amusement. "You're taking this very seriously."
"Damn right," she replied, glancing over her shoulder. "Someone earlier had the audacity to question my culinary skills."
"I just said your fridge looked like a gym locker," he said calmly, reaching for the pan and passing it over. "Carrots and protein shakes don't exactly scream 'home-cooked meals.'"
She shot him a sharp glare—but it lasted all of half a second before a proud grin tugged at her lips. "Keep talking, rookie. You'll eat those words."
The kitchen came alive quickly. Oil hissed as it hit the pan. Meat sizzled. Rumi moved with the same confidence she showed in a fight—quick, efficient motions, flipping ingredients without hesitation. She hummed under her breath, ears twitching slightly to some rhythm only she could hear.
Izuku took on the smaller tasks without complaint—chopping vegetables, stirring sauces, plating ingredients. Every now and then, he'd sneak a taste when her back was turned.
"Hey," she said suddenly, not even looking at him. "Stop stealing."
He blinked. "How did you—"
"I have good ears," she replied smugly. "And if you ruin the balance, I'll kick you off the roof."
"Worth the risk," he muttered, grinning.
By the time everything was done, the kitchen smelled incredible—savory, rich, comforting. Outside, the sky had shifted into deep shades of orange and gold, the city lights beginning to flicker on one by one.
They carried their plates outside and set up two camping chairs near the edge of the rooftop. A gentle breeze rolled through, rustling the garden and carrying distant city noise up to them—cars, voices, the hum of life below.
For a while, they ate in silence.
Not awkward silence. Easy silence.
Izuku took another bite, then nodded. "Yeah… okay. I admit it."
Rumi glanced sideways. "Admit what?"
"This is really good," he said honestly. "Didn't expect it to taste this clean."
She leaned back in her chair, smug satisfaction written all over her face. "Told you. Just because I fight for a living doesn't mean I can't cook."
"I'll stop doubting you," he said lightly. "For now."
She snorted.
The sun dipped lower, the skyline painted in purples and fading golds. Izuku finished his plate and rested it on his knee, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"So," he said, breaking the calm, "when do we start patrol?"
Rumi followed his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly as the light dimmed. "Give it about an hour. Shibuya doesn't really wake up until it's fully dark. That's when idiots get brave."
"Got it," he replied, settling deeper into his chair.
They sat there as dusk bled into night, the world slowly changing below them. No pressure. No alarms. Just the quiet before the hunt.
And for the first time since arriving, Izuku felt it clearly—
This internship wasn't going to be just training.
It was going to be something else entirely.
TO BE CONTINUED