Recap:
"Who's ready for baklava?" she asked, her voice steady and cheerful, even as she avoided looking at the spot where Shoto and Momo were currently standing together, discussing a recent charity event.
^ • ^
(Y/N) walked back into the living room, the heavy silver tray of baklava held steady despite the way her heart was hammering against her ribs.
She moved through the crowd with the grace of a pro, offering honey-soaked pastries to Kaminari and Kirishima, who were currently in the middle of a heated debate over who had the better "hero pose."
"Try these," she encouraged with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, though no one noticed.
She found herself cornered by Uraraka and Asui shortly after. "You're so lucky, (Y/N)!" Uraraka beamed, clutching a cup of tea.
"Shoto was always so closed off at UA. Seeing him actually relax in this house... it's like you're the missing piece he needed."
(Y/N) nodded, her throat tight. "He's... he's been very welcoming." She glanced over at Shoto. He was standing near the balcony with Momo.
They weren't touching, but the way they stood-perfectly composed, two pillars of the elite hero world-made the girls' gossip feel like an indisputable truth.
To everyone here, she was the newcomer who had snatched up the "Prince." To Shoto, she was the "responsibility" that kept him from the life he was supposed to have.
She didn't feel like a missing piece, she felt like a placeholder.
As the night wound down, the farewells were loud and boisterous. When the door finally shut on the last guest, the villa fell into a heavy, ringing silence.
(Y/N) didn't say a word. She headed straight for the kitchen, needing to do something, anything to keep from crying.
She began scrubbing a pot, the harsh scent of lemon soap filling the air.
Shoto watched her from the doorway. He felt a strange, magnetic pull toward her. Seeing her tonight, seeing how she handled his world with such effortless charm, had ignited a fire in him that went beyond duty.
He didn't see a "contract" anymore; he saw the woman who had made him feel human for the first time in years.
He walked up behind her, the heat from his left side warming the air. (Y/N) didn't turn around, her shoulders tensed as she kept scrubbing.
"You were incredible tonight," he murmured.
He reached out, his hands sliding around her waist. (Y/N) gasped softly, her hands pausing in the soapy water. Shoto leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck.
His lips were warm as he began to press slow, lingering kisses against her skin.
He didn't move for her mouth, he couldn't bring himself to look her in the eyes yet, not while the guilt of the "deal" still lived in the back of his mind.
He just wanted her.
(Y/N) leaned her head back, her eyes fluttering shut. Despite the words she'd heard tonight, despite the fear that she was just a "suitable arrangement," she loved him.
She loved the way he protected her at the rail yard, and she loved the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching.
She didn't resist when he turned her around, his hands sliding up to her face, though his lips stayed firmly on her jawline, her neck, her collarbone.
They moved to the bedroom in a blur of shared heat and desperate touch. That night, they made love with a quiet intensity that felt like a conversation they didn't have the words for. For (Y/N), it was a confession of a love she was afraid to voice.
For Shoto, it was the first time he realized that no matter what the contract said, he never wanted to let her go.
But as they lay together in the dark afterward, the distance between them felt wider than ever. He still thought she knew it was a business deal. She still thought she was a second choice.
^ • ^
The honeymoon phase-or at least the quiet, domestic version of it-settled over the villa.
For the next three days, the tension from the party and the echoes of the gossip were tucked away in the back of (Y/N)'s mind. She was a professional, after all; she knew how to compartmentalize.
The villa, a sprawling masterpiece of glass and stone, had been a wedding gift from her father.
To him, it was a monument to the Hakamada influence, but to (Y/N), it felt too much like a showroom. She spent her off-duty hours trying to strip away the "catalog" feel of the place.
She replaced the stiff, museum-like sculptures in the foyer with plush rugs and photos she'd brought from France.
She filled the sterile balcony with hardy outdoor plants that could survive the sea salt. She was determined to turn this "gift" into a sanctuary.
Shoto watched these changes with a quiet, growing fascination.
He'd return from the Endeavor Agency to find a new scent in the air-sandalwood or vanilla-or a soft throw blanket draped over the sofa where there used to be nothing but cold leather.
It was becoming a home, something he hadn't truly experienced since he was a small child.
On the third afternoon, (Y/N) was balanced on a step-ladder in the living room, trying to hang a large, vibrant canvas she'd painted herself back in Marseille.
It was an abstract of the Mediterranean sunset-all deep oranges and violets.
"That's heavy. You should have waited for me," Shoto said, his voice coming from the doorway.
(Y/N) startled, nearly losing her balance. Shoto was there in an instant, his hands steadying the ladder. He looked up at her, his expression softened. "I've got it."
He reached up, his height making the task look effortless, and hooked the wire onto the wall.
As he stepped back, he looked at the painting, then at her. "It's beautiful. You have a lot of talent, (Y/N)."
"It's just a hobby," she said, climbing down and wiping her dusty hands on jeans shorts. She felt that familiar flutter in her chest. For three days, they had been "normal."
They shared meals, they talked about their patrols, and at night, they shared a bed. He was affectionate, often pulling her close or kissing her temple, but he still avoided her lips.
(Y/N) looked at the painting, then at the villa her father had provided. "I just want this place to feel like it belongs to us. Not just a gift with strings attached."
Shoto's gaze flickered. *Strings attached.* He thought of the contract-the literal strings that tied their lives together for the sake of their fathers' legacies.
He felt a pang of guilt. She was working so hard to make this "arrangement" a home. He reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"It does belong to us," he said, though the word *contract* felt like a ghost standing between them. "No matter how we got here."
(Y/N) smiled, leaning into his touch, blissfully unaware of the legal documents sitting in a safe at the Hakamada corps.
To her, "how they got here" was a whirlwind romance orchestrated by their families. To him, it was a deal she had signed off on.
"I was thinking of looking for a live-in housekeeper tomorrow," she mentioned, moving toward the kitchen to start tea. "Since we're both back to full-time hero work, the house is getting a bit much to manage alone."
"I'll help you look," Shoto said, following her. "We should find someone who doesn't mind a bit of ice and fire in the hallways."