The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the villa's glass walls in shades of honey and rose.
Shoto pulled into the driveway, his body aching from a particularly grueling afternoon of training at the agency.
His mind was a mess of logistics and hero rankings, but the moment he stepped through the front door, the "Hero: Shoto" persona began to melt away.
The house didn't smell like cold marble and silence anymore. It smelled like browned butter, chocolate, and vanilla.
As he walked toward the kitchen, he heard music something upbeat and French, with a rhythmic bass that seemed to pulse through the floorboards.
He stopped at the entrance, leaning against the doorframe, and just watched.
(Y/N) was in the middle of the kitchen, wearing one of his oversized white dress shirts over her shorts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
She was mid-dance, a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, spinning gracefully between the oven and the island. She looked completely lost in the melody, her hips swaying as she slid across the tile in her socks.
She looked happy. Truly, vibrantly happy.
Shoto felt a lump in his throat. This was the woman who had been sold to him in a board room or so he thought and yet, here she was, turning his sterile life into something worth coming home to.
He found himself smiling, a real, toothy grin that he rarely showed the world.
She turned to grab a cooling rack and froze when she saw him. Her face turned a brilliant shade of pink to match the strawberry frosting on the counter.
"Shoto! I... I didn't hear the car!" she squeaked, quickly switching off the music. She tried to smooth down his shirt, looking like a guilty kid caught in the cookie jar. "I was just... the cookies needed a specific... tempo?"
Shoto didn't say anything. He just walked over to her, his footsteps quiet on the tile. He reached out, his thumb catching a smudge of flour on the tip of her nose.
"Don't stop on my account," he murmured, his voice low and warm. "I liked the tempo."
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The scent of vanilla and warmth rolled off her in waves. (Y/N) relaxed into him, resting her head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart.
"You're home early," she whispered, her hands resting on his forearms.
"I wanted to see you," he admitted. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to the crown of her head, then her temple, and finally the sensitive spot behind her ear.
He still avoided her lips, a subconscious barrier he couldn't yet break because of the "contract" shadow, but his touch was possessive and filled with a growing, desperate affection.
(Y/N) sighed, closing her eyes. She felt so loved in this moment. She didn't know that Shoto was looking at her and thinking, *I'll make this real. I'll make it so the contract doesn't matter.*
"The cookies are going to burn," she breathed, though she didn't move an inch.
"Let them burn," Shoto replied, tightening his grip. "They've served their purpose."
Shoto's arms were like a warm vice around her, and for a second, (Y/N) was content to just melt into his chest. But then, the playful glint she'd been cultivating all afternoon surged back.
"Oh, so the great Hero Shoto is a fan of burnt offerings now?" she teased, wriggling her way out of his embrace just enough to grab the wooden spoon again.
She pointed it at him like a sword. "I spent forty-five minutes perfecting this batter. I am not letting it turn into charcoal because you're feeling clingy."
Shoto raised an eyebrow, a rare, playful spark dancing in his mismatched eyes. "Clingy? I believe I was just providing a 'warm' welcome."
"Likely story." (Y/N) turned back to the oven, sliding the tray of chocolate chip cookies onto the cooling rack with a flourish.
The steam rose, smelling like heaven. "If you want one, you have to earn it. The kitchen is a mess, and I happen to know a certain someone with a very precise Ice Quirk who could help me chill this frosting in record time."
Shoto stepped closer, his jacket already tossed onto a kitchen stool. "You want to use the Number two Hero as a kitchen appliance?"
"I want to use my *husband* as a sous-chef," she corrected, poking his chest with a floury finger.
Shoto looked down at the white smudge on his black shirt, then back at her grinning face. Without a word, he held out his right hand.
A gentle, controlled frost began to creep over his palm, lowering the temperature of the air around the frosting bowl just enough to make it the perfect consistency.
"Better?" he asked, his voice deadpan but his eyes swirling with amusement.
"Perfect," she chirped. She grabbed a strawberry and dipped it into the bowl, then held it up to his lips. "Open up, sous-chef."
Shoto hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze dropping to her fingers, then her eyes.
He leaned in and took the bite, the sweetness of the fruit and the cream hit him, but his focus was entirely on the way (Y/N) was looking at him with such pure, uncomplicated affection.
"Tastes like..." Shoto started, pausing to swallow.
"Like?"
"Like I should come home early more often," he finished. He suddenly reached out, swiping a bit of frosting from the edge of the bowl with his finger and dabbing it onto (Y/N)'s cheek.
"Shoto!" she gasped, her eyes widening. "You did not just start a food war with a woman holding a bowl of batter!"
"I believe I did," he said, actually taking a half-step back, his hands raised in a mock-defensive stance.
(Y/N) didn't hesitate. She grabbed a handful of flour from the counter. "You asked for it, Todoroki!"
For the next ten minutes, the pristine, high-end kitchen of the Hakamada-gifted villa was transformed into a disaster zone.
There was laughter echoing off the glass walls, the sound of socks sliding on tile, and the sight of the world's most stoic hero ducking behind a marble island to avoid a face-full of sprinkles.
In this moment, the "arrangement" felt a million miles away. They weren't heroes, and they weren't pawns. They were just two people, covered in flour, finally learning how to play.
^ • ^
The laughter died down as the kitchen counter sat covered in a chaotic dusting of flour and pink frosting.
Shoto was just about to corner (Y/N) near the fridge, a mischievous handful of sprinkles at the ready, when a sharp, rhythmic buzzing cut through the air.
(Y/N)'s phone was vibrating violently against the marble island, vibrating right through a pile of spilled sugar.
She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at the screen. Her playful expression vanished, replaced instantly by her professional mask. "It's Mirko," she whispered, sliding the phone green.
"HAKAMADA! STOP PLAYING HOUSE AND GET YOUR GEAR ON!" Mirko's voice was so loud Shoto could hear it from three feet away.
"We've got a confirmed sighting of the Trigger supplier in the warehouse district. If we move now, we catch the whole rat's nest. I'm outside your gates in five minutes. MOVE IT!"
*Click.*
The silence that followed was jarring. (Y/N) looked at the tray of cookies, then at Shoto, who was still standing there with flour on his cheek and a streak of frosting across his forehead.
"I have to go," she said, her voice breathless. The transition from "wife" to "pro-hero" happened in the blink of an eye. She started untying her apron, her movements frantic. "I'm sorry, the mess-"
"Don't worry about the mess," Shoto said, his playful energy vanishing, replaced by the steady, focused calm of a partner.
He stepped toward her, helping her pull the oversized shirt over her head so she could run to get her suit. "Go. Mirko doesn't like to be kept waiting, and this supplier sounds dangerous."
(Y/N) paused for a second, looking up at him. She felt a pang of sadness. They had been so close to... something. A breakthrough, maybe. "Will you be okay?"
"I'll clean up," Shoto promised. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray bit of flour on her jaw. He leaned down and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead an unspoken "be safe."
^ • ^
Ten minutes later, the roar of Mirko's high powered hero agency vehicle faded into the distance.
Shoto stood alone in the center of the kitchen. The music was off. The oven was cooling down with a series of metallic clicks. He looked at the two mugs of tea she had started, now lukewarm and forgotten.
He picked up a sponge and began to wipe away the flour. As he cleaned, he found himself staring at the spot where she had been dancing just twenty minutes ago.
The "harmony" of the last three days felt fragile suddenly. He realized that every time she left for a mission, he felt a pull in his chest he hadn't accounted for in the contract.
He reached the island where her notepad sat. Underneath the grocery list and sketches for living room curtains, he saw a small note she'd scribbled to herself: *"Housewarming anniversary dinner - 3 months? Ask Shoto what he likes."*
Shoto's hand stilled. She was planning for a future-a real one. He felt a wave of guilt so cold it rivaled his right side. *She thinks this is forever,* he realized. *She doesn't know there's an exit clause in the documents her father holds.*
He went back to cleaning, but the joy of the flour war was gone. He was no longer a husband playing in the kitchen; he was a man keeping a secret that could shatter the very home she was trying so hard to build.