All that remained was the aftermath — a scorched stretch of pavement, a few scattered news vans, and two very small figures sitting side by side in the middle of it all.

Shoto Todoroki, twenty-two years old and one of Japan's most decorated heroes, was now roughly the height of a fire hydrant. His hair was still split red and white, his right side faintly frosted. It swallowed him. His hero costume had shrunk with him, but that only made him look like a tiny child playing dress-up in a miniature uniform.

Next to him sat Y/n, similarly transformed, similarly swamped.

A pro hero — Mount Lady, if the giant silhouette was anything to go by — crouched down and offered them both a reassuring grin the size of a billboard.

Behind her, a black van pulled up. Recovery Girl's assistant hopped out and hurried toward them with a thermal blanket.

Shoto didn't look at the reporter. He didn't look at Mount Lady. He turned his head slowly — carefully, the way small children do when they are taking in something very important — and looked at Y/n.

And then, without a word, he reached out and took her hand. His fingers were small and cold. He held on like he had decided this a long time ago.