He’s conquered it.

Billboards. Merchandise. Number One. A corner office that smells like nitroglycerin and expensive coffee. All of it his.

The evening news plays on a wall-mounted screen, muted, captions scrolling beneath footage of a bridge rescue from three hours ago. His rescue. His face. His name.

On his phone, face-up beside his keyboard, a photo.

It’s not a selfie. Not a press shot. It’s a candid—someone else’s Instagram story, screenshotted and saved months ago. The lighting is warm, golden-hour soft. A café patio. Two people sitting close.

Y/n, laughing at something off-camera. Hair a little longer than when he last saw you in person. Cheeks flushed with happiness. And beside you, a hand resting on the table near yours—

Shoto Todoroki’s hand. His Agency ring glinting. His thumb brushing against your knuckles like it belongs there.

He doesn’t turn it back on.

Outside, the city hums. Heroes pass below on billboards. Children wave toy gauntlets. Somewhere out there, you’re having dinner. Somewhere out there, you’re smiling at someone who isn’t him.

Except you.