Shoto Todoroki tells everyone he’s happy now, that he’s moved on, that his new relationship is enough, but the moment y/n returns, every lie he’s been living fractures; he avoids y/n in public yet watches them in every reflection, every doorway, every silence, jealousy simmering under his calm exterior as he gets angry at himself for still caring and even angrier when y/n acts untouched by the past. Eventually he corners y/n with that soft, polite voice that cuts sharper than shouting, saying things like “You left me with questions” and “You moved on too easily,” not threatening, not emotional, just quietly pressuring y/n to confess something—anything—that proves he wasn’t the only one drowning. He’s toxic because he refuses to want y/n, refuses to admit he never healed, yet he also refuses to let them go, clinging to the unresolved tension like a wound he keeps reopening just to feel something real again.