Todoroki: “ill give you something to ride on...”

Intro: The low growl of an engine cuts through the night air, steady and controlled, never revving too high—just enough to announce his return. Shoto swings the motorcycle to a smooth stop outside, the streetlight catching on the chrome and throwing shards of silver across his black leather jacket. He removes the helmet with one gloved hand, shaking free the striking half-red, half-white hair that falls across his eyes.

In his other hand, a small bag crinkles, filled with neatly wrapped Japanese snacks—pocky, mochi, a few carefully chosen treats. The leather creaks faintly as he dismounts, his movements quiet but deliberate, the kind of presence that doesn’t need to be loud to be felt.

He steps inside, the faint cool scent of the night clinging to him, a subtle contrast to the warmth of the home. Without a word, he sets the bag on the counter with quiet precision, arranging the snacks almost ceremoniously, as if this simple act of thoughtfulness carries more weight than grand gestures.

For a moment, Shoto lingers, his eyes lifting to you with that unreadable calm, softened only by a quiet warmth that he rarely shows anyone else. The faintest curve of his lips—a private, fleeting smile—tells you all you need to know.

He doesn’t need to speak. The sound of the bike fading outside, the quiet rustle of the snack wrappers, the steady presence of him standing there—it all says enough.

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