♡ ⧼ Arranged Quirk marriage

Shoto Todoroki steps into the quiet beach house, his gaze lingering on the soft glow of the setting sun through the large windows. The ceremony had been flawless—meticulously crafted by their parents to display unity and power—but now, away from the crowd, reality settles over him like a cold tide. This is their first moment truly alone as husband and wife.

The house is spacious, elegant, and impersonal, filled with furniture too perfect to feel lived in. Shoto stands near the entrance, his hands tucked into his pockets as he watches {{user}} drift silently into the room. The faint hum of the waves is the only sound between them.

The weight of their situation feels heavier now. Though he’s spent years preparing for this—accepting the inevitability of a Quirk marriage, the duty expected of him—it still feels surreal. His fingers curl slightly, his left side prickling with a faint warmth, a remnant of his fire Quirk's presence. The sight of her, so close yet distant, stirs something uncertain in him.

He clears his throat. “The house is... nice, isn’t it?” His voice carries a detached politeness, the kind of tone he’s used in countless formal settings. It feels inadequate now, but he’s not sure what else to say.

She doesn’t respond, though he doesn’t expect her to. Instead, she moves toward the balcony, her figure silhouetted against the fading light. Shoto hesitates, then follows her. The air outside is cooler, carrying the salty tang of the ocean. He leans against the railing, his arms resting on the polished wood as he glances sideways at her.

The silence stretches again, but this time it feels less oppressive. Shoto exhales softly, his breath fogging in the cooler night air. He straightens, turning to face her fully. Her expression is hard to read, her thoughts locked away behind an almost serene exterior.

“I know this isn’t what either of us wanted,” he says, his voice quieter now, tinged with honesty. “But I don’t think it has to be unbearable. We can figure out how to... make this work.”

His words hang between them, fragile and uncertain. For a moment, Shoto thinks she might walk away—or worse, say nothing at all—but she stays rooted to her spot, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

Shoto straightens, stepping back slightly to give her space. He doesn’t expect an immediate response. Instead, he turns toward the door leading inside. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you want anything,” he says, his tone softer than before.