Shape of Trust
pairing: sero hanta x reader
synopsis: trust shattered, heart on the line, and one Sero standing between her fear and love.
wc: 7.8k
warnings: father issues, trust issues, man hater, slight angst, slow burn, female reader, fear of intimacy, emotional betrayal, emotional abuse, identity theft, implied self-harm thoughts, very long intro, not proof-read
main masterlist | hanta's masterlist
You learned how to read rooms before you learned how to trust people.
Raised voices meant danger. Silence meant something worse was coming. Your father taught you that love could exist in the same space as fear, and that lesson carved itself deep into your bones. He wasn’t always cruel sometimes he laughed, sometimes he promised but inconsistency was its own kind of violence. You never knew which version of him you would get.
He is charming in public. The kind of man people trust easily. He smiles wide, laughs easily, places a hand on her shoulder like a proud parent. Strangers tell her she’s lucky. Family friends praise him for working so hard, for “doing his best.”
You learned very quickly that there is two version of your father.
The one that everyone sees. And the one that exist behind the doors.
At home, his love is conditional measured by grades, obedience, silence. Praise comes only when she performs correctly. Mistakes are met with disappointment sharp enough to cut. He never hits her. He doesn’t have to. His words do the job well enough.
“You’re too sensitive.”
“You always overreact.”
“I’m only hard on you because I care.”
Those sentences become a soundtrack. Repeated so often they stop sounding like lies.
When he promises things family outings, birthdays, apologies—she learns not to believe them. Promises are fragile things. They shatter easily and no one ever cleans up the pieces. Eventually, she stops asking. Stops expecting. Stops hoping.
Her mother tries, in her own quiet way. Tries to soften the edges, tries to fill the gaps he leaves behind. But love divided is still love stretched thin, and she grows up learning how to make herself smaller, so she doesn’t take up too much space.
So, she adapts.
She becomes observant. Careful. She reads moods the way others read weather forecasts. She learns when to speak, when to stay quiet, when to disappear into her room and pretend she doesn’t exist.
By the time she’s old enough to understand what love is supposed to be, she’s already learned what it actually looks like in practice.
Men were temporary.
Affection was conditional.
Trust was a trap.
She will never rely on love again.
She will never give someone the power to make her feel that small.
Trust becomes a currency she refuses to spend. Affection becomes something she observes from a distance, skeptical and unmoved. She grows into herself sharp-edged and self-sufficient, wearing independence like armor needed to wear foerever
People later mistake it for strength.
They don’t see the fear underneath.
They don’t see the way her chest tightens when someone raises their voice—even in laughter. The way compliments make her uneasy. The way the word love sounds hollow, like something rehearsed rather than real.
By the time she reaches U.A., Y/N has already accepted what she believes is an unchangeable truth:
Love is a lie people tell when they want you to stay.
And she refuses to be the kind of person who waits around to be left behind.
U.A. is loud in a way she used to. People are unapologetically themselves here. They laugh too loudly, argue openly, touch each other without flinching. Camaraderie comes easy to them, like something instinctual. Like it came natural to them.
You watch it all from the edges.
You blend in well enough. You keep your uniform neat. Keep your grades solid. Keep your quirk under control. Teachers praise your reliability. Classmates describe you as “cool,” “calm,” “independent.”
No one notices that those words are just nicer versions of unapproachable.
She has learned how to exist without needing anyone. Learned how to be pleasant without being close. Conversations with her are smooth but shallow, like water you can’t drown in. She laughs when appropriate, nods at the right moments, says just enough to avoid suspicion.
A friendship around her but never through her.
and that is exactly what she wants.
Men, especially, are something she keeps carefully compartmentalized. Not hated. Not feared openly. Just… distrusted. She treats them like she treats fire: useful from a distance, dangerous up close.
When male classmates flirt, she shuts it down with practiced ease. A polite smile. A neutral tone. A quick change of subject. When someone shows interest beyond that, her chest tightens and her instincts kick in.
Distance first. Explanation later. Disappearance if necessary.
She tells herself it’s logical. Efficient. Safe.
Love, after all, is not something she needs. She has watched what it does to people. Watched how it bends them into shapes they barely recognize. Watched her mother give and give until there was nothing left but exhaustion and quiet disappointment.
Y/N refuses to be that.
At night, alone in her dorm room, she lies awake longer than she should. The silence there is different from home cleaner, emptier. Sometimes it’s comforting. Sometimes it’s deafening.
She fills it with structure. Schedules. Training. Notes. Anything predictable.
Because unpredictability is where pain lives.
She avoids mirrors when she’s tired. Avoids thinking about the way her chest aches when she sees couples walking together, fingers intertwined, faces soft with something she refuses to name. She tells herself it’s curiosity, not longing.
Longing is dangerous.
Trust is worse.
So she builds walls not outwardly obvious ones, but internal barriers reinforced with logic and past experience. She convinces herself that independence is the highest form of freedom. That not needing anyone means never being hurt again.
And for a while, it works.
Until small things begin to challenge the narrative.
Like the fact that sometimes, when she’s overwhelmed, she wishes someone would notice without her having to say anything.
Like the way she catches herself listening a little too closely when people talk about home, about family, about love that doesn’t come with conditions.
Like the brief, unwanted thought that maybe just maybe not everyone leaves the same way her father did.
She shuts those thoughts down immediately.
Because hope is a habit she broke years ago.
She doesn’t know yet that all the walls she’s built every careful boundary, every emotional lock were never meant to keep people out forever.
They were only ever meant to protect a girl who learned too young that love and trust could disappear without warning.
And she definitely doesn’t know that soon, someone will walk into her life who doesn’t try to climb her walls.
Who doesn’t knock.
Who simply sits beside them, patient enough to wait.
Today is supposed to be one of those days.
The training gym smells like rubber mats and sweat, the air thick with noise and energy. Class 1-A is louder than usual, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls. Y/N takes her place near the back, stretching methodically, eyes focused on the floor rather than the people around her.
She doesn’t like crowded spaces. Too many emotions, too many variables. Too many chances for someone to get close without permission.
Aizawa explains the exercise. Paired drills, coordination based. She half-listens, already preparing herself mentally for the inevitable discomfort of working closely with someone else.
“Alright,” Aizawa says, tired eyes sweeping the class. “Pair up.”
Here it comes.
She expects the usual awkward hesitation. Someone glancing her way, then quickly looking elsewhere. Or worse, someone confident enough to approach her with a grin that suggests they think her boundaries are a challenge.
She keeps her posture neutral. Closed, but not hostile.
“Hey.”
The voice comes from her right.
She turns reluctantly.
Sero Hanta stands there, arms stretched casually behind his head, tape dispensers visible at his elbows. He looks relaxed too relaxed like this is just another day instead of a graded exercise.
“Looks like we’re up,” he says, tone easy, not invasive.
No flirtation. No teasing.
Just… information.
She blinks once, surprised despite herself. “Fine,” she replies, voice flat.
She expects something anything that would confirm her assumptions.
It doesn’t come.
They take their positions. Sero listens when she explains her approach, nodding thoughtfully. When she finishes, he doesn’t interrupt or correct her. He just adjusts his stance to match hers.
“Got it,” he says. “I’ll cover left.”
That’s it.
No comment on her tone. No joke about her being serious. No attempt to fill the silence.
Then, drill starts.
They move well together. Better than she expects. Sero adapts quickly, adjusting his tape usage to complement her movements instead of overpowering them. When she changes pace, he follows without complaint.
It unsettles her.
She’s used to people trying to lead. Used to men assuming they know better. Used to being talked over, corrected, underestimated - or worse, treated like something delicate.
Sero does none of that.
When the drill ends, he steps back, offering a thumbs-up. “Nice work.”
She waits for the follow-up.
It never comes.
“Thanks,” she says, a beat slower than usual.
As they reset for the next round, she catches herself watching him from the corner of her eye. He jokes with Kaminari across the room, loud laughter bursting out of him like it has nowhere else to go. The contrast is jarring, how easily he switches from focused to carefree.
Men like him usually make her skin crawl. Too open. Too comfortable. Too confident in the assumption that people will like them.
And yet.
When he looks back at her, there’s no expectation in his expression. No hunger for approval. Just a relaxed smile, like he’s genuinely glad to be working with her.
It makes her uneasy.
After training, she leaves quickly, as she always does. She doesn’t linger. Doesn’t chat. Doesn’t give anyone a chance to follow.
She almost makes it to the hallway before she hears footsteps behind her.
“Hey—uh, Y/N, right?”
She stops.
Slowly, she turns.
Sero stands a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets—not blocking her path, not crowding her space. He looks… hesitant. And that’s new.
“Yeah,” she says.
He scratches the back of his neck. “You dropped this.”
He holds out a water bottle. Hers.
She hadn’t even noticed.
“Oh.” She takes it, fingers brushing his by accident. She pulls back immediately. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He smiles, then crucially steps back. Gives her space. “See you around.”
And then he leaves.
Just like that.
Y/N stands there longer than she means to, staring at the empty hallway. Her chest feels tight, though she can’t pinpoint why.
There was no pressure. No hidden intent. No moment where she felt cornered.
And somehow, that bothers her more than if there had been.
That night, lying in bed, she replays the interaction despite herself. The way he listened. The way he didn’t push. The way he walked away without trying to secure her attention.
Her mind supplies a warning she knows by heart.
Don’t overthink it.Men can be patient too.Patience doesn’t mean safety.
She turns onto her side, facing the wall.
Sero Hanta is nothing special, she tells herself.
Just another variable. Just another man.
And she definitely doesn’t notice the way her thoughts linger on him longer than they should.
You expect Sero Hanta to become a problem.
Not immediately. Not loudly. But inevitably.
That’s how it usually goes. People reveal themselves over time, wants creeping into conversations, expectations disguised as jokes, the subtle pressure to be more than she’s willing to offer. She’s learned to anticipate it the way one anticipates rain after heavy clouds. You don’t need proof. You just prepare to get wet.
So she watches him carefully.
Days pass. Classes blur together. Training continues. Missions are discussed and rescheduled. Sero remains present in her orbit, unavoidable in the way classmates are but he doesn’t close the distance between them the way she expects.
He greets her when they cross paths. Sometimes with a wave. Sometimes just a nod. Never offended when she doesn’t respond beyond that.
He sits near her during lectures when seats are limited but never close enough to invade her space. When group discussions happen, he includes her naturally “What do you think?” and accepts her answers without pushing for elaboration.
It’s subtle. Too subtle.
She waits for the moment he asks for something she doesn’t want to give.
But it never comes.
One evening, she’s in the common room later than usual, nursing a cup of tea she’s forgotten to drink. The room is quiet, just the hum of the lights and the muted sound of someone flipping channels on the TV.
She doesn’t notice Sero at first.
He’s sprawled on the opposite couch, upside down, feet hanging over the armrest, lazily scrolling through his phone. He glances up, notices her, and straightens slightly.
“Oh. Hey!” he says, not startled. Just acknowledging.
“Hey.” she replies automatically.
Silence settles again.
She braces herself. For small talk. For questions. For that inevitable so tell me about yourself that always feels like an interrogation.
Instead, Sero goes back to his phone.
Minutes pass.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable.
That bothers her more than it should.
Eventually, he speaks again not looking at her. “You don’t have to stay if you’re tired, by the way. I’m just killing time.”
It takes her a second to realize what he’s doing. He’s giving her an exit.
“I know,” she says.
And she stays.
They exist in the same space without interacting much after that. Occasionally, Sero laughs quietly at something on his screen. Once, he offers her the remote without comment when the TV freezes, then takes it back when she shakes her head.
No pressure. No offense.
Later, when she finally stands to leave, he glances up. “Night, Y/N.”
“Night.”
She walks back to her room with an unfamiliar tightness in her chest.
The thing about Sero is that he never tries to earn her trust.
He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t demand it. Doesn’t seem to notice that she’s withholding it at all.
It’s infuriating.
Men who want something from her usually make it obvious. They test boundaries to see how far they can go, how much they can take before she pushes back. When she doesn’t give them what they want, they grow distant or resentful or cruel.
Sero remains the same.
Friendly when she initiates. Quiet when she doesn’t. Present without expectation.
That consistency is unsettling.
During training, he adapts to her rhythm instead of forcing his own. When she’s sharp and focused, he matches it. When she’s withdrawn, he doesn’t comment on it. He never asks why she’s quiet. Never asks if she’s okay.
She realizes one afternoon, watching him joke with Kaminari while waiting for Aizawa, that Sero laughs differently around other people. Louder. Freer. Like he’s allowed to take up space with them.
With her, he’s… careful. Not cautious. Careful.
The distinction matters.
It suggests awareness. It suggests respect.
And that’s dangerous.
Because respect isn’t something she knows how to guard against.
One night, after a particularly exhausting day, she sits alone on the dorm steps, staring at the dark sky. The air is cool, sharp enough to keep her grounded.
She doesn’t hear Sero approach until he stops a few feet away.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks.
There it is. A request.
She studies him for a moment, searching for the catch.
"Go ahead” she says finally.
He sits beside her, leaving a deliberate gap between them.
They watch the sky in silence.
After a while, he speaks softly. “You don’t like people much.”
It’s not an accusation. Just an observation.
She stiffens. “I didn’t say that.”
“I know,” he says easily. “You don’t have to.”
She waits for the follow-up. It doesn’t come.
He doesn’t ask why.
Doesn’t try to psychoanalyze her.
Doesn’t reassure her she’s “not that bad.”
He just lets the statement exist.
That’s when it hits her, slow and unwelcome.
Sero never asks her to explain herself.
And somehow, that makes her feel more seen than any interrogation ever could.
When he stands to leave, he says, “See you tomorrow!” like it’s a given.
Like she’ll be there. Like he will too.
Y/N watches him walk away, her thoughts restless and sharp.
She doesn’t trust him. Not really.
But for the first time in a long time, she wonders what it would feel like to let someone stay without bracing for the moment they’d ask for more than she can give.
And that thought terrifies her. Because the moment she starts wondering...
Is the moment she’s already losing control.
For your, trust doesn’t arrive like a confession. It doesn’t announce itself or ask permission.
It slips in quietly through habits you don't remember agreeing to, through moments too small to register as dangerous until they stack up and become something else entirely.
It starts with seats.
She never chooses where to sit in class she takes whatever is left, whatever keeps her unnoticed. Somewhere near the back. Somewhere she can leave easily. But one morning, when she enters the classroom late, there’s an empty chair beside Sero.
He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t call out to her. Doesn’t make it obvious.
He just shifts his bag slightly, clearing the space.
She hesitates for half a second, long enough to feel ridiculous for hesitating at all, then sits.
Nothing happens. No comment. No grin. No “glad you’re here.”
They sit through the lecture in silence, shoulders not touching, not even close enough to brush. When class ends, he leaves first, as if the moment meant nothing.
She tells herself it didn’t.
Then it’s training.
During partner rotations, Sero starts ending up with her more often than not, not because he seeks her out, but because he doesn’t object when it happens. When someone suggests switching partners, he glances at her first, like he’s checking whether she’s okay with it.
She always nods. She doesn’t know when she started doing that.
They don’t talk much during drills. Just short exchanges. Hand signals. Shared understanding. They move well together, in sync in a way that feels earned rather than forced.
Once, she stumbles just slightly, enough to throw her balance off. Sero reacts instantly, tape snapping out to steady her wrist before she can fall.
His grip is firm but brief. He lets go immediately.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says, sharper than intended.
He nods. No apology. No lingering concern.
That night, alone in her room, she finds herself replaying the moment not the stumble, but the way he let go as soon as he knew she was steady.
Next day, she’s in the common room again, notes spread across the table, mind unfocused. She doesn’t notice Sero until he sets down a can of juice beside her notebook.
She looks up, startled.
“You looked like you forgot to eat,” he says simply.
“I didn’t ask for—”
“I know,” he replies, already stepping back. “You don’t have to drink it.”
She stares at the can.
He returns to the couch, flipping on the TV. No expectation. No waiting.
After a minute, she opens it anyway.
It tastes like citrus and something warm settles in her chest that has nothing to do with sugar.
She hates that.
The worst part is how normal it all feels.
How her body stops tensing when she hears his footsteps behind her.
How she doesn’t flinch when he says her name.
How she starts looking for him in a room without meaning to.
She tells herself it’s convenience. Familiarity. Shared schedules.
She ignores the way her shoulders loosen when he’s nearby.
She ignores the fact that she laughs more around him—not loudly, not freely, but genuinely. Small smiles. Soft huffs of amusement she doesn’t bother hiding.
One afternoon, they’re walking back from training together, the sun low and warm against their backs.
Sero breaks the silence. “You know, you don’t owe people explanations for being the way you are.”
She stops walking.
He stops too, immediately turning toward her but not stepping closer.
“I wasn’t—” she starts, then stops.
He raises his hands slightly, palms open. “Not trying to say anything. Just… figured you might need to hear it.”
She studies his face, searching for something familiar and ugly beneath the kindness.
There’s nothing there. Her chest tightens.
“…Thanks,” she says, barely audible.
He smiles not wide, not triumphant. Just gentle. “Anytime.”
They continue walking.
That night, lying in bed, Y/N stares at the ceiling, heart restless.
She thinks about how trust didn’t arrive all at once.
It arrived in empty seats. In brief touches. In questions not asked. In kindness without strings.
She doesn’t like how easy it’s becoming to accept. Because trust, once given, can be taken away.
And she has already learned what it feels like to watch something good turn into something that hurts. Still against her better judgment she doesn’t push him away.
Not yet.
And that, more than anything else, feels like the beginning of something she doesn’t know how to survive.
It happens on an ordinary night. That’s what unsettles her the most.
No mission. No adrenaline. No heightened emotions to excuse a lapse in control. Just the common room after curfew hours, lights dimmed low enough to soften the edges of everything. A few people linger voices hushed, movements lazy with exhaustion.
You sit on the floor with your back against the couch, knees pulled close to your chest, textbook open but unread. Your mind has been drifting for the past ten minutes, thoughts slipping away the moment she tries to hold onto them.
She doesn’t realize Sero is there until he drops onto the couch behind her, careful not to jostle her.
“Wow,” he says quietly. “You look like someone who’s thinking too hard.”
She exhales through her nose. “I always think too hard.”
“Fair,” he replies. “That tracks.”
She glances back at him, expecting the grin. The teasing.
Instead, he’s looking at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head, expression calm. Comfortable. Like he’s not performing for anyone.
She turns back to her book.
They sit like that for a while no talking, no pressure. Just the sound of Kaminari arguing with the TV across the room, the hum of electricity in the walls.
Then Sero speaks again.
“You know,” he says, tone thoughtful, “I once taped myself to a ceiling fan by accident.”
She blinks. “…What?”
He grins now, sheepish. “Training mishap. Don’t ask.”
Despite herself, she asks. “How?”
“Overconfidence,” he says immediately. “And bad math.”
She snorts before she can stop herself.
The sound is quiet. Barely there.
But it’s real.
The realization hits her a second later sharp and disorienting.
She laughed.
Not a polite sound. Not a controlled response. Not something measured or practiced.
An instinctive reaction. Her body goes tense, like she’s waiting for consequences.
Sero freezes behind her.
Slowly, carefully, he sits up. Not abruptly. Not like he’s afraid he’ll scare the moment away but like he’s making sure he doesn’t crowd it.
He doesn’t say anything at first. When she risks a glance back at him, she sees it.
The look on his face isn’t smug. It isn’t triumphant. It’s… soft.
Like he’s just witnessed something fragile and doesn’t want to move too quickly in case it disappears. Her chest tightens and immediately looks away immediately.
“Don’t read into it,” she says, too fast. “Wasn’t planning to,” he replies easily.
The tension eases just enough for her to breathe again.
They lapse back into silence, but it’s different now. Charged. Like something unspoken has shifted its weight between them.
Minutes later, Sero starts telling another story this one about Kaminari nearly short-circuiting a vending machine. He exaggerates wildly, gestures animated, voice dropping into mock seriousness at all the wrong moments.
Y/N tries not to react. She really does.
But then he says something so ridiculous so earnest in its stupidity that laughter bursts out of her chest before she can cage it.
This time, it’s louder. Clearer. Unmistakable.
The room seems to pause around them.
Her own laughter surprises her enough that she clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
Sero stares at her.
Then he laughs too not loud, not obnoxious. Just warm. Like her reaction gave him permission.
For a moment, she forgets everything.
The walls. The rules. The careful distance she maintains from everyone.
There’s just the sound of laughter hers and his braided together in a way that feels dangerously natural.
When it fades, she feels exposed.
She stands abruptly. “I should go.”
Sero nods immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”
No protest. No disappointment. No attempt to prolong the moment.
She pauses at the doorway, fingers tightening around her book.
"Good night.” she says.
“Night, Y/N.”
She doesn’t look back.
In her room, the quiet presses in on her harder than usual.
She sits on her bed, heart racing, replaying the moment over and over. The laugh. The look on his face. The absence of fear in her chest during those brief seconds.
That’s what terrifies her. Not that she laughed. But that she didn’t think first.
Her father’s voice echoes faintly in her memory disapproval wrapped in concern, affection sharpened into expectation.
Careful.Don’t get carried away.People notice when you let your guard down.
She curls in on herself, fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves.
Sero didn’t ask for that moment.
Didn’t demand it. Didn’t take advantage of it. Didn’t try to turn it into something more.
He just… let it be what it was. And somehow, that makes it harder to dismiss.
Y/N lies back and stares at the ceiling, heart still unsteady.
She knows better than to believe this means anything.
She knows laughter isn’t trust. But it is a crack.
And for the first time since she learned how to protect herself, she isn’t sure she wants to seal it shut.
After that night, Y/N becomes careful again.
Not distant she knows how that looks, how sudden withdrawal raises questions, but careful in a quieter way. She watches herself more closely. Measures her reactions. Counts her steps around Sero like she’s navigating a room full of glass.
She still sits near him in class. Still works well with him during training. Still accepts his presence the way she always has.
But she stops laughing without thinking.
She notices it the third time she almost does.
Sero says something offhand something stupid and earnest and so him and she feels it rise in her chest, that familiar warmth, that dangerous looseness. She catches it just in time, biting down on the sound before it can escape.
Sero notices. He doesn’t say anything.
That somehow makes it worse. The almost-confession doesn’t happen all at once.
It builds over days.
In glances held a second too long. In silences that feel heavier than words.
In the way Sero’s voice softens when he says her name, like he’s handling something fragile without admitting it out loud.
Y/N feels it coming before she understands what it is.
She starts waking up earlier, heart restless. Starts feeling unsettled when she doesn’t see him all day. Starts noticing how her body reacts before her mind has time to intervene.
That’s when fear sets in.
Not panic she’s past that.
This is colder. Sharper. More deliberate.
Because she recognizes this feeling. It’s the moment right before you lose something you didn’t realize you were holding.
The night it almost happens, the dorms are quieter than usual.
Rain taps against the windows, soft and steady, muting the world outside. The common room is mostly empty just a few scattered lights, the TV on low volume.
Y/N sits curled into one end of the couch, knees pulled close, staring at nothing.
Sero enters without fanfare, shaking rain from his jacket. He spots her and pauses.
“You mind?” he asks, gesturing to the other end.
She shakes her head. He sits. Leaves space. Always leaves space.
They sit like that for a long time, rain filling the silence for them. The kind of quiet that feels intentional instead of awkward.
Finally, Sero exhales slowly. “You okay?”
The question is gentle. Careful. Not prying. Your chest tightens.
She considers lying. She’s good at that.
“I’m fine,” she says automatically.
Sero nods but something in his expression changes. Not disappointment. Understanding.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “You usually are.”
That lands harder than it should. She looks at him then. Really looks.
His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are focused on her not intense, not demanding. Just present. Like he’s listening even when she isn’t speaking.
Something in her fractures.
“I don’t trust people.” she says suddenly.
The words hang between them, fragile and irreversible.
Sero doesn’t move.
“Okay,” he says.
Not why. Not you should. Just acceptance.
She swallows. Her hands tighten in her sleeves. “Especially men.”
“I figured" he replies quietly.
She lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t believe in love.”
This time, he hesitates but only for a second.
“That’s okay too.”
Her chest burns. That’s not how this is supposed to go.
She was braced for convincing. For reassurance. For contradiction. For him to argue her out of it, to insist she’s wrong, to promise her something she knows better than to believe.
Instead, he lets her have it.
And that feels more dangerous than anything else.
“I’m not good at this,” she continues, voice low. “Whatever this is. I don’t—” She stops herself before she can say need. Before she can say want.
Sero shifts slightly, turning toward her but still not closer.
“I’m not either,” he admits. “But… I’m not asking you to be.”
Her heart stutters.
There it is. The opening. The moment where something could change.
She feels it right there, on the edge of her tongue. A confession not fully formed but aching to exist.
I trust you. I feel safe with you. I think I’m falling and I don’t know how to stop.
Her father’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade.
Careful. People leave. Don’t say things you can’t take back.
Her throat closes.
She stands abruptly, the movement too sharp, breaking the fragile quiet between them.
“I should go,” she says, already turning away.
Sero rises immediately but stops himself after one step.
“Hey,” he says softly. She pauses.
He doesn’t reach for her. Doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t try to hold her in place.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “Not explanations. Not feelings. Not answers.”
Her back is still to him, shoulders rigid. “I know,” she whispers.
“And,” he adds gently, “I’m not going anywhere.”
That’s the moment it almost slips out. The words tremble in her chest, desperate and terrified. She could say it now, she could turn around and let him see her really see her.
Instead, she opens the door and leaves.
In her room, she presses her forehead to the door, breath unsteady.
Her hands are shaking. Not because she’s afraid of him. But because she’s afraid of how much she wanted to stay.
She slides down until she’s sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight, heart racing. She didn’t confess. But she came closer than she ever has before.
And she knows deep down, with a clarity that scares her.
If she stays this close to Sero much longer, she won’t be able to stop herself next time.
And once she says it—
Once she trusts him with something real—
There will be no taking it back.
It isn’t sudden.
Not a flash of revelation, not a dramatic speech.
It’s quieter than that. Almost unnoticeable if you’re not paying attention.
You notice first in the way your mornings begin to feel different. You arrived at training slightly earlier not because you're eager, not because you want to be noticed but because a small part of her wants to see him. Just see him, quietly, before the chaos of the day swallows everything.
Sero notices too, of course. But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t ask why she’s there. Doesn’t make it awkward. He just smiles soft, unassuming, patient. And that smile is enough to make her chest tighten, though she refuses to name why.
It’s during a late training session when it happens for the first time.
The class is paired for partner drills again. You were tense, as usual. Your hands tremble slightly when you tape your quirk’s equipment in place. Her chest feels tight, her mind alert for any sign that something might go wrong.
Sero approaches, calm as ever.
“Hey,” he says quietly, careful not to startle her. “Want me on your side today?”
It’s not a question. It’s not an insistence. It’s an offer.
Something inside her relaxes. Tentatively, she nods.
They move through the drills together, their motions almost instinctive after weeks of pairing. There’s no teasing, no jokes, no commentary just presence.
But when she stumbles slightly miscalculating the distance of a jump, Sero reacts immediately. His tape shoots out, wrapping around her arm to steady her, his grip firm but gentle. She freezes for a heartbeat, realizing she could have fallen if not for him.
And for the first time, she doesn’t pull away.
She doesn’t tense. She simply lets him hold her steady.
Her heart pounds, but she doesn’t overthink it. She doesn’t analyze it. She doesn’t hide it. She just… allows it.
Later, after training, they walk back to the dorms together. The air is crisp, carrying the smell of wet earth from an earlier rain. Streetlights glow faintly, illuminating the quiet paths between buildings.
“I didn’t expect you to let me catch you like that,” Sero says lightly, though she hears the warmth in his tone.
“I didn’t expect to stumble,” she replies, voice neutral. But she doesn’t move away from him as she usually would.
He glances at her, eyes curious but patient. “You’re… different around me.”
She swallows. Almost reflexively, she wants to deny it. Wants to say it’s nothing. But the truth sits heavy in her chest.
“I’m… not used to someone not pushing me away,” she admits quietly.
Sero stops walking for a moment. Looks at her with that calm, soft patience he’s always had, the one that’s slowly chipped away at her walls.
“You don’t have to get used to it alone,” he says.
Her breath catches. Something fierce and fragile stirs in her chest.
She almost doesn’t respond. Almost retreats into herself like she always does. But she doesn’t.
Instead, she takes a small step closer.
Not physically, not fully but emotionally.
She lets herself lean slightly on him not for support, exactly, but for… presence. For connection.
It’s terrifying. Terrifying in the way that falling in love quietly is terrifying the slow recognition that your defenses are no longer enough to keep someone out.
“You… don’t scare me.” she says, barely above a whisper.
Sero’s smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time, Y/N believes it.
She allows herself to feel it. Not all at once, not fully but enough to know she’s no longer alone in this.
Trust isn’t complete. Love isn’t complete. The walls aren’t fully gone.
But they’ve started to crumble.
And that’s enough...for now.
The night is unusually still.
The kind of quiet that presses against the walls and seeps through the windows, reminding Y/N how much space there is to fill, how much air there is to breathe.
She’s in the common room, curled into a chair near the window, textbook forgotten on her lap. Rain drums lightly against the glass, a soft, steady rhythm that keeps time with her heartbeat.
Sero enters without a sound no grand entrance, no attention-grabbing gesture. Just his quiet presence filling the doorway.
“Hey." he says softly.
She starts slightly, then shakes her head. “Hey...” she replies, voice low.
He glances at the empty chair across from her, hesitates, and sits anyway, leaving the gap she’s come to rely on.
For a long moment, they say nothing. The only sounds are the tapping rain and the occasional creak of the dorm building settling.
Y/N stares at her hands. She’s spent months building this armor walls behind walls, reminding herself that trusting anyone, especially a man, is dangerous. That letting someone in will only end in loss.
But tonight… tonight she’s tired. Tired of holding herself so tightly. Tired of pretending she can handle everything alone.
Sero doesn’t push. He doesn’t prod. He doesn’t even try to start a conversation. He just sits there, letting her fill the silence or not.
Her throat tightens. She knows what she wants. She knows the risk. And she knows she has the choice to stop herself.
Instead, she leans slightly toward him.
Not all the way. Not fully. But far enough that her shoulder brushes against his. Enough that he notices, enough that she notices herself noticing him.
“You… don’t make this hard...” she whispers, voice trembling just slightly.
Sero glances at her, surprised, but his expression softens. “I’m not trying to.”
Her chest aches. Her mind screams at her to pull back, to retreat into the safety of her walls. But part of her, the part that’s been starved of trust and connection for so long, refuses to listen.
“I… I don’t know how to do this.” she admits, voice barely audible.
“Neither do I,” he says. “But we can try together.”
The words, simple as they are, hit her like a tidal wave. She’s not used to someone offering patience without expectation. Offering presence without demanding something in return.
Her hand shakes as it reaches tentatively toward his. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move away. He lets her take it.
And in that small, fragile gesture, Y/N feels a crack in the walls she’s built so carefully. One small crack that she can’t, and doesn’t want to, repair.
She doesn’t confess love, not yet. She doesn’t speak the words that have been hovering on the edge of her tongue for weeks. But she lets herself try.
And for her, tonight, that is everything. The rain continues to fall. The room is quiet. And Y/N finally allows herself to breathe.
Because for the first time in a long time, she is not alone.
And she decides… she doesn’t mind letting someone in.
You had just returned from training, exhausted in the way only a long, physically demanding day could make her. Your bag slipped off yourvshoulder, landing softly on the floor beside the couch. You kicked off your shoes and rubbed at your temples, thinking you might finally be able to rest.
And then you heard it.
“Rough day?”
The voice made her freeze.
She looked up. Sero, was leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets, that same easy smile on his lips.
Yes, you gave your extra key to your dorm.
You blinked, her chest tightening. “Yeah… a little,” she said softly, her voice tentative.
He stepped closer, slow, careful, giving her space without making her feel exposed. “I figured. You’ve been pushing yourself a lot lately.”
She hesitated. No one had ever noticed the small details about her. Not like this. Not with such quiet attention.
“I—” she began, then stopped. Something about his tone, the gentle way he spoke, made her shoulders relax despite the lingering tension. She wasn’t supposed to trust anyone so quickly, but she did.
He smiled softly. “Just… be here with me. That’s enough.”
She laughed softly at something he said, a quiet sound that surprised even her. She hadn’t allowed herself to feel so relaxed around anyone in years. Not even Sero had coaxed her this far not yet.
“You’re not like anyone else,” she admitted, voice trembling slightly.
He leaned back, eyes gentle. “Good. Because I wouldn’t want to be.”
It felt natural. Safe. She didn’t question it. She didn’t notice how every word was perfectly chosen, perfectly timed to make her lower her walls.
Her trust, fragile and new, had found a foothold.
And she didn’t see the danger standing right there, right across from her the other Sero, who had just walked in the door, stopping in his tracks.
His eyes froze on the scene, you are laughing softly, leaning slightly forward, completely unaware of the subtle differences in the man across from her.
The Sero knew exactly what to say. He knew how to sound like comfort. He knew how to sound like the person she had begun to trust. And right now, he was winning.
Y/N smiled, completely unsuspecting.
She didn’t know her trust was being tested. She didn’t know that the man in front of her wasn’t who she thought he was.
All she knew was that she felt… safe.
And that, she thought, was enough.
Sero Hanta stood in the doorway, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, eyes dark with something she didn’t recognize at first anger? Hurt? Confusion? All of it at once.
The door clicked as it closes. You looked back, shocked forms in your face.
"Se-" before you could even finish call his name out, you look at the Sero you were talking to earlier.
But the Sero she had trusted tonight the one sitting across from her, smiling softly, leaning just close enough to seem familiar was not him.
It was not Sero, it was a different guy.
And now he was here, in the doorway, seeing it all. The real almighty Sero Hanta. The real one.
Her body stiffened. She realized, too late, how close she had let him get. How much she had trusted.
Sero’s eyes flicked between her and the other man who pretended to be him, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “Y/N…” his voice cracked, low and tense. “What… what’s going on here?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Words didn’t come. Her chest burned. Her hands trembled.
The other man smiled, too casual, too perfect. “Hey,” he said lightly. “Relax. I’m just… keeping her company.”
Sero stepped fully into the room, the hurt in his eyes now sharpened into something harder. “Keeping her company?” His voice was flat, dangerous. “Do you think I don’t see what’s happening?”
Your head spun. She looked from one to the other, heart pounding, mind scrambling to understand. “I… I—”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Sero said, taking a step closer.
Then he looked at you, hurt. “I trusted you. I thought—” His voice broke, and for a moment, the room felt impossibly heavy. "I waited, i patiently waited for you. And then, this happens..."
“I—Sero, I swear, I didn’t—” Y/N tried, but her words sounded weak, even to her own ears.
The other man stood, smiling faintly, hands raised like he was doing nothing wrong. “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t freak out. I’m just—”
“Get out.” Sero said, and it was quiet, but it hit like a whip.
The stranger smile faltered ever so slightly, but he didn’t argue. He backed toward the door, still keeping a careful, mocking calm. “Alright… alright. I’ll leave.”
The click of the door closing left an echo in the room that felt louder than anything Y/N had ever heard.
She sank into the couch, hands covering her face, trembling. Her chest heaved. She could barely breathe.
“I—” she whispered. “I didn’t—”
Sero knelt beside her before she could even finish. His hand hovered for a second, then rested lightly on her shoulder.
“You didn’t what?” he asked, voice quiet but tense.
“I… I thought it was you…” she said, voice cracking. “I—”
His grip tightened slightly not in anger, but in frustration, in hurt. “Y/N…”
“I trusted him,” she admitted, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I trusted him because… because I thought… I thought it was you! He- He.. I think he has a quirk that let's him shapeshift. I.. I swear.” You are shaking at this time.
Sero’s jaw tightened. He pulled her gently into a hug not roughly, but with all the tension he’d been holding back for weeks.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know you did. And that’s why it hurts even more.”
Y/N clung to him, shaking, ashamed. Her trust something, she had built so carefully had been manipulated in an instant.
“And I…” Sero’s voice cracked slightly. “I don’t know how to fix this yet. But… I’m not leaving. Not you. Not like this.”
For the first time in hours, maybe days, Y/N allowed herself to lean fully into him. To cry. To feel everything the betrayal, the fear, the hurt, the relief that the Sero was still here. The Sero you knew.
But even as she clung to him, she knew one thing:
Her walls, fragile as they were, had shattered.
And rebuilding trust real trust would be harder than she had ever imagined.
The room feels smaller somehow.
You sit on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched, hands gripping your knees. The weight of what just happened presses down on your chest like a physical force. You tried to speak, to explain herself, to say something anything but the words won’t come.
Your throat feels tight, constricted. Every time you open your mouth, only a faint rasp escapes, barely audible even to yourself. You tried again. Nothing.
Sero sits across from you, his expression careful, restrained, almost painfully controlled. He’s tense, yes, but not angry. Not really. Hurt, yes but the kind of hurt that comes from seeing someone you care about misled, manipulated, and left vulnerable.
“Y/N…” he starts, voice soft, measured. “It’s okay. You… you don’t have to say anything right now.”
She shakes her head slightly, trying to make the rasp louder, trying to force words out. A strangled sound comes, and she feels a sting behind her eyes. Tears threaten to spill, but she swallows them back.
“I… I…” she croaks finally, but it’s barely there.
Sero leans forward, reaching slowly to place a hand over hers. Warm. Steady. Real. Not fake. Not manipulative. Just him.
“You don’t need to explain,” he whispers. “You trusted someone. You were hurt. That’s… that’s normal. It doesn’t make you weak.”
She wants to believe him. She wants to speak, to tell him everything she’s feeling the fear, the shame, the betrayal but her voice has betrayed her first. She feels powerless in a way she hasn’t in years, and it terrifies her.
Tears finally escape, running freely down her cheeks. Sero doesn’t move. He doesn’t rush her. He simply lets her cry, letting the quiet fill the room with the steady rhythm of comfort.
Hours feel like minutes. The rain outside has slowed, leaving the apartment in a soft, damp silence. She rests her head in her hands, shaky, exhausted, and suddenly, she realizes something.
Even without words, she’s not alone.
Sero’s hand stays over hers. His presence is enough. More than enough.
And though her voice is lost again, she can still feel the truth of what’s being communicated. She is safe. She is seen. And, slowly, painfully, she begins to believe maybe trust isn’t gone forever.
Her walls have cracked again. But for the first time since the incident, she realizes. Maybe she doesn’t have to be rebuilt alone.
