Just Like Me
It's funny how Karma works, isn't it?
Pairing: Post War! Enji Todoroki x Student! Gn! Reader
Warnings: Angst, therapy, past actions, family issues. reader struggling to express themselves, punching a kid, crying, venting, negative self, You know the drill.
wc: 4480k
Guidance Counselor Enji Todoroki should have been fired years ago.
Not because he’s bad at his job—okay, well, maybe a little—but because he has no damn clue how to extend empathy to others. He doesn’t hate it.
He just… doesn’t get it.
He’s contemplating retirement anyway. He only does this part-time now, but when resources are stretched thin and UA calls him in for full-time work, he gets saddled with a new case file. He flips it open, skims the details, barely pays attention—until he meets you.
And that’s when he realizes he’s met his match.
You’re odd.
That’s the nicest way he can put it.
Not weird, not eccentric—just… off, in a way that makes him think you were meant for someone like Yamada or Hound Dog. The moment he calls your name in the waiting room, you’re all smiles.
Cheerful. Too damn polite.
And by the time he closes the office door behind you, you’re already in tears.
Yeah.
He’s fucked.
Enji is emotionally constipated on a good day, and lately, his life has been a whirlwind of stress. His pending divorce, the mess with his family—why on earth did they think he was the right choice for a student who could power a damn water park with their tears alone?
You rival that green haired kid his son keeps around, and that’s saying something.
At first, he thought it was allergies. Or maybe a quirk malfunction. Nope. Turns out, you’re just one of those kids. The ones who hold it together for everyone else and leave nothing for themselves.
‘Great.’
He’s gone to Nezu at least a dozen times, trying to get you pawned off on another counselor. But with budget cuts and so many heroes on medical leave, UA can’t afford to reassign you.
So here he is, ten minutes before your next session, tweaking out.
His coffee hasn’t had a chance to cool once. There’s a deep, permanent indent in his office carpet where he’s been pacing. He dwarfs you easily, and he knows that bothers you, which makes everything worse.
Enji doesn’t know what to do.
He sighs, rubs his temples, and finally stands up, deciding to just get it over with. But when he steps outside to call you in, he stops.
Because there you are.
Standing in the hallway with another student, one he doesn’t recognize, holding their hand, comforting them while another counselor stands nearby. And he just… watches.
You’re encouraging. Honest. Not soft, but gentle.
You don’t sugarcoat things, but you don’t crush them either. Your words are careful, measured, meant to help. Then, you give them a small hug before passing them off to the counselor, who immediately takes the shaking student into their arms.
And then, you smile.
Not just any smile—a real one. The kind that makes it clear you mean it when you tell them,
"You don’t have to forgive yourself right now. Someone else already does. And they know you can do this."
Enji watches, something settling deep in his chest.
For the first time since this assignment landed in his lap, he thinks he finally knows what to talk to you about.
Enji exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, before calling your name. You look up, snapping out of whatever quiet conversation you were having in your own head, and meet his gaze. He tilts his head toward his office.
“Come on.”
You don’t greet him. You never do.
As the two of you walk down the hall, he watches—because that’s what he’s good at, watching, analyzing, taking in the details most people don’t notice. He notices the way your eyes flit over everything.
The boxes stacked unevenly on the walls, the dust motes floating in the harsh fluorescent light, the way the floor tiles shift ever so slightly under each step.
Most students drag their feet. You don’t. You step lightly but with purpose. Like someone who’s used to walking quietly.
Something else sticks out today: No bookbag.
That’s new. You always have it with you, always weighed down with something, even if it’s just there as an extra weight on your shoulders. But today, all you’ve got is your phone, clutched loosely in your hand, screen dark.
Interesting.
Enji pulls the door open for you, stepping aside as you shuffle in. You move to your usual chair, farther from his desk, angled just slightly toward the window. He wonders if you do that consciously.
He shuts the door behind him, settles into his chair, and gets right into it.
Your grades are good.
Your record—until recently—was squeaky clean.
So when he flips through the file again, landing on the incident report, he barely stops his eyebrows from shooting up.
You—you—stood up, walked across the room in the middle of class, and punched another student straight in the face.
No warning. No yelling. No hesitation.
Just a clean hit, enough to break their nose and leave them gushing blood all over their desk.
Enji feels his fingers tighten around the page as he stares at the details. The kid had to be taken to Recovery Girl, and judging by the picture attached, it was a damn solid punch. His mouth twitches, the closest he’s come to an actual expression in days.
A little impressive, honestly.
But he shouldn’t be thinking that.
He clears his throat and lifts his eyes to you, already noting how you’ve curled in slightly. He’s been doing this long enough to recognize embarrassment when he sees it.
“You don’t feel bad.”
It’s not a question. He’s stating it.
You shift in your seat, fingers tapping against your phone case before you finally nod.
“No.”
He waits. You’re usually slow to elaborate, so he’s patient.
“It’s not like he was bullying me,” you admit after a moment, voice quieter. “Or even my friends. I mean, I don’t… have that many people close to me. But he wouldn’t shut up. Just running his mouth about everyone and everything.”
A picture forms in his head. A student, loud and brash. He thinks of a certain little blonde brat with an explosive quirk and an even more explosive attitude.
“So you hit him?”
Your fingers tighten around your phone, thumb dragging over the corner of the case.
“I don’t know why exactly,” you say, and the honesty in it surprises him. You look up at him then, face open, raw, unguarded in a way he hasn’t seen before. “I know what I felt, but…”
You pause, exhale.
“I just got up. Walked over. And did it.”
Enji leans back slightly, studying you. You’re not smirking about it, not reveling in the damage. But you’re not crying over it either. You’re stuck in the in-between, somewhere between, ‘Why did I do that?’ and, ‘I don’t regret it.’
He looks down at the report again. The bruising, the fracture, the sheer force behind it.
He sighs, rubs a rough hand over his eyes, and finally looks at you.
“Next time,” he says dryly, “Warn me so I can bet on you.”
You stare at him, eyes wide, blinking rapidly.
“Pardon?”
Enji exhales through his nose, something between a huff and a sigh.
God, you’re so polite. Even when you’re completely thrown off. It irritates him, but not in a way that makes him angry. More like…
He doesn’t know what to do with it.
With you.
His mind turns over thoughts, calculations, and then, maybe against his better judgment—definitely against professional judgment—he pulls open his desk drawer.
The wood creaks as he reaches in, fingers finding the smooth, cool edges of a photo frame. It’s not just one picture. It’s a collage, a frame with multiple slots, each holding different snapshots of his family. He lays it flat on the desk, turning it so you can see. Then, with a calloused finger, he taps against the glass.
“I trust you saw the news.”
Your gaze flickers from the frame to his face, cautious.
“Yes.”
“Then you know a bit about my family.”
Slowly, you nod.
He leans back, arms crossing over his chest, and watches as your eyes drift back to the photos.
For the first time in a while, Enji speaks about it.
Not in some vague PR-mandated way, not with the cold detachment he’s learned to use to ignore it. He speaks about his past, about what he did to his family.
How he never saw (or never wanted to see) what it was doing to them. How he justified things in his head, twisted logic to suit his own ends.
He tells you that for years, empathy was an abstract concept to him. Something he understood in theory but never in practice.
And then Enji looks at you, really looks at you—the slight shake in your fingers as you grip your phone, the way your lips press together, the way your shoulders hunch inward like you’re bracing for impact.
He sighs, slides the tissue box across the desk toward you.
(He’s had to replace it three times since he started working with you.)
“I don’t need to sit here and harp on how what you did was bad,” he says. “You’ve done a good enough job of that already.”
Your fingers twitch, resting hesitantly against the box. But you don’t take one.
“What I will tell you,” he continues, “is that you’re poisoning yourself by dwelling on it.” His voice is level, firm, but not unkind.
“What you did was alarming. Embarrassing. Could’ve landed you in more trouble than it did.” He pauses.
“But you show remorse. That much is obvious.”
Your lips part, like you want to protest, like you want to say, ‘But I don’t feel bad, not really,’ but then his next words stop you.
“You might not feel bad because the resentment had been building for so long.” He taps a finger against the desk, sharp but slow, measured.
“But your emotions are real.”
You tense.
“You clearly feel something,” Enji says, his voice a shade softer now, like candle light. He’s piecing something together as he speaks.
“Even if you don’t think you do.”
You blink, stare down at your hands, and he sees your throat bob as you swallow.
“Sometimes,” he adds, “Grief manifests in ways you don’t take the time to consider.”
Silence stretches between you.
Enji doesn’t press, doesn’t push. He knows better than that now.
Instead, he just sits back and waits.
You sit with his words, letting them sink in, but something about them lingers in your chest like a splinter too deep to pull out. Your fingers toy absently with the tissue box, but you still don’t take one. Instead, you inhale slowly, steadying yourself, before lifting your gaze back to him.
“…Do you?”
Enji’s brow furrows slightly.
“Do I what?”
You swallow, glancing down at the framed photos again. His wife, his children—small moments frozen in time, and yet, all of them hold a weight you can’t fully grasp.
“Do you feel bad?” you ask, your voice quieter now, more careful.
“About what you did to them?”
For a moment, Enji doesn’t answer.
He just sits there, staring at you with those sharp, unreadable eyes, the same eyes that make most students shift uncomfortably in their seats. But you don’t move. Or fidget. You just wait.
Enji exhales through his nose, heavy and slow. He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face before resting his elbow on the armrest, fingers curled lightly against his temple. His other hand taps against the desk—just once, but it’s enough to betray a thoughtfulness he rarely lets show.
“Yes,” he says finally.
“I do.”
You tilt your head slightly, watching him.
It would be easy for him to stop there. To leave it at that. But, for some reason, he doesn’t.
“I didn’t always,” he admits, shifting his gaze toward the window. His voice is deep, rougher than usual, like it’s scraping against something raw. “For a long time, I didn’t see it. Or simply I refused.” He exhales sharply.
“I convinced myself that everything I did was for them. That it was necessary. That if I worked them hard enough, they’d be strong enough. Good enough. That they’d thank me for it one day.”
You notice the way his jaw tightens at that last part.
“And then?” you ask.
“And then I lost them,” he says simply. His fingers tighten slightly on the armrest. “One by one.”
The silence that follows is thick, but not uncomfortable.
Just heavy.
You think of Shoto. The way he barely looks at his father, the way his voice goes stiff whenever he so much as mentions him. You think of the news articles, the scandal, the way the world turned their eyes to Endeavor—not as a hero, but as a failure of a man.
Enji drags a hand through his hair, sighing.
“Regret doesn’t fix anything,” he mutters. “It doesn’t undo what I did. It doesn’t change how they feel about me. But it does mean I have to live with it.”
He turns his gaze back to you then, meeting your eyes.
“And I do.”
You sit with that, trying to understand the weight of it.
He regrets it. He feels bad. But that doesn’t mean he gets a clean slate. It doesn’t mean he gets to make things right just because he wants to.
It just means he has to carry it.
Just like you.
Your fingers tighten slightly on the desk.
“…Does it ever get easier?”
Enji studies you for a long moment before answering.
“No,” he says honestly.
“But you learn to keep moving anyway.”
"That’s a shitty answer."
Your voice is flat, unimpressed, and it shocks him enough that he actually blinks at you.
"Excuse me?"
"That’s a shitty answer," you repeat, a little more force behind your words this time.
"You did something bad, yeah, okay, fine. Everyone's done something bad."
You wave your hand in exaggeration, tone bordering on sarcastic. You’re still gripping your phone tightly, fingers curling and uncurling against the edges.
"You're still alive," you continue, eyes locked onto him.
"You could try to do something now. It won’t change or fix what you did, but it's better than not trying at all."
Enji stares at you, processing, calculating. You’re fidgeting, but your words hold weight, and they’re not wrong. Then, suddenly, your expression shifts—brows furrowing slightly, realization dawning.
"Oh."
You shift your grip on your phone, muttering,
"I just fixed my own problem."
You move to correct yourself, maybe soften the blow, but he waves a hand before you can.
"Oh, don’t do that now," he says, exhaling sharply.
"I was just beginning to like this other side of you. Go back to that."
You look at him dimly, skeptical, but the sharp edge of your frustration dulls just a bit. Enji rubs a hand over his face, sighing.
"I'm not qualified to help you."
That’s the truth, and he won’t pretend otherwise.
"But obviously, we're stuck with each other for now, so let's make the best of it." You huff, crossing your arms.
"Your defence style is avoidance."
"And yours is that you give everyone else your best and save none for yourself."
Your eyes narrow slightly.
"Try it sometime."
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest.
"Ah, so you do have some bite in you."
You look at him, then at the door. Your body language shifts—tension pulling at your shoulders as you rise from your chair, clearly about to leave. And normally, Enji would let you. Normally, he’d think, ‘Fine. If they want to storm off, let them.’
But he knows himself.
And he knows what happens when kids walk away angry….
So instead, before you can make it to the door, he calls out,
"Sit back down."
Your steps falter. You glance at him over your shoulder.
"Why?"
He levels you with a look. "Because I asked."
You hesitate, but after a beat, you sink back into the chair, your movements slower, less defensive. Enji leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his desk. He studies you for a moment before finally asking,
"Is there anything else in your life causing stress? Something that might have unknowingly played a part in this?"
You hesitate. Then, slowly, you unlock your phone and turn the screen toward him.
A family photo.
Enji stares at the pic you hold up on your phone. It’s a simple picture—your family gathered together, smiling, posed just right, a moment frozen in time. But there’s something about it that makes his stomach tighten. Maybe it’s because he recognizes the way you look in it.
The way your smile is kinda there, but your eyes don’t quite match.
He watches the way your expression dulls as you stare at the screen, like you're looking at something far beyond the photo itself. He doesn’t say anything yet, just waits.
"I'm the oldest child," you say, voice quieter now.
"And sometimes, I don't feel like anything I do will ever be enough. I can't express myself at home. I feel bad, I feel angry, and I don't have an outlet. All I can do is come here, look at you, and..."
You swallow, gripping your phone a little tighter. Your words land between you like bricks, heavy and unmoving. You sound tired.
"And sometimes, I can't hold it in anymore, and I crash out."
It clicks.
‘Oh, fuck.’
This is why you’re here.
You aren't just some troubled student who threw a punch out of nowhere. You’re not just some kid who holds everything in until it finally snaps. Or a quiet kid with too much weight on their shoulders.
You are exactly the kind of person he spent years breaking.
You’re his lesson.
And now, he’s sitting across from you, trying to figure out how to do something about it.
Enhi’s stomach twists.
A deep, uncomfortable realization settling over him like a heavy cloak as he sits there and stares across the desk at you.
You are exactly what he used to demand from his own children. A child who takes on too much. A child who gives and gives until there’s nothing left for themselves. A child who goes unseen. A child who has never been given a space to just be, without expectation, without pressure, without having to be useful to everyone else.
And now here you are, sitting across from him, looking at him with this raw, unfiltered honesty that he knows he doesn’t deserve.
He exhales slowly, running a hand down his face before finally speaking.
“…You shouldn’t have to feel that way,” he says, voice quieter than before.
“Not at home. Not anywhere.”
You let out a short, bitter laugh.
“Yeah, well. I do.”
Enji leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. He doesn’t try to sugarcoat anything. Doesn’t try to tell you that everything will magically get better.
He wouldn’t believe that himself, so why should you? Instead, he says,
“I don’t have an answer for you.”
You scoff.
“Figures.”
“But,” he continues, giving you a pointed look, “I do know that carrying everything alone will tear you apart faster than any fight ever could.”
You blink.
“That’s dramatic.”
He exhales sharply—maybe a laugh, maybe just a tired breath.
“Maybe,” he admits. “But it’s still true.”
There’s a pause. The air feels heavier now, but not suffocating.
Just… real.
Enji leans back in his chair, watching you carefully.
“You ever talk to anyone about this?”
Your gaze flickers to the side.
“…Not really.”
“Hm.” He nods, like that doesn’t surprise him.
“Do you want to?”
Your fingers tap against the back of your phone, a nervous little rhythm.
“…I don’t know.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.” Your eyes snap back to him, confused.
“We?”
“You’re stuck with me, aren’t you?” He raises a brow. “Might as well make the most of it.”
You stare at him, searching his face for any sign of sarcasm, of insincerity. But there’s none.
For the first time since stepping into his office, something in your chest loosens—just a little.
“…Okay,” you murmur.
Enji nods.
“Good.”
Then, after a beat, he adds, “And next time, if you’re gonna punch someone, at least don’t do it in front of the whole class. Wait for after school when there's no witnesses.” Your mouth drops open.
“Excuse me?”
His lips twitch, just slightly.
“You heard me.”
And for the first time since he met you, you actually laugh.
Bonus:
Enji’s office was dimly lit, the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds in pale slats across his desk. He sat with the usual tension held in his shoulders, his large hands folded together on the polished wood like he was trying to keep them still.
You sit opposite, legs crossed, a ceramic cup of office kitchen coffee in your hand, stirring it slowly as the quiet buzz of the old ceiling light filled the space between you.
“You can’t expect to be a shitty father for over twenty years,” you said at last, not unkindly, “and then act like forgiveness is just a thing you get to receive.”
Enji’s jaw clenched, eyebrows flickering, but he didn’t look away. You didn’t flinch either.
“It’s gonna take time,” you added. “Liking someone? Respecting them? That takes time even under the best circumstances. And no offense, but your rap sheet’s longer than most.”
He exhaled through his nose, gravelly and low. “You sound like Rei,” he muttered.
You blinked. “Is that your daughter?”
“No,” he said, voice a little softer now. “That’s my wife.”
“Poor her.”
“I know,” he said simply, the words heavy with something closer to regret than shame. You stopped stirring your coffee for a beat, surprised by the honesty.
“Don’t you have a daughter?” you asked, glancing at the framed photo behind him. Shoto as a boy, looking much smaller and warier than now.
“Yes,” he said. “Second oldest. Fuyumi. After Rei left, I—I turned her into a second mother. She was a teenager.” Your brows furrowed.
“So she was drowning for years with no one to turn to?” You paused.
“I can relate.”
That made him shift. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was the terrible understanding of a pattern repeated.
“How’s Touya?” you asked.
Wordlessly, Enji reached into his pocket and pulled his phone before swiping and turning the screen. You peered closer to see a hospital room, sterile white. The man in the bed was barely recognizable beneath the gauze and bandages, his once ragged and scorched body now bound in wires and IVs, monitors blinking like dying stars.
Dabi. Touya.
“He opened his eyes a few weeks ago,” Enji said. “Didn’t even glare at me. Just... looked tired. Sad. Like the fire had burned out and left him hollow.”
You stopped stirring. “What did he do?”
Enji looked at the photo again, then placed it gently back in the drawer. “He twitched his fingers. Just a little. I didn’t know if he wanted me to hold his hand, but... I tried. Even if it was through sterile gloves. I just wanted him to feel someone was there.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Is he that fragile now?”
“His skin’s like a butterfly’s wing,” he murmured. “One wrong move and it tears.”
Silence lingered for a few breaths, until Enji finally looked at you again.
“How are you doing?”
You slouched slightly in your seat, pressing your thumb against the side of your coffee cup. “Got into a fight with my parents. Big one. About... everything. Them over-parentifying me, the way I have to earn every scrap of approval while my siblings float through easier lives, which, don't get me wrong, I love they aren't suffering too.”
His gaze didn’t waver.
You went on. “It’s like—I work harder, break myself more, and still get told I’m ‘too difficult.’ They even brought up the whole punching that guy in the face thing again, like that defines who I am.”
Enji’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what did you say?”
You smirked faintly, looking down at your shoes. “Told them, the dog who weeps over its kill is no better than the one who does not.”
He raised a brow. “Where’d you read that?”
“Tumblr.”
He actually huffed, a faint sound of amusement. Then he crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, tipping backward until he heard the wheels creak out for mercy and he set his heels back down.
“What do you think your best self would look like? If you didn’t have to worry about their approval?”
You thought about that for a moment.
“Happy. More confident. Healthy.”
Enji nodded, slowly. “Holding everything in like that... it eats at you. Eventually it leaks out somewhere. Autoimmune stuff. Even mental burnout can make your body collapse.”
You gave him a skeptical look.
“Is that why Natsu has IBS?”
“No,” he said flatly. Then, with a touch of awkwardness, “I, uh... asked him to hang out. This Saturday.”
You straightened up. “He said yes?”
A stiff nod.
You grinned. “That’s a good start. Don’t fuck it up.”
“I’ll try,” Enji muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Just then, your phone chimed. You pulled it out of your pocket and sighed. “Next class. Time to pretend I don’t want to be asleep in a broom closet.”
“You sound like Aizawa.”
“I envy that man.”
Enji sits up straighter. “Wait. I need to schedule you again. Talk more.” You sling your heavy backpack over your shoulder and tuck the phone away. “Already did it,” you say. “Check the system.”
“I’m still concerned about your mental health,” he says, almost gruff. You pause at the door, giving him a small smile.
“Then we can talk about it at dinner.”
His brows rose. “Excuse me?”
There was a knock—three soft raps—and then the door opened before he could say Come in.
Shoto stepped into the room with the quiet poise he always carried, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking briefly to you before nodding politely to his father.
“Sho invited me over,” you said casually, pointing at him with your thumb.
Shoto nodded once. “Yumi said it was fine.”
Enji opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. He just stared as Shoto stepped forward, gently slipped an arm around your shoulders to take your bookbag, and you freaking let him, then opened the door for you to step through first, and began leading you down the hallway.
The two of you fell into step with easy familiarity, your voices low but light, your feet echoing against the tile as you headed toward the exit.
Through the office glass, Enji watched you both go—his son and the unexpected student who’d walked into his office and thrown him completely off balance.
He leans back in his chair again and lets out a slow, tired sigh that doesn't quite hide the small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
‘Well played.’
Mother is back and she is cooking...
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