The next morning, the villa was bathed in a soft, mocking sunlight that felt far too loud for (Y/N)'s pounding head.
She was buried under a mountain of blankets, her eyes squeezed shut, trying to figure out why her hands felt like they had been playing a percussion instrument for twelve hours straight.
Beside her, the mattress shifted. A cold, soothing hand pressed against her forehead, followed by the heavenly scent of peppermint tea.
"Good morning, my 'Extremely Married' wife," Shoto's voice rumbled. It was a low, smooth sound, vibrating with a level of smugness (Y/N) hadn't known he was capable of.
(Y/N) peeked out from under the duvet, blinking at the bright light. Shoto was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking impossibly fresh and handsome in a simple black sweater. He held a glass of water and a small plate of toast.
"Ugh, my head," she groaned, shielding her eyes. "Why do I feel like Mirko used my brain as a punching bag? And why do you look like you have won a medal?"
"Because you were 'dancing' with a tambourine on a chair," Shoto said, his lips twitching as he handed her the water. "And because you had a very long conversation with a 'Handsome Impostor' in the back of a car."
(Y/N) froze, her glass halfway to her lips. Fragments of the night started to flicker back-the neon lights, the music, a man with a bow tie... and then, the car. She remembered accusing someone of being a fake Shoto.
"Oh no," she whispered, the blush returning with a vengeance. "I didn't... I didn't say anything stupid, did I?"
Shoto leaned in, his eyes shimmering with mischief. He set the toast down and cupped her face, mirroring the way she had squeezed his cheeks the night before. "Well, according to you, I am an 'icy-hot jelly-man' who is so 'whipped' that the entire country knows it."
(Y/N) squeaked, pulling the blanket over her face. "I did not call you a jelly-man."
"You did. Repeatedly," Shoto countered, his chest huffing with a soft laugh. He pulled the blanket down just enough to look her in the eye. "You also told me that if I touched you, your 'real' husband would burn me to a crisp. You were very protective of my honor, (Y/N). Even if you didn't recognize my face, you apparently recognized my 'sexy' scar."
"Stop it!" she cried, hiding her face in his shoulder. "I was drunk! I was just... appreciating you!"
"I liked the part where you said you'd ask for my number if you weren't so 'incredibly married,'" Shoto teased, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her into his lap. He was being extra clingy, his chin resting on her head. "It's good to know that even when you're intoxicated, I'm still your second favorite person in the world."
"Second?" (Y/N) asked, her voice muffled against his chest.
"Yes. You said your husband is always number one," he murmured, his voice softening into that deep, sincere tone that always made her melt. He kissed the top of her messy head. "It was the best compliment I've ever received."
(Y/N) finally looked up, her heart doing a somersault at the sheer adoration in his gaze. "You really aren't mad about the... you know... the party?"
"I was for about five minutes," Shoto admitted, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "But then you started telling the 'stranger' in the car how much you loved your husband. It's hard to stay jealous when my wife is my biggest fan."
He leaned down and gave her a lingering, sweet kiss-one that tasted like peppermint and a thousand silent 'I love yous.'
"But," he added, pulling back with a smirk, "I am still banning bow ties from the house. And Mirko sent me a video of the tambourine dance. I've already saved it to three different cloud drives."
"Shoto! Delete it!"
"No," he said, pulling her back down into the pillows and cuddling her close. "I need proof for when our kids ask why their mother isn't allowed to go to bachelorette parties anymore."
(Y/N) groaned, but she couldn't stop the smile from breaking across her face. She snuggled into his chest, feeling the steady, warm thrum of his heart. The contract was gone, the father was handled, and she was home with her "jelly-man."
"I love you, Shoto," she whispered.
"I love you too, (Y/N). Now eat your toast."
^ • ^
The wedding of Izuku Midoriya and Ochaco Uraraka was, predictably, the event of the year. The venue was a sprawling garden estate, decorated with floating cherry blossoms-courtesy of the bride's Quirk-and filled with the top heroes of the era.
But as far as the media and the guests were concerned, the "main event" was watching the Todorokis walk in.
Shoto looked striking in a traditional dark formal kimono, but his eyes never strayed more than a few inches from (Y/N). He was holding her hand with a firm, possessive grip, his thumb tracing circles over her knuckles. After the "tambourine incident" had gone viral among their friends, Shoto's protective streak had reached a comical, yet endearing, peak.
"Shoto, people are staring," (Y/N) whispered, adjusting the floral pin in her hair as they approached the reception area.
"Let them," Shoto replied simply, his gaze sweeping the room like a radar for any men wearing bow ties. "I'm just making sure you don't trip. Or find any more tambourines."
(Y/N) giggled, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I've been banned from percussion instruments for life, remember?"
^ • ^
The ceremony had been beautiful-full of Izuku's happy tears and Ochaco's radiant smiles-but the reception was where the chaos lived. As the music started, the Class 1-A alumni gathered near the bar.
"Hey! Look! It's the Jelly-Man!" Natsuo shouted from across the room, grinning as he waved a glass of champagne. Fuyumi was beside him, looking elegant and trying to pull her brother's arm down.
"Natsuo, stop it!" Fuyumi hissed, though she was smiling.
(Y/N) felt her face heat up instantly. "I am never drinking sake again. Never."
Mirko hopped over, looking dangerous in a backless dress that showed off her scars and muscles. She slapped Shoto on the back with enough force to make him stumble. "Hey, Icy-Hot! Thanks for the 'concerns' you sent my agency. (Y/N) did five hundred laps as a thank you."
Shoto didn't even flinch. He adjusted his grip on (Y/N)'s waist, pulling her flush against his side. "She looks well-rested, Mirko. Your 'training' clearly agreed with her."
"You're so full of it," Mirko laughed, then turned to (Y/N). "You ready for the dance floor, kid? I hear there's a jazz band, but we can probably find you a tambourine if you ask nicely."
"Absolutely not," Shoto said, his voice dropping an octave.
^ • ^
When the slow music began, Shoto led (Y/N) to the floor. Under the soft glow of the hanging lanterns, the rest of the world seemed to fade. Shoto's right hand rested on the small of her back, his left hand interlaced with hers, holding her close enough that she could feel the steady thrum of his heart.
"You're very quiet," (Y/N) murmured, looking up into his mismatched eyes.
"I'm just thinking," Shoto said, his gaze softening as it traveled over her face. "About how lucky I am. On our wedding night, I couldn't even look at you because I was so ashamed. And now... I can't imagine looking at anything else."
He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. "I don't care about the news, or the videos, or what people say. I just want to be the man you thought I was when you were drunk the one you'd choose even if you didn't know his name."
(Y/N) felt a stray tear of happiness prick her eye. She reached up, her hand cupping the side of his face, her thumb stroking the "sexy" scar she had rambled about in the car.
"You already are, Shoto. You're my number one. Always."
As the song ended, Shoto didn't wait for the applause. He leaned down and kissed her right there in the middle of the Hero world's biggest wedding. It wasn't a "contractual" kiss or a "polite" kiss. It was deep, lingering, and unashamedly affectionate.
From the sidelines, Bakugo groaned and looked away, Midoriya wiped a happy tear from his eye, and Fuyumi took a picture to send to their mother.
The Todorokis weren't a business merger anymore. They were just two people, deeply in love, finally free to dance in the light.
^ • ^
A week after the wedding, the dust had finally settled. Shoto had insisted on accompanying (Y/N) to the Hakamada Estate. He didn't want her setting foot in that house alone, but (Y/N) had stood her ground. This wasn't a battle for a Hero; it was a conversation for a daughter who had finally found her voice.
Shoto waited in the car, his eyes fixed on the front door of the mansion, his phone in his hand-ready to "intervene" if he felt a sudden spike in her heart rate through her smart-watch.
Inside the grand, stifling study of the Hakamada Estate, the air felt thin. Her father, a man who had built an empire on calculated risks and cold investments, sat behind his desk. He looked smaller than she remembered. Perhaps it was because the power had been stripped from him, or perhaps it was because his son-in-law now held the keys to his treasury.
"You look well, (Y/N)," he said, his voice as dry as parchment. He didn't look up from his ledger. "I hear the Todoroki boy has been... attentive. The media is full of your antics."
(Y/N) didn't sit. She stood in the center of the room, her posture graceful but immovable. "He isn't 'the Todoroki boy,' Father. He is my husband. And he isn't 'attentive' because of a contract. He's attentive because he loves me."
Her father finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. "Love is a luxury for those who don't have legacies to maintain. You were raised to understand that."
"I was raised to be a ledger entry," (Y/N) countered, her voice calm and steady. "But I'm not that anymore. I didn't come here to argue about the past or the money Shoto used to buy my freedom. I came here because, despite everything, you are still my father."
She walked forward and placed a small, simple photograph on his desk. It wasn't a professional portrait or a PR shot. It was a candid photo from the wedding-(Y/N) laughing, her head thrown back, while Shoto looked at her with a gaze so raw and honest it was almost painful to see.
"This is what you tried to turn into a business transaction," she said softly. "I'm still your daughter. I will still visit. I will still honor the name Hakamada. But the next time you speak to me, you will speak to me not to an asset. If you ask about my 'production,' or my 'stability,' I will walk out of this house and I will not come back."
Her father looked at the photo. For a fleeting second, his stoic mask faltered. He saw the daughter he had nearly lost-not to a marriage, but to a silence he had helped create.
"He... he is a very protective man," her father muttered, looking away from the photo. "He threatened to liquidate my shipping holdings if I so much as sent you a formal letter without his approval."
(Y/N) couldn't help a tiny, triumphant smile. "He's a bit of a jelly-man. It's a work in progress."
She turned to leave, but stopped at the door. "We're having dinner at the villa next Sunday. Lady Rei and Endrevor will be there. You're invited. Not as a business partner, but as family. Think about it."
^ • ^
When she stepped out of the house, Shoto was already out of the car, leaning against the door with his arms crossed. The moment he saw her, his entire posture changed the "Hero" mask falling away to reveal the worried, "whipped" husband.
"How was it?" he asked, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. "Do I need to start selling his stocks?"
(Y/N) laughed, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug that smelled like home. "No, Shoto. No liquidating today. I think he's finally starting to understand."
Shoto let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for an hour. He pulled her closer, his chin resting on her head. "Good. Because I'd much rather spend my afternoon with you than in a boardroom."
He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. "You're okay? Really?"
"I'm perfect," she whispered.
Shoto smiled, that small, private smile reserved only for her, and opened the car door. As they drove away from the Hakamada Estate, (Y/N) looked out the window at the receding mansion. She was no longer a piece of a legacy; she was the architect of her own life.
And as Shoto reached over to interlace his fingers with hers, she knew that whatever came next whether it was hero work, family dinners, or more drunken tambourine dances they would face it as a team.