A waiter stopped at their table.
"We'll have a filet steak and a pasta," Izuku said, slipping off his jacket and folding it neatly over the back of his chair.
"Of course," the waiter replied, jotting it down. He lingered for a moment longer than necessary, glancing back once or twice before finally leaving.
Izuku didn't seem to notice.
His grandmother watched him instead, her gaze thoughtful. "Are you sure one steak is enough?"
"It's for you," Izuku said simply. "I'll have the pasta."
That settled it.
The conversation drifted off, replaced by a quiet pause. Izuku leaned back slightly, closing his eyes for a moment, as if trying to reclaim a bit of energy.
His grandmother studied him again. "Are you really okay with just that?"
"I'm not very hungry right now."
After a few seconds, Izuku opened his eyes and pushed himself to his feet.
"I'm going to wash up," he said. "And… I'm taking these contacts out. They're uncomfortable."
"Go ahead," she replied gently. "Take your time."
He nodded and made his way to the restroom.
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead.
Izuku stood at the sink, staring at his reflection. For a moment, he didn't move.
Then his hand rose.
He slid the colored lenses out carefully, blinking against the slight sting, and dropped them into the trash. Cool water followed—splashed, then rubbed across his face, washing away the last traces of makeup.
Cold. Clean. Simple.
"…That's better."
He lifted his head again.
The face in the mirror was familiar now. Not the version shaped for the camera. Not the one molded by someone else's idea of who he should be.
Just him.
A quiet breath left his chest.
"…I should keep smiling."
The thought came naturally, without effort.
"It makes things easier. That's what All Might does."
He tapped his cheeks lightly, almost like resetting himself. The tension that had settled behind his eyes faded, replaced by something steadier. Lighter.
By the time he stepped out, the change had settled into place.
His grandmother noticed immediately.
"There you are," she said, her smile softening. "That's better."
Izuku returned to his seat. "Has the food come yet?"
"Not yet. Do you want anything else?"
He shook his head. "No. I want to save room. Mom's making katsudon tonight."
That earned a small, amused look.
The conversation that followed came easily, light and unforced.
Elsewhere, Class 1-A's group chat was far less peaceful.
Ochaco Uraraka: That was kind of scary… When Midoriya stopped smiling earlier, he looked really intense.
Kyoka Jiro: Yeah. It didn't feel like him at all.
Toru Hagakure: When his expression changed in the studio… I felt bad for him.
A new message appeared.
Izuku Midoriya: ...…
Izuku Midoriya: What's wrong?
One of the earlier messages vanished.
Izuku Midoriya: Why did it suddenly get quiet?
Izuku Midoriya: Hello?
At the table, Izuku waited a few minutes, glancing down at his phone.
No response.
"…Huh."
He set it aside, picking up his fork and turning his attention back to the meal in front of him.
The chat resumed almost immediately.
Toru Hagakure: That was close.
Tenya Iida: Midoriya is currently occupied. Please proceed, but remain appropriate.
Toru Hagakure: Didn't you all see the livestream?
Ochaco Uraraka: I tried! It crashed the second he showed up!
Toru Hagakure: Good thing I recorded everything.
Tsuyu Asui: Keep it within the class, ribbit.
Mina Ashido: Hurry—flood the chat. Push the earlier messages up.
One after another, harmless messages filled the screen, burying what came before.
Half an hour later, lunch was over.
Izuku and his grandmother sat together with tea, the distant hum of the mall settling into a soft background noise.
Steam curled faintly from the cups between them.
His grandmother set hers down and looked at him, something thoughtful in her expression.
"Izuku… do you remember when you stayed with me for a while?"
He blinked, caught off guard.
"You had a close friend back then."