BNHA | Oɴᴇsʜᴏᴛs

Juzo Honenuki x Reader

Juzo Honenuki didn't mind losing. Not when it was to her.

He hated the sting of failure in the field, sure. Hated seeing his name drop below the top five on mission leaderboards. Hated the look on his own face in the mirror when he knew he could've done better.

But if it meant seeing her laugh, catching that spark of joy when she landed a perfect manoeuvre thanks to her latest gadget, he'd let her win every damn day of the week.

It wasn't about the loss. It was about her.

And [Y/N][Y/L/N] never noticed.

She called him her best friend. Teammate. Ride or die. Trusted combat partner. Which should've been enough. Should've been. But somewhere between long nights training together and her falling asleep on his shoulder in the agency break room, it had stopped being enough.

She had not a clue.

Tonight, the two of them were alone again in the agency's training hall. The rest of the team had cleared out hours ago. The air still smelled faintly of ozone and burnt plastic, leftovers from her latest gadget test.

"Okay," she huffed, tugging her gloves off with her teeth. "That last combo was sick. Your Quirk softened the impact perfectly. My repulsion field snapped in right after, if we sync like that during a mission..."

"We'll be untouchable," Juzo said, grinning, though it came out more sheepish than confident.

She beamed at him. Beamed. That smile...open and effortless, all teeth and heat, it hit him in the ribs like a shot.

Then she dropped onto the bench nearby, groaning dramatically. "Ugh, my shoulders are killing me."

His hands twitched.

Without thinking, he said, "Turn around."

She blinked over at him, sweat still clinging to her temple. "Huh?"

He chuckled. "Come on, you're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"That thing where your posture is screaming help me, I'm in pain, but you act like you are fine."

She smirked, but didn't argue. "Alright, alright." She twisted on the bench, presenting her back to him. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

He swallowed hard, eyes briefly flicking over the curve of her neck, the loose hair sticking to the back of her damp shirt. The under-armour fabric clung to her skin, heat-wrinkled and stretched at the seams. She'd tied the top half of her suit around her waist, exposing the way her shoulder blades shifted when she rolled them, already loosening up in anticipation.

He'd touched her before, plenty of times, during stretches or in-the-field rescues, but never like this. Never for long enough to memorize the exact way her muscles tensed under pressure, or how she sighed when he pressed just right.

"Your hands are magic," she said, barely above a breath, head falling forward.

He smiled faintly, digging his thumbs into the worst knot behind her scapula. "Just practice."

She always said things like that. Casual, affectionate little nothings that hit too deep.

But this, this felt like something he could give her. Relief. Comfort. Something no gadget or fancy support tech could replicate. His hands, his attention, his care.

And maybe if she relaxed enough in his hands, she'd feel it. The way he lingered a beat too long. The way his breath caught when she leaned into him, trusting, so completely unaware of the way his heart tried to claw its way out of his chest every time she did.