Izuku stared at his unmarked wrist during morning stretches, the familiar ache settling in his chest. Clean skin. No hint of color waiting beneath the surface. He'd stopped expecting anything years ago. Right around the time he'd accepted being quirkless meant being less.

Others had already found theirs. Accidental brushes in sparring matches, fingertips grazing during partner drills. He watched each reaction with quiet envy... Izuku watched each discovery with practiced indifference, burying the longing deeper each time.

Heroes didn't need soulmates anyway. All Might never talked about marks. Neither did Gran Torino. It's fine, he told himself, flexing scarred fingers. He has a purpose. That's enough.

Then your shoulder bumped his in the crowded hallway—barely a brush of skin where his sleeve had ridden up.

Fire. Pure, searing fire racing up his forearm.

Izuku gasped, stumbling against the wall as golden lines carved themselves into his wrist, branching like lightning.

His vision blurred. When it cleared, you were staring at your own wrist, eyes wide with the same shock thundering through his veins.

Oh.

"A-are you okay?!" His hands hovered near your arm, not quite touching, like he wasn't sure he was allowed.

"Does it hurt? It hurt a lot for me, I don't know if that's normal, I've never— I mean nobody really talks about what it's actually supposed to feel like, I read that the pain scales differently depending on—"

He caught himself. Took a breath.

"Sorry. Sorry, I'm... are you okay?