It's not that Rumi hated to run in front of others, per se—it was more that she preferred it when not everyone within a ten-meter radius knew that she was fighting for her life after a brisk jog. Of course, if her labored breathing didn't send the message, the sweat pooling on her face and clothes certainly did. Thankfully, she only had to do this on Saturdays, so she didn't have to wear the thick blazer and tights of her school uniform while she ran.

With her dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail, she wore a sleeveless t-shirt that said "oof" in large letters, black leggings, and sneakers. Casual. In her hands were several two-gallon paint cans, and around her neck was a coiled towel. She was also dripping with sweat, but that was just the indicator of her Sick Gains. That way when all the passersby saw her, all they could think of was of how much bread she was getting and not of the fact that she looked like she was about to have a stroke.

Down the sidewalk, she trudged up to a squat building with a "closed" sign in front of the door in bold font. So, she kicked it open with a flourish. Mr. Kazuki Hashimoto, the leader of the small construction group, was standing beside a granite countertop and talking with a small older woman while his workers finished spreading a tarp on the floor and applying masking tape to the floorboards and edging. Her theatrics caught their attention, and once they saw her set the paint cans on the floor they grinned and said their quick thanks.

Twisting her core, she stretched her muscles from their previous strain. As she did so, Mr. Yoshiro Abe, the youngest of the workers that day at the healthy age of 32, said, "You've been workin' real hard today, Chouju! We appreciate it."

Breathless, she gave a thumbs-up and flashed him a passive grin. "I do try my best, sir."

"And it's plenty, child," said the woman, walking over to Rumi with her hands clasped in front of her. "Please tell me they're paying you well for your troubles, dear."

Rumi chuckled to herself, fingers brushing against her forearm absentmindedly. "Yes ma'am, they are," she said, grinning with half of her mouth as she spoke.

"We're also paying you in work-out material and motivation, kiddo, don't forget that!" shouted Mr. Hideki Fujita over the sound of the cans being ripped open.

"Speaking of," Mr. Hashimoto began, turning to look at the girl, "It seems that my workers don't have any water, and they've been working so hard all day." Rumi looked at the other four men, who smiled and waved at her from within the air-conditioned room. She sputtered while trying to hold back a good-natured laugh. "So, Chouju, want to get swoll, or what?"

"Please never say that again, old man," said Mr. Abe, rolling his eyes through a smirk. "I could mistake you for a boomer and you know it."

"Hah! I'm not even the oldest-looking one here!" With that, he looked pointedly at Mr. Ryuji Ikeda, who had said nothing thus far. The man merely looked up at him with lethargy, slowly blinking once. He was a college student—he started later than expected—which sums up his disposition well-enough. "This is why you stay stupid, my friend. School's added an extra ten years to your appearance."

Mr. Ikeda scoffed. "I never said I was smart—if I was, I wouldn't be working here." What a jokester!

"Looks like you're the real boomer here, Ryuji…" said Mr. Abe under his breath.

Mr. Hashimoto raised his brows and nodded to himself in contemplation before turning back to Rumi. "So, will you go grab some water for us, lackey?" he asked.

"Yessir," she said with a flourish, standing at attention. Handing her some cash to buy the drinks, he sent her out on her way again. Before she could step out of the door, however, she was stopped in her tracks.

"Wait, Chouju!" called Mr. Abe. "I think we left some of the paint-rollers back at the truck, can you grab them on your way back?"

Nodding, she said, "Yeah, absolutely," before running out of the building again, taking a brief moment to catch her breath before jogging down the sidewalk once more.

Fun-fact: carrying ten water-bottles and four paint-rollers is hard. Especially when you don't have a bag or anything, which Rumi didn't—the cashier at the store had apologized profusely for the inconvenience, but Rumi had assured him it wasn't a problem and she intended to live up to that statement. To accommodate for the lack of bag, she placed as many as she could in the front of her shirt, holding the fabric like a pouch with the paint-rollers tucked under her arms and the remaining water-bottles slipped into the waist-line of her leggings.

Running was a feat and doing so without holding fourteen items was already straining. Rumi didn't know how she was still alive.

While she was making her way downtown towards the construction site, she caught a glimpse of purple out of the corner of her eye—on the opposite side of the road, Hitoshi was cycling with a blank expression. When he noticed her, he lifted his hand off the handle-bar in a quasi-wave.

Now, social norms benefitted Rumi in this instance. Since her arms were so full, it would be acceptable for her to not return the wave—hell, she probably wasn't even physically capable of waving. But to hell if that would stop her from trying.

Lifting her hand as much as she could, she smiled brightly while waving at him once, twice, and then losing her grip on the paint-roller. As it slipped, she lifted a leg to catch it by pressing it against her torso, but in doing so not only lost her grip on the roller in her opposite hand but also on the water-bottles in the waistband of her pants. They fell on the concrete, and soon after did the remaining rollers follow as well as a handful of bottles.

"Shitshitshitshitshitshit," Rumi hissed at herself while awkwardly trying to pick up the items while simultaneously holding the ones that managed not to fall. It was not working. She looked like a contortionist street-performer who's very bad at her job—the contorting, not entertaining, that shit was funny as hell.

From across the street, Hitoshi paused to watch her struggle, an unreadable expression on his features. Was he responsible for that? No, no she didn't have to wave back at him, especially with so much enthusiasm. It would be socially acceptable for him to ride off and ignore her struggles, but… that didn't strike him as being very Hero-like.

And everyone knows that a Hero's real job isn't saving people, it's facing awkward situations like a fucking champ.

As Rumi fought with her own body to grab the bottles on the ground, she didn't even notice as Hitoshi picked up the rollers that fell behind her and stepped around to the front of her. In fact, she didn't realize he was there until he was holding out one of them and saying, "You dropped this," with a bland tone.

Her eyes trailed up his hand and landed on his face. "Shinsou?" she muttered, squinting at him. "What're you doing here?"

Furrowing his brows, he said, "I came to help you? People do that, you know."

"Ah, nice," she said, fighting with the water-bottles in her arms.

After a moment of less-than-comfortable silence, he placed a hand on the back of his neck and said, "Do you need me to grab any of that?"

"No, thanks, it's kind of my job." She tried hard to grab the roller from him, but the bottles made it hard to move her… anything.

"What kind of job makes you carry water-bottles and paint-rollers?" he asked through light chuckles.

"Only the best," she said, grinning. After a moment of prolonged struggle and consequent failure, she mumbled, "I might actually have to take you up on that…"

Hitoshi snorted quietly through a slight grin before pulling the paint-rollers towards him along with a handful of water-bottles. He pulled his bike alongside them as they began walking down the sidewalk.

"So, you ride bikes, huh?"

"No, I just walk them." They made eye-contact, and he had the expression of "bitch, please" etched onto his features.

Rumi pursed her lips and looked away before straightening her shoulders dramatically. "Y'know, not to brag or anything, but when I was younger, I could totally ride without any hands."

Looking away from her, Hitoshi muttered under his breath, "Top ten things you can say during conversations and sex."

Rumi whipped around to look at him. "What?"

"What?"

After a moment of staring at him for a few seconds longer than usual, she snorted through a rising laugh and mumbled, "You smell like a baby prostitute," through pursed lips.

Scrunching his brows together and physically recoiling, he looked down at her with a confused smirk and said, "What the hell did you just say?" in a breathy voice.

"Oh, it's a quote from the movie Mean Girls." After a moment of him watching her without a change in expression, she added, "You have seen Mean Girls, right?"

He shook his head while pursing his lips. Rumi gasped dramatically, nearly dropping another water-bottle.

"You haven't seen the word of God himself?! That's sacrilege, an atrocity, a crime against humanity!" she spurted, gesturing to the best of her ability, and what she couldn't convey with her hands she did with her head and shoulders.

"Sounds like a chick-flick."

"It kind of is."

He made gagging sounds, and she kicked his shin with mock-anger.

"It's only the world's most-funniest chick-flick, thank you very much," she said with a pout and a joking tone. "It's peak American comedy."

"Oh," he said, his expression clearing. "That's probably why I haven't seen it."

"Because it's American?"

He hummed in response, nodding curtly. "I don't usually watch foreign movies, and I don't think I've ever watched a foreign chick-flick… Wait, I have actually, but it was only once and that was a weird time. Those Germans have an odd sense of romantic comedy…" He then failed to elaborate. Rumi didn't have a response to that. "Do you usually watch foreign chick-flicks?" Hitoshi asked after a moment of silence.

"Well, this one in specific isn't completely foreign to me—I'm part American on my mom's side."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," he deadpanned.

"Why? Is it because everywhere I go the sound of freedom follows?"

"No, it's because you don't seem to realize how annoying you are to everyone else."

Okay, maybe that was too blunt.

He was almost worried he had hurt her feelings until she snorted and said, "Dude, I do too know how annoying I am, I just assume my friends don't mind." Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, he saw her set her jaw firmly as he brows lowered, avoiding eye-contact.

Shit, she'd even used the f-bomb again.

After wracking his brain for a way to lighten the mood, he tapped her shin with his foot as she'd done earlier and said with a smile, "Oh, come on, Chouju, I'm just messing with you. It's endearing." When she looked up at him with an almost hopeful expression, he quickly added, "I mean, you wouldn't be you without it, so… don't call yourself annoying, okay? You're not bothering me, or anyone else."

The corners of her lips tugged down, and he couldn't tell if she was being theatrical or if what he said really meant that much to her. "Wow, thanks," she muttered, looking up at him with her big, green eyes.

"No problem," he said, his eyes flicking away from her figure.

The silence that followed didn't last for too long, because after a few moments of walking down the sidewalk Rumi said, "Here's where I work—well, not here here, exactly, I work for the people inside."

"That's usually how jobs work," Hitoshi muttered. She tried to kick him in the shin again, but he sidestepped out of the way while saying, "ha-ha" under his breath.

Once inside, Rumi shouted, "Honey~ I'm hoo-ooooooome!" with a dramatic flair. The burly men hooted as she tossed them their water bottles and set the paint rollers on the ground beside them. "I got some help from one of my friends, Shinsou. Sorry if I took too long to get here," she added, chuckling at herself as she spoke.

"Ah, it's not a problem, kiddo," said Mr. Hashimoto as he walked up to her and ruffled her hair. Looking at Hitoshi, he said, "Thanks for your help, Shinsou."

"No problem," he said, waving it off nonchalantly. Looking at Rumi, he said, "Alright, time for me to leave before this gets weird…er…" Carefully, he walked backward out of the door, picked up his bike, and cycled off back whence he came like a cryptic yet helpful goblin.

After a moment, Rumi clapped her hands together and said, "So! Who's turn is it to feed the stray?"

"It's mine," said Mr. Fujita, raising his hand as he walked over to a bag on the counter. When he pulled out a box and handed it to Rumi, she smiled widely and accepted the offer with salivating features. "My wife made it for you last night," he added as she opened the lid.

"It's wonderful, thank you so much," Rumi whimpered, food being the only thing she cared about in this life.

As she sat down to eat, Mr. Fujita continued with, "So, who was your friend back there?" while dipping the roller in the plastic tray filled with cream-colored paint.

"That was Shinsou, he's in my class. We recently started walking to school together because we take the same route," she said between bites of food. "Oh, he told me yesterday that a good performance at the Sports Festival next week might get me into the Hero Course—we're both trying to get in still."

"Ah, the Hero Course?" said Mr. Abe, glancing towards her. "Looks like you need to…train a little harder than usual, huh?"

Rumi paused mid-slurp.

"It's almost like we should…give you more work to do? You know, so you can bulk up a little more."

Rumi nearly choked, glancing back and forth between each of the men before sighing and putting down the meal. "I'll have you know this is child abuse," she said while walking towards the door. Before she could leave, the older woman, their client, called out to her.

"No, no, no, there is no way that you are going out running again. Take a break first, dear," she chided, guiding her back to the counter to finish her meal.

"See? This is how you treat children," Rumi said, nodding her approval while digging back into the meal. The men chuckled under their breaths before returning to their painting.

That evening, once Rumi was back in the comfort of her home, she sat down with her mom at the table to eat dinner, Rumi's favorite part of the day. Of course, it wasn't her favorite because of the awkward silence that would often ensue, but rather for the food.

Slurping the Butajiru broth, she glanced at her mother from across the square table as she was taking a sip from a can of beer while looking at the ground, no clear expression on her face. When Florence's eyes flitted up to see Rumi staring at her, Rumi quickly looked into her bowl while slurping louder. Setting down the bowl, she picked up the cooked salmon with her chopsticks and took a tentative bite.

"How was your training?" Florence asked, breaking the silence as she set down the can and picked up her chopsticks.

Rolling her eyes off-handedly with a smirk on her lips, Rumi said, "Mom, it's not just training, it's my job." When she cocked a brow at her bold statement, Rumi hurriedly added, "7,200 yen doesn't lie, Mom!" Another pause. "That's like… fifty bucks or something."

"I know how much it is, Rumi," she said indignantly. "Honestly, I've lived here since before you were born, I think I know my conversions by now…" Florence took a swig of beer. "So, how was work?" she asked wagging her head and looking at Rumi with wide eyes.

Swallowing, Rumi said, "It was good. I ran into my friend, Shinsou—the one who lives down the street—so that was cool…oh." She paused, her hand drooping as her brows furrowed. "Did I tell you about the Sports Festival?" Florence shook her head slowly before taking a sip of broth. "Well, Shinsou said that a good performance might get him into the Hero Course, so I think I'm going to try that too. I can't have him hogging the spotlight, can I?"

"The General Studies students participate in the Sports Festival?" she asked, halfway squinting as she spoke.

"Yeah, we just don't usually make it very far."

"Ah, I understand."

The silence returned, weighing down on them as they continued to eat. Rumi cleared her throat, shifting forward in her seat and pushing a grin on her face, "So, you are going to watch me, right?"

"Of course, Rumi," she said, chuckling into her drink. "But…as your mom, I have to get on to you first, okay?"

Rumi snorted. "I'd be concerned if you didn't." She waved her hand. "Say your piece, comrade."

"Well," Florence began, wiping her mouth on the corner of the napkin. "It's dangerous, Rumi. You could very easily get hurt, and you're going to be surrounded by people who are a lot stronger than you, and who have more…formidable Quirks."

"I'd sure hope that they have good Quirks—you know just as well as I do that mine is worthless unless I happen to be around someone cool."

Florence nodded slowly, eyes falling onto her plate as she pursed her lips

Florence Sibley-Chouju—Quirk: None.

"But it's okay!" Rumi sputtered, regaining her attention. "I've been training really hard, and I think I'm going to do well! After the Festival, they'll be begging me to join the Hero Course."

"Don't get cocky, Rumi, humility never hurt anyone," Florence chided, though she was smirking slightly. "You sound just like your dad…"

Rumi froze. It had been exactly 28 days since her mom had last mentioned her dad so nonchalantly—time to reset the tally. It wasn't that they ignored him, per se, but more that it was easier to not talk about him, especially so carelessly. After the silence had trailed long enough, Rumi asked, "You're not worried, are you?"

Florence snorted. "I always worry—it's my nature."

"But you'll still watch, right?"

"Of course."

A comfortable silence fell over the two as they continued to eat. Once both of their plates and bowls had been cleared, they stood up and began to wash the dishes and wipe the table. As they did so, Rumi asked, "Where's Uncle Rob? I haven't seen him in a few days."

"Ack, you know him, Rumi, he runs on a different schedule than we do."

"Yeah, because we're just a couple of low-life's who could never understand his ways," Rumi joked, smiling to herself while rinsing their plates in the sink.

Florence hit her shoulder softly with the back of her hand. "Don't say that, Rumi," she said, turning to hide the slight grin on her face.

"What? Your brother's weird as hell, let's be honest with ourselves."

"Language!"

"I know! I speak two of them!" She hit her with the hand towel, and Rumi snorted under her breath.

While stepping into the den with her beer bottle in hand, Florence mumbled something along the lines of "oh my god" while taking a deep swig of the drink. Afterward, Rumi said her parting phrases and hid in her room, checking her plants and reading a chapter of a book before staying up on her phone and looking at memes until the early A.M. What else do you use weekends for? Sleep? Well, clearly not if you're here right now, just saying.