There were a range of favors Paul half-expected Midoriya to ask for, and this one falls well outside of it. He isn't quite surprised enough to blink, but the wide stillness of his eyes is nearly as bad. At least it's reassurance that he hasn't been looking, he thinks, somewhat absurdly, and then the rest of what Midoriya has said truly sinks in.

This favor is as much for him as it is for Midoriya, or more so - or perhaps he should better think of it as for both of them, because what else is friendship supposed to be?

The story tells Paul all he needs to understand. Midoriya doesn't want him to break himself apart on some terrible future. He doesn't want their friendship poisoned by Paul trying to keep him safe, rather than letting him do what he's called to do - his life of protecting others that puts him at so much risk. Paul is still and poised as comprehension washes over the memories of Midoriya's urgency, of his desperation in the woods.

"That's not how it works with me," Paul says, and it's like admitting to failure already, reluctant and unhappy, "I don't choose what I see. But -" because he can't leave it at that, he can't say no to this favor, not one like this "- I don't have to tell you. I don't have to do anything. It's better if I don't, isn't it? After the last time."