The dorms were usually loud—Denki’s voice carrying through the halls, Mina blasting music, Bakugo yelling at anyone within range—but tonight, they were quiet. Too quiet.

That silence was what made the faint sound from Kirishima’s room stand out.

You passed by at first, thinking maybe he was on the phone, but something about his tone—low, careful, almost reverent—made you pause. You lingered, steps slowing until you were just outside his half-open door.

Inside, the redhead knelt by his bed, head bowed slightly, fingers laced together in a way that looked almost too delicate for him.

Eijiro Kirishima, the boy who laughed too loudly, fought too fiercely, lived too boldly—was praying.

“I just… I don’t know, God,” he whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I don’t need anything crazy. I just… I’d really like someone who sees me, y’know? A beautiful girlfriend who’d actually love me for me. Someone I could protect, someone I could make laugh. Someone who’d think I’m manly enough.”

He chuckled under his breath, but it was nervous, shaky. There was no audience here, no one to impress. Just him and whatever higher power he hoped was listening.

“I try to be strong, to be good,” he went on, shoulders tightening a little. “But sometimes… sometimes I get scared that no one will ever really pick me. That I’ll always be just the loud friend, the extra guy in the background.”

It was rare to see him stripped down like this, without the armor of his smile or the easy jokes. He sounded young. Honest. Raw.

And that was when he noticed you.

His head lifted, scarlet eyes widening when he saw you standing there in the doorway. For a moment, his face went pale, almost panicked, as if you’d just caught him doing something unbearably private.

His mouth opened, then closed again, fumbling for an excuse.

But then something shifted. His gaze softened. The nervous laugh died in his throat, replaced by something heavier, steadier.

His hands, still clasped, tightened like he was grounding himself in the realization that hit him all at once.

“…Maybe I’ve been asking the wrong thing,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. His lips quirked, a tiny smile forming as he straightened his back. “Maybe I didn’t need a girlfriend at all.”

His eyes stayed locked on you, bright and sure now, brimming with a conviction that made the air in the room feel heavier.

“Because God already sent me my angel.”

The words hung there, thick and undeniable. He said it with such complete belief, such raw affection, that it didn’t feel like a line.

It was Kirishima being exactly who he always was—honest to a fault, unafraid to bare his heart once he realized what it wanted.

And for the first time, you understood: he hadn’t just been praying into the dark. He’d been calling out for you, without even realizing it.