"Midoriya,"

kirishima says. A thump follows his words, something hitting the underside of the counter and causing the register to shake. You hear a groan and then someone stands up from somewhere out of view, rubbing at the back of his head. His face scrunched up in pain. The boy looks your age, with green hair almost hazeled under the warm lights, shadows of black throughout its curls and mess. Freckles dot freely across his nose and cheeks, down his neck and under his collar (probably to continue across his shoulders and back).

He squints one of his eyes open and then both of them widen. He shuffles frantically to take the earbuds out of his ears, letting them hang around his neck and off his shoulders, over the large brown and burnt orange sweater he's sporting. He looks soft- warm. Then he smiles, and the joy on his face looks so natural.

“Kirishima!”

The boy ruffles a hand through his hair, probably trying to tame it from the small blunder they witnessed. He leans a hip against the counter, his hands folding together and tugging at his fingers in front of him.

“Whos this? Can i get you guys anything?”

he questions. His eyes are the same color green as his hair, without the darkened parts. They're large, taking over a respectful portion of his face. His eyes travel to you for a second and he watches curiously as you breathed in sharply, giving you a glance once-over, before finally returning to his companion.