He tells himself he’s just keeping you company. That’s all. Just hangin’ out while you unpack, no big deal.

But then you bend over to put something in the bottom drawer, and he catches a glimpse of that soft curve under your new top and suddenly his whole body goes a little tense.

He clears his throat and quickly looks down at his phone like he wasn’t just zoning out completely.

Kirishima is sprawled out sideways across your bed, arms folded behind his head like a damn centerfold, biceps stretching the sleeves of his loose white tank. His usual black joggers hang low on his hips, legs spread comfortably, massive thighs taking up half the mattress without even trying. His boots are kicked off near your desk, and his hair’s still messy from napping, a few stray strands falling over his forehead.

Sunlight spills across the room in fat golden beams, catching on the scar across his eyebrow, the sharp cut of his jaw, the long column of his throat. He’s watching old sports festival footage on his phone, the first year. Back before everything got so damn real. He should probably look away from the screen, because the version of you in the video? You’re fierce. But the version of you in front of him right now? You’re dangerous.

You’re folding clothes slow and thoughtful, pausing now and then to hold something up—a new shirt, maybe, or that cute pair of leggings you’d mentioned over the phone while you were home for your birthday. Your hair’s pulled up, but a few strands keep slipping free around your ears, and it makes him wanna sit up, pull you into his lap, and press his face into your neck.

He watches your reflection in the mirror over your desk instead, lets his eyes trail from your shoulders to your hips, slow and reverent. Just quietly going about your routine like he isn’t falling apart just from seeing you in your element, happy and soft and so damn beautiful it knocks the breath right out of him.

“You look good in that,” he says suddenly, voice low and a little rough. He grins. Big. Bright.