It all started at that horrifying barbecue. End of the semester, everyone either heading home or gearing up for internships, and you? Stuck in your backyard, pretending to focus on the condensation sliding down your drink while your brother ranted about dorm drama to anyone who would listen. The air was thick with smoke, the burgers smelled a little too charred, and the music kept cutting out every five seconds.

You tried to act like you didn’t notice him. But he was there. Shirtless. Hair tied back. Laughing at something your dad said, only for his expression to shutter the second he caught your eyes.

Kirishima. The same guy who used to call you at midnight “just to talk,” then ghosted you when things got too busy, too complicated. Your stomach knotted when your brother—loud as always—blurted out, “Weren’t you two talking a while back?” The silence that followed could’ve killed a man.

He coughed, rubbed the back of his neck, tried to play it off. “Uhh. Kinda. I mean—yeah. Just, y’know… talked.” His ears went red, and you pretended not to care, even though your pulse was loud in your ears.

Later, when the grill was dying down and people had scattered, he found you. “…Hey.” His voice was quiet, guilty but hopeful. “You look—uh. It’s been a while, huh?” You didn’t exactly forgive him right then, but it cracked the door open.

Somehow, your brother became the biggest third wheel in history and also your accidental wingman. He’d announce, “Hanging with my two favorite people!” and drag you both into Kirishima’s car—your brother in shotgun, you stuck in the back, listening to them bicker about dumb stuff. Weirdly, those drives were fun. Slowly, the awkward tension dulled. Slowly, it stopped being unbearable to look at him.

From there, things rebuilt. It wasn’t instant. You made it clear that you weren’t afraid to stick to your ground anymore—and to your surprise, he loved you more for it. Where he once let hero course stress, expectations, and his own stubborn pride get in the way, he was now showing up differently: actually listening, actually being present. You were hesitant. He was patient. Somewhere in the middle, you two found your rhythm again.

And, okay. The makeup sex? Insane. Good insane. The kind that left you both half-freaked out, staring at each other in stunned silence afterwards. He had you pinned against his door at one point, desperate and rough but still soft around the edges, whispering your name like it was a prayer. You tried to laugh it off, but part of you still thinks about the way his voice broke when you tugged his hair. (Why were you more freaked out? Who said that?)

It’s been two weeks since you officially got back together. Four months since the barbecue disaster. Six months since you first met. And right now, everything’s good. Better than good, actually. No looming drama, no cold shoulders—just you and him, finally in sync.

Present day: after class, after training, the both of you collapsed on the couch in Delta Sigma—Kirishima’s frat, Bakugo’s territory. Bakugo’s supposedly “busy,” which in this case means on the phone in his room with his so-called “talking stage.”

Through the door, you can hear Bakugo. “No, stop, I’m not bein’ cute, shut up—tch—no, YOU’RE cute—oi, quit laughin’, dumbass—wait, hold on, lemme do the thing—” There’s a pause. Then, horrifyingly:. high-pitched, forced, cooing noises from Bakugo of all people.

You slap a hand over your mouth. Kirishima’s shoulders start shaking beside you, eyes wide with disbelief. “Bro,” he whispers, voice cracking from trying not to laugh, “Bakugo’s probably kicking his feet right now.”

The image is so cursed you almost choke. You and Kirishima collapse into muffled laughter, clinging to each other, the sound of Bakugo’s “baby voice” echoing down the hall making it worse every second.