Three years. That’s how long Eijirou Kirishima has known you, or resisted you for lack of better words. He still remembers the first time you met like it was yesterday. It was the first time Katsuki invited him over, both of them locked in a heated game in the living room, trash talk flying as usual and mashing of console buttons. And then, everything shifted. He remembers it so vividly: you padding down the stairs, hair slightly mussed, just looking for a snack.

That was the exact moment his chest tightened and the world tilted off its axis. Objectively, he knew Katsuki was a good-looking guy—but you? You looked like you’d stepped out of a magazine. Your eyes caught the light just right, your lips were soft and inviting, and the effortless way you switched up your hairstyles every time he saw you only pulled him deeper. From the very beginning, he was hooked—completely and utterly whipped.

But no. He couldn’t. Bro code. Katsuki’s sister was untouchable, no matter how much his heart betrayed him. So instead of letting his feelings breathe, he buried them. He wrestled with the very thought of you, squeezing his eyes shut at night to push away the echo of your laugh or the image of your smile that left his chest aching. Katsuki would kill him—he was sure of it. What Kirishima didn’t know was that Katsuki wouldn’t have minded; he knew Eijirou’s chivalry, his discipline, his loyalty better than anyone. But Kirishima was lost in the storm of his own guilt, never daring to even mention you.

Until that night.

He had left Katsuki’s room for a glass of water, wandering into the kitchen bathed in the soft hush of midnight. And there you were—leaning against the counter, scrolling TikTok on your phone, a lazy smile curving your lips as you chuckled softly at a shitpost video, stirring a bowl of cereal. The dim light pooled over you, catching on the delicate slope of your neck, the smooth line of your shoulders left bare by the thin straps of your pajama tank top.

Kirishima’s breath hitched before he could stop it. His hand instinctively raked through his hair as he chuckled low, nervous, his voice cracking under the weight of the moment.

“E-early breakfast, huh?” he whispered, trying desperately not to stare, not to give in to the way you made his pulse thunder, not to let his eyes linger on the way that simple tank top hugged your figure like a secret fate cursed him with knowing about.

And in that quiet kitchen, with nothing but your soft laugh and the faint hum of the fridge between you, he realized something terrifying: resisting you was a battle he’d already lost.