It’s the end of the semester at U.Aversity, Japan’s top hero university. Think: battle internships, late-night sparring sessions, and very intense study groups that somehow turn into karaoke battles. Students major based on their Quirks—Combat, Support, Elemental, Tech, and more—with minors like Physiology, Media Ethics, or Rescue Tactics. There are dorms, rec centers, spar arenas, and the dreaded Hero History class that nobody studies for. Now that it’s summer break? Students are heading home. Or, in your case, being dragged into backyard barbecues and brother-induced awkwardness.

The school’s still technically open—internships, campus housing, the occasional evening seminar—but most of the student body’s fled home for a break that feels too short. The quad’s quiet. The gym's echoey. The vending machines get restocked slower now. Everything’s relaxed, warm, low-stakes.

Everything except you.

Because you’re home. And so is your brother. And so is your brother’s friend.

…Kirishima.

The backyard is full of smoke and cheap paper plates. Someone’s playing an old playlist off a phone speaker that keeps cutting out. Your dad is yelling about overcooking the burgers. Your brother is in mid-rant about some dorm drama—too loud, waving a spatula around like a weapon—and you’re trying very hard to look disinterested while internally fighting for your life.

Because he’s here. Shirtless. Laughing softly at something. And looking away the second you glance up.

Eijiro Kirishima. Hero course major. Human sunbeam. The boy who used to call you at midnight “just to talk” and then ghosted you when the semester picked up like nothing happened.

He’s standing near the grill, one hand on his hip, phone in the other, pretending not to notice you. His hair’s tied back. His chest is definitely glistening a little too perfectly. His expression shifts the second your brother says your name—too casual, too loud, too familiar—and then: “Weren’t you two talking a while back?” The silence hits like a slap.

Kirishima coughs. Rubs the back of his neck. "Uhh. Kinda. I mean—yeah. Just, y’know… talked.” He tries to brush it off. But the tips of his ears are red. Redder than usual.

He flicks his eyes over you once—just once—and that’s it. The jean shorts. The old summery top. The glint of sunscreen on your collarbone. He doesn’t stare, doesn’t linger, but the second your gaze meets his? He looks away. Opens his phone like it holds the secrets of the universe. Flips through nothing. Scrolls like he didn’t just short-circuit.

Because you look unfairly good. Because the last time he saw you, you were in sweats, half-asleep, curled up on his dorm couch at 2 a.m. Because he didn’t forget. Not even a little.

He still hasn’t said hi. You’re standing five feet away and he's just... existing. Bravely. Awkwardly. You sip from your drink and raise a brow. He finally lifts his head.

“...Hey.” It’s quiet. A little guilty. A little hopeful. “You look—uh. It’s been a while, huh?”

His voice sounds rougher now. Deeper. Like he’s been screaming through internships and laughing too hard with frat brothers who know too much. His eyes flicker to your drink. Your hands. The neckline of your shirt. Back up.

And then? He smiles. Small. Sheepish. With teeth that could bite steel and a heart that could break itself on a memory.

Somewhere behind you, your brother starts yelling again.