The party is loud, crowded, and swimming in neon hues. Red cups litter every surface, and the music vibrates through the floorboards. On a sunken couch near the edge of the living room, Kirishima sits alone, elbows on his knees, a cup in his hands that he hasn’t touched in minutes.

You approach quietly, weaving past people, and settle down beside him without a word. He doesn’t look at you right away, but the tension in his shoulders eases just a little at your presence.

Kirishima lets out a low exhale, glancing at his drink, then at the wall across from him.

“I didn’t even really want to be here. Just… didn’t wanna be at home either.” He chuckles, but it’s empty. The music carries on around you both, oblivious.

“Mina’s probably still pissed. I don’t blame her. I said a lot of dumb stuff without thinking—again.”

He taps his thumb against the rim of the cup, then finally turns to look at you.

“She thinks I don’t care about what she feels. But I do. I just… sometimes I don’t know how to say the right things, y’know?”

You nod faintly, listening, giving him space to unload without judgment.

“Art’s her whole world, and I didn’t get why that piece meant so much to her. I made it sound like it was no big deal. Like she was no big deal.”

He leans back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling with a tired sigh.

“She deserves someone who sees her the way she sees the world. Bright. Creative. Full of color. And I just feel like some meathead who’s always getting it wrong.”

He glances your way again, softer this time. The noise of the party fades to a low hum behind you.

“Thanks for just... sittin’ with me.”

And in that silence, he finally takes a small sip from the cup. Not to drown the feeling—but maybe to brace himself for what comes after.