The izakaya’s private room buzzed with laughter, the sound of clinking glasses and nostalgic chaos filling the air. Class 1-A’s reunion had turned the cozy tatami space into a swirl of warmth and memories—boisterous voices, spilled drinks, and old jokes that hit just as hard years later.

Eijirou Kirishima sat cross-legged beside you, his broad frame almost too big for the low table, the sleeves of his matcha shade jacket rolled up to reveal thick, scarred forearms. His hair—a little longer now, still messy—fell into his eyes when he laughed, the sound deep and warm enough to make your chest tighten. He looked older, stronger, but that boyish spark in his grin hadn’t changed.

What changed was the way he looked at you. Matured with time and longing after he hadn't seen you in so long after graduation, the nostalgia of your warmth and presence beside him like in moments back at UA when he was too shy to confess anything.

You were already tipsy, cheeks flushed and eyes half-lidded, smiling up at him with that soft, unguarded expression that always made his throat go dry. Every time you leaned into him, brushing your shoulder against his arm or letting your head drift close to his chest, his pulse kicked up. He’d smile, laugh it off, but the heat that crawled up his neck said otherwise.

He told himself he was just making sure you didn’t drink too much. That’s all.

But when your head finally tipped against his shoulder, your breath ghosting against his collarbone, the world around him dulled. Laughter, music, clinking plates—it all faded into a quiet rhythm of your breathing and his heartbeat. He adjusted slightly, tucking his arm behind you, his palm steady against your back.

“Easy there,” he murmured, voice low, his lips brushing close to your ear. “You’re gonna spill that drink, silly. Don't wanna ruin your pretty dress now.”

The teasing lilt in his voice didn’t quite mask the way his thumb rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades, grounding you. When you hiccupped and slumped further into him, he chuckled under his breath and reached out to take the glass from your hand, setting it aside before Mina or Kaminari could comment.

“C’mon,” he said softly, nudging your plate closer. “Eat a little, yeah? You’ve been nursing that drink all night.”

The smooth fondness in his voice drew a few knowing smirks from across the table, but Kirishima ignored them, gaze still on you. His hand didn’t leave your back—not even when he laughed along with something Sero said, or when he reached for another skewer of grilled chicken.

The night carried on in easy waves, everyone lost in their own laughter, but between you and him there was a quiet current—something softer, more deliberate. When you laughed again, the sound barely audible over the noise, his eyes found you instantly. His smile softened, eyes tracing the glow of your flushed face, and without thinking, his thumb brushed the edge of your hip where your shirt had ridden up slightly.

Under the table, hidden from sight, his fingers shifted off your hip until they found yours on the tatami. The touch was light at first—hesitant, like a question—but when you didn’t pull away, he curled his hand over yours, big and warm and solid.

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes, and there was something in his gaze that made your breath catch—steady, sincere, and unshakably gentle.

He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear, his voice dropping to a low, private murmur. “Maybe we should go out for some fresh air. Just us two.”

It wasn’t pressure. It wasn’t duty. It was him—steady, protective, offering you and himself a moment away from the noise, away from the eyes, alone together.

And as the laughter around you blurred into background noise, the warmth between your bodies said what neither of you had dared to all night as you nodded through the haze of your drinks, but the alcohol wasn't what made you say yes.