The gym hums around you—the metallic clang of weights, faint chatter from other gym-goers, the occasional squeak of sneakers against the floor—all blending into a rhythm that feels almost like background music.

Beneath you, Kirishima grits his teeth, every muscle in his arms and back flexing as he powers through push-ups. You’re perched casually on his broad shoulders, sitting cross-legged on his back as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your smoothie rests in one hand, the other scrolling lazily through your phone, completely unbothered by the effort he’s putting in.

“Mm, you’re really milking this, huh?” he grunts, voice rough with exertion but threaded with that familiar warmth. A bead of sweat drips down his temple, and you can feel the subtle shift of his muscles beneath you as he strains upward again, just to make a point. You can’t help the small smirk tugging at your lips, enjoying the way he’s both trying to keep his composure and subtly teasing you back with every push.