The door clicked shut behind him, quiet but final. Kirishima stepped inside, slow and heavy-footed. His hoodie was streaked with dirt, one sleeve torn, and there was a faint bruise blooming along his jaw. He didn’t look like he’d just come from work—he looked like he’d been through hell.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard through his nose as he toed off his boots.

“You wouldn’t believe the night I just had,” he muttered, voice rough and low.

He spotted you on the couch, still in your spot, book in hand. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly—tired, but glad to see you.

“Hey,” he said, softer now. “Sorry I’m late, honey.”