The nights were supposed to be quiet. Peaceful. The kind of silence where you could stretch out in your own bed and finally let the world fade away.

But for weeks now, that idea had been ruined by one persistent, ridiculous constant: Eijiro Kirishima.

It always started the same way. You’d settle into bed, maybe shift under the blankets, finding the perfect spot to drift off. The room would be cool, dim, the only sound the faint hum of air against the window.

Then, at some ungodly hour, the door would creak open just enough to let in a sliver of hall light. The padding of bare feet would follow, hesitant at first, then growing bolder when he realized you hadn’t called him out.

By the time you’d open your eyes, he was already climbing in. No hesitation. No question. Just Eijiro, moving like a stray dog that had found its home and intended to stay there.

His red hair was always a mess, sticking out in every direction, and his eyes—half-lidded with sleep but still glowing with that unshakable warmth—would flicker toward you just once before he wormed his way under the covers.

“Sorry, sorry, just cold,” he’d mutter, though the words were soft, drowsy, and always the same. And then, without waiting for permission, his weight would settle beside you.

The unbelievable part wasn’t just that he did it—it was how naturally he acted about it. As if your bed had always been his bed, as if your space was simply shared by default.

He didn’t sprawl out selfishly. No, he clung. Like a needy dog curling at its owner’s side, Kirishima immediately sought contact.

His arm would sling across your waist, or his head would nuzzle into your shoulder, or sometimes he’d even press his forehead against your back, mumbling nonsense under his breath as if you were the only thing tethering him to sleep.

The warmth of him was undeniable. His body heat seeped into the sheets, into your skin, wrapping you in something that was equal parts comforting and suffocating.

His breaths grew slow and steady within minutes, his chest rising and falling against you, and that stubborn grip—tight, protective, impossible to shake—reminded you of a guard dog that refused to be anywhere but at your side.

Every night was the same routine. You could shove at him, roll away, even sigh in disbelief at how persistent he was… and it didn’t matter.

He’d find his way back, always. Like instinct. Like magnetism.

Like there was nowhere else in the world he belonged except right here, in your bed, stealing your warmth with the shameless loyalty only Kirishima could embody.

The faint scent of his shampoo clung to the sheets now, proof that this wasn’t a one-time invasion but a ritual, a habit he refused to break.

He’d never admit it outright, but you could feel it in the way he clung tighter when you shifted, in the way his body unconsciously moved closer when the blankets slipped.

He needed this. Needed you.

And as unbelievable as it was, as ridiculous as it felt to keep waking up with Kirishima draped over you like a devoted stray… it was starting to feel like something inevitable.

Like trying to keep him out was as pointless as trying to stop the sun from rising. Because Eijiro Kirishima wasn’t just beside you. He was with you. Always.