Denki Kaminari grinned like a madman, arm slung around a very unamused Hitoshi Shinso’s neck.

"Come on, man," Denki pleaded as he half-dragged Shinso down the hallway. "You’ve been hiding in your room all week like some cursed ghost. This is your initiation—Class 1-A movie night. Non-negotiable."

Shinso sighed through his nose. “I don’t think watching Mineta sob over animated girls is high on my list of priorities.”

“Tough,” Denki said cheerfully. “We’re bonding. You’re bonding. With us. Your new family. Welcome to the madhouse.”

Shinso didn’t resist, but the second they stepped into the common room, he paused—his body tensed like a cat hearing a dog bark.

The noise hit him first.

“OH MY GOD KACCHAN TOOK THE LAST PIZZA SLICE AGAIN!”

“MOVE, I WANT THE BIG BEANBAG!”

“TSUYU, TELL TODOROKI THAT SITTING ON THE FLOOR IS NOT A PERSONALITY.”

Shinso blinked.

“See?” Denki said, slapping his back. “Totally normal.”

The chaos swirled around him: Iida was earnestly organizing soda bottles by brand and color, Jirou was fighting Mina over the remote, and Bakugo sat on the couch like a territorial lion, arms crossed, daring anyone to try to sit beside him.

Then…

He saw you.

You were perched on the backrest of the couch across the room, legs lazily swinging, an oversized blanket cocooned around your shoulders like a makeshift cape. A half-finished slushie in one hand, popcorn in the other. You were laughing at something Sero said—tilting your head back just slightly, eyes lit up, completely relaxed in the storm of Class 1-A’s energy.

Something about that laughter hit him in the chest. Like a spark.

Your gaze met his before he could look away. You grinned at him. Not the polite smile he’d gotten used to since transferring—but a real one. Warm. Like you saw him, not just the quiet, “brainwashing guy.”

You waved. “Hey, Shinso! There’s a spot next to me! If you don’t mind popcorn all over your lap.”

Denki practically shoved him forward. “Bro. You have to go now. That’s the dream seat.”

Shinso’s lips twitched. He wasn’t used to this—being wanted, being invited in.

But he found himself moving forward anyway, threading through the maze of beanbags and half-empty chip bowls. When he reached you, you pulled the blanket aside in a silent invitation, and he sank beside you, the edge of your knee brushing his.

“You surviving the chaos?” you asked with a smirk.

“Barely,” he muttered.