“Still think red’s your color,” Aizawa muttered into your neck.

You sat perched on his kitchen counter, legs lazily wrapped around his waist, one of his sleeves bunched in your fist as you smiled into his hair.

“It’s lip tint, not blood,” you mumbled back. “Don’t sound so grim about it.”

He grunted.

Your fingers ghosted down his jaw to the faint stain at his throat. You’d left it there on purpose. You always did.

He hadn’t complained yet.

The apartment smelled faintly of coffee, laundry, and the subtle cologne he only wore when you were over. The TV in the other room buzzed low with some late-night documentary he’d forgotten to mute. Outside the windows, the city blurred in soft oranges and blues.

It had been a long day. A longer week.

So he’d brought you here. Like always.

It had started as quiet companionship—coffee on his fire escape, exchanging case notes, letting your knees brush under his kotatsu table.

But somewhere between “thanks for coming over” and “you can stay if you want,” you’d ended up in his lap.

Now, months later, you were trying to hide the smile in your throat when he dragged his thumb lazily over your wrist, like he always did when he didn’t want to let go yet.

“You ever going to tell them?” you murmured.

“No.”

“You’re literally wearing me on your neck.”

“It’s not a hickey,” he deadpanned.

“Could be.”

“I don’t give people hickeys.”

You rolled your eyes. “Liar.”

The door opened.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

“…Shouta?” came Nemuri’s voice. “We brought—oh.”

You froze.

Hizashi’s voice followed, loud and immediate. “Ohhh, no way. No. No way.”

Aizawa didn’t even blink.

You, on the other hand, scrambled down from the counter, smoothing your shirt with the panic of a kid caught stealing candy.

Nemuri was staring. At you. At him. At the proximity. At his neck.

“Is that—” she pointed, horrified. “Is that lip tint?!”

“She’s wearing the same shade!” Hizashi gasped. “Oh my god, is this why you bailed on movie night?!”

You winced. “I… didn’t know anyone was coming over.”

“Clearly,” Nemuri muttered. “God, you two were the worst at flirting in high school. I should’ve seen this coming.”

“We weren’t flirting in high school,” you said quickly.

“Speak for yourself,” Aizawa muttered behind you.

Hizashi almost choked.

“YOU WERE INTO HER IN SCHOOL?!”

“You can leave now,” Aizawa said calmly, walking past them toward the sink like nothing had happened.

Nemuri followed, wild-eyed. “How long?!”

“Four months,” you answered reluctantly.

Hizashi looked betrayed. “You didn’t even hint! Not a single suspicious bruise! No badly hidden scarf burns! No excessive texting during meetings!”

“I don’t do hickeys,” Aizawa said again.

“You do now,” Nemuri fired back, pointing at the red stain just under his jaw.

You swiped your thumb across the mark and held it up to show him. “Confirmed.”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose and walked into the living room.

Hizashi turned to you with a grin. “So. You two kiss in the kitchen often or was tonight special?”

“Special,” you muttered, already regretting everything.

Nemuri grabbed the takeout bag from the counter and shoved it into your hands. “Well, congratulations. You made him tolerable.”

You blinked. “Wait—was that approval?”

“It’s pity,” she said, smirking. “You’re dating Aizawa.”

Fair enough.

You fell for your best friend. And somehow… that was the easiest thing in the world.