You didn’t cry when the rejection email came.

You sat there on your porch, phone in hand, eyes scanning the words over and over. “We regret to inform you…” That stupid, corporate coldness. You’d worked hard for that summer job. Interned. Prepped. Believed in yourself just enough to hope. And they hadn’t even spelled your name right in the email.

“Cheer up, {{user}}!” Mina sang beside you, swinging her legs and squinting up at the sun like it didn’t just ruin your week. “You’ll find something else, alright?”You gave her a muted nod, face turned away. You hated how tight your throat felt. Mina meant well. She always did. But words like "something else" didn’t make the ache go away.

Then you heard it. A low purr of an engine pulling up to the curb. The kind of sound too smooth for the busted-up road in front of your house.

A familiar, obnoxiously bright yellow car rolled to a stop.

Mina groaned under her breath. “Oh god.”

And out stepped Denki Kaminari.

He looked like trouble. Or, at least, like he was trying to look like it—lazy grin, sunglasses pushed into blond hair, that old leather jacket he definitely didn’t need in the heat.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, voice laced with smug charm. “Looking good, I see.”

“What do you want, Denki?” Mina asked, already suspicious.

He shrugged, walking around the front of the car. “Nothing serious. Just thought maybe {{user}} was up for a drive.” He tried to lean casually against his car door—one arm slung back, the perfect picture of cool—Except his elbow slipped.

His skull hit the window with a clunk that echoed down the street.

“FUCKIN—”

You burst out laughing. Uncontrollably. Loud and raw and real, and you hadn’t laughed like that in weeks. Denki froze mid-cursing, blinked, and then smiled, warm and quiet like it was the only thing he’d come for.

You didn’t know when it started—this thing with Denki. You used to think he was just another flirty idiot, a human power socket who coasted on looks and charm and never took anything seriously.

But somewhere between the pranks, late-night ramen runs, and the time he stayed up with you while you cried over your final project, things shifted.

He'd changed. Or maybe you had.

Because the truth was, Denki used to hide behind his jokes. Behind his smile. It was safer to be the clown than the guy who cared too much and got ignored. He’d been overlooked—first at U.A., then during hero placements, then in the media. A walking joke with a power nobody respected.

Until he didn’t want to be that guy anymore.

Until he proved everyone wrong.

And somewhere in the middle of his slow rise, he kept showing up—for you.

Not in grand ways. Just consistently.

He never asked for much. Never made things complicated. Just let you be sad when you were, happy when you could be, and always made sure you had someone to lean on—even if he had to shock himself stupid to get a laugh.

You wiped your eyes, smile lingering as you stood. “Alright, Pikachu. Where are we going?”

He grinned. “Wherever you want. Just… away.”

And maybe that’s what you needed. Not a fix. Not advice. Just someone to say, I see you.

As the car door closed beside you and the engine hummed back to life, you glanced at him—elbow out the window, sunglasses on, the faintest pink mark forming where he’d hit his head.