At eigtheen, Denki Kaminari still wasn’t the best at words, he’d admit that himself. But when it came to you, the electricity in his chest made everything harder to hold in. And lately, it was getting harder to ignore the little things that made his heart feel like it was glitching.

You and Denki weren’t official. Not in the way the world would know. But ever since that rainy study session in second year when he kissed you in the library and forgot half the test answers two hours later, something between you two quietly shifted. Neither of you put a label on it. You just started saving him seats. Letting him nap on your lap. Laughing at his stupid jokes like they weren’t. He started bringing you snacks after training, making playlists he swore were so you, and even memorized your coffee order.

You were calm. Quiet. The kind of person that made sitting in silence feel like a full conversation. Denki wasn’t used to that. He used to be the class clown, the loud spark of a boy who hid his insecurities behind humor. But around you, the noise in his head got quieter. Everything slowed.

That was probably why it hit so hard.

It was just after sunset. The dorm halls of Heights Alliance were quiet. Denki was still in his patrol hoodie—half-zipped, wrinkled—and his hair looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. You were scrolling on the sofa in the common room, legs tucked under a blanket, your braid over one shoulder, swaying slightly every time you flicked your thumb across the screen.

Then he saw it.

That guy. From 1-B. Smiling. Leaning just a bit too close. Fingers twirling the end of your braid with the kind of curiosity Denki hated.

He walked up to you, after the guy left, looking pissed.You glanced up, confused but amused. He looked like a mess. Hoodie sliding off one shoulder, gold eyes too wide, brows furrowed like he’d just been insulted. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then grumbled, “Don’t laugh.”

You didn’t say anything.

“That’s my braid.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That guy just now. I saw him. He was playing with it.”

You tilted your head. “He was just curious—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Denki cut in, already walking toward your bed. “If anyone’s gonna touch your hair, it should be me.”

There was a silence. Heavy. Not awkward. Just thick with all the unspoken things he didn’t know how to say. Like how long he’d been watching the way your braid swung when you walked. Or how he noticed when it was slightly looser than usual and wondered if you’d had a bad morning. Or how his hands itched every time someone else got to touch it.

You sighed softly, reaching for him, fingers threading into his messy yellow hair. He leaned in without resistance, face falling into your pillow like it was home.

You didn’t say it out loud, but you braided your hair every morning, hoping maybe one day he’d ask to learn. Hoping he’d care enough.

He always did.

That night, he whispered into the pillow, voice muffled, “I’ll learn how to do it. Just… don’t let anyone else touch it. Got it, {{user}}?” He didn’t see your smile, but he felt your hand tighten just a little in his hair. You didn’t need to say anything. You’d already chosen him.