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You’ve always been good at pretending.
Pretending your chest doesn’t ache whenever you hear his laugh echo across a crowded room. Pretending you don’t instinctively scan for the flash of red hair the moment you walk into a place you know he might be. Pretending you don’t still remember the feel of his tiny fingers holding yours when you were six, tangled together in a way that felt like fate before either of you even knew what the word meant.
Back then, he used to tell you everything.
His dreams, his worries, which cartoon heroes he wanted to be like. He’d sit on the curb outside your house, legs swinging, eyes bright, and you’d listen to every ramble like it was sacred scripture.
He grew up, but he never really changed.You, on the other hand, learned how to hide things.
You learned how to smile through heartache.
How to support someone you love without ever letting it show.
How to love quietly. Completely. Hopelessly.
And tonight, you’re doing it again.
His birthday party is loud — music, laughter, people brushing past you. He’s across the room, talking animatedly with friends from college, shoulders broad, smile warm, presence so big the whole space bends around him. He looks good. He always looks good. Not because he tries, but because he exists.
You shouldn’t watch him like this.
You know you shouldn’t.
But you do.
His head tilts back when he laughs, throat exposed, eyes scrunching the way they always have. You’ve memorized that look. You’ve memorized all his looks.
Then he scans the crowd and—like he always has—he finds you.
Your lungs stop working for a beat.
His smile softens. Not the big, toothy one he gives everyone else. No—this one is smaller. Quieter. Just for you. Something warm rushes through your ribs, blooming like a bruise.
You force yourself to look away first.
It’s stupid, how much he still affects you. You’re adults now. You’re supposed to be over childish crushes. You’ve told yourself for years that you’d move on, and yet, you never did.
A sudden warmth touches your arm.
“Hey,” a familiar voice says, gentle and unbearably fond. “Was wondering where you disappeared to.”
Kirishima stands beside you, towering a bit, smelling faintly of citrus and something earthy you’ve never been able to name. His eyes search yours, concerned but soft. That softness is what ruins you every time.
“You okay?” he asks. “You look, I dunno. Far away.”
“I’m fine,” you lie, like you always do around him. “Just needed some air.”
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, it’s kinda noisy. Thought maybe you bailed ’cause you were bored.”
You shake your head. “I wouldn’t leave without telling you.”
Something flickers across his face—something you can’t read fast enough before he looks away.
“You’ve always been like that,” he murmurs. “Always… there.”
Your heart clenches.
He doesn’t mean it the way you want him to. He never has. Because he doesn’t know what “there” means for you.
He doesn’t know that you’ve been standing in his orbit for decades.
That every milestone of his life is carved into your heart as if you lived it too.
He doesn’t know that you loved him the moment he held your hand on that curb as a kid. And that some part of you never stopped.
You open your mouth—maybe to tell him, maybe just to breathe—but the words dissolve, fragile and traitorous.
He steps a little closer.
You swallow. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
You could lie. You could say work, Miso, your cat, the weather, anything. But the truth pushes up your throat like it’s been waiting years.
“You,” you almost say — but you bite it back until it tastes like blood and regret. Instead, you say, “Nothing important.”
His brows lift. He studies you with those warm, bright eyes. For a heartbeat, you think he sees straight through you — sees the years you’ve spent loving him silently, faithfully, hopelessly.
But Kirishima just smiles, gentle as rain.
“Whatever it is,” he says, tapping your forehead lightly, “I hope it’s good.”
It is. It’s him. It’s always him.
So he stands there with you, shoulder brushing yours, looking out at the noisy room like it’s an entirely different world. A world where he doesn’t know he holds your heart without even trying.
He sighs softly, more content than he realizes, and says, “I’m really glad you’re here.”
And you, heart full, breaking, overflowing, tell the truth in the quietest voice you say, “I always am.”
Because you always have been. Because you always will be. Because some loves start in childhood, burn slow, and never really stop.
And because even if he never knows it—you loved him then, and you love him now.
The moment is interrupted by the squeaking of shoes and someone slapping their hands on the table. “911!” Denki, all but yells. “We’ve got to go!”
Both you and Kirishima open your mouth to question when Mina runs to Denki’s side. “We’re leaving now! Come on!”
You realize, they’re not looking at Kirishima, but at you. “What’s going on?” you asks, already grabbing your jacket.
”The weird guy you went out with a couple weeks ago,” Mina starts. You don’t notice Kirishima snap his attention to you. “He’s here. So that means you shouldn’t be.”
You sigh. “That’s it? I thought maybe Denki hit on some guy’s wife and was about to get beat up or something.” Sliding your jacket back off, you wave Mina off. “It’s not a big deal and it’s Kirishima’s birthday party. I don’t want to leave just to avoid an awkward greeting.”
You look at Kirishima then, meeting his eyes immediately. “When’d you go on a date?” he asks. Mina and Denki slink away quietly.
”A guy asked me out, maybe two weeks ago, I went, ate. Then, he got kind of pushy when we were leaving the restaurant so I never followed up.” You notice his eyes lingering on every male he doesn’t know at the bar. “He’s the one in the dark gray shirt—No, not that one—with the black jacket on the back of the chair.”
Kirishima stares at the guy you never called back. “I could take him,” he mumbles. “Let me know if he tries anything tonight—you’re with me if he does.”
He grins. Your heart stops. You’re with me. You nod, soundlessly—honestly if you tried to speak, it’d probably sound like you’re being strangled. Kirishima pats your shoulder and leaves to mingle with others. Your friend looks over his shoulder with a fleeting glance before he finds someone.
Friends. God, the two of have been friends for so long now. You remember meeting on the first day of first grade, hiding behind your mother’s skirt. You remember when he lost his first tooth and bought himself and you a snack with the tooth fairy money. But friends don’t get this nervous with the simplest contact. Friends don’t overthinking a fleeting moment of eye contact. You remember being sixteen and your high school friends teasing because they couldn’t believe a guy and a girl could be just friends. You remember Kirishima stepping in, every time, and making it clear that’s all the two of you are—just friends.
And that memory digs into you now, sharper than it should.
You’re halfway through pretending to be interested in a tray of slightly stale pretzels when you feel it—eyes on you.
Not the bad kind. Not the pushy date kind.
The Kirishima kind.
It’s a weight you’ve felt your entire life, warm and grounding, like a hand between your shoulder blades that says hey, I’ve got you. You lift your head and find him across the room, mid‑conversation with Sero, nodding politely—but his eyes are on you.
You’ve gotten good at hiding and the temptation for an Irish goodbye is heavy, but he keeps you rooted to the floor. You give him a small smile and pull out your phone when it vibrates in your pocket.
One message is from Mina, asking if you’re ready to leave. You swear she has a bug in your head, listening to every thought you have. And the other message is from a number you never even saved. The guy in the gray shirt is turned around, his eyes looking you up and down.
You never called. The text says simply. You keep eye contact with him as you lock your phone and slide it back in your pocket. He scoffs and turns back to who you assume are his friends. The date wasn’t bad. Truly. Mina had convinced you to go. He opened the door for you, pulled out your chair, paid for dinner—everything a guy is supposed to do. Even the conversation was good. Yes, you kissed him goodnight—just the smallest peck. There weren’t butterflies erupting or anything like it, but a part of you wonders if you could’ve liked him.
That thought faded immediately when he tried to convince to go back to his place—throwing a tantrum when you said no.
Your watch suddenly beeps, the alarm you set telling you it’s time to go home bringing you back to earth. You steal a few more pretzels from the tray and find Mina. “I’m gonna head out,” you tell her. She’s sat two seats down from your creepy date.
Pouting, she says, “You can’t stay any later.” Her pout intensifies when you shake your head.
”I have work in the morning, and I need to feed Miso.” Your eyes trail over the crowd. “Will you tell Kirishima I said bye? I don’t want to interrupt his fun.”
”He definitely would not care if you did.” Mina holds your bag as you slide your arms into your jacket. “I’ll walk you to home,” she offers.
You shake your head. “No, I’ll be okay. You stay and have fun. I’ll text you when I make it.”
Your home is only a short walk from the bar. You’ll be home in fifteen minutes max. The crisp autumn air welcomes you when you step outside. The city is still alive. Families walking together, couples holding hands. Some businesses have Halloween decorations on their windows and doors—you watch a little girl led by her father’s hand inspect some fake bats entangled in a fake spider web. Your thoughts wonder to your own parents. You should probably call them—it’s been almost a week since you’ve last spoke.
The sound of someone calling your name stops you. “Hey,” your date from a couple weeks ago asks, slightly out of breath. Nakamura’s not a bad looking guy. His dark hair’s tousled from the breeze. “Did I do something wrong the other night?”
You sigh, clenching your hands in your pockets.
”I thought our date went pretty well,” he says.
”The date did. The goodbye—not so much.”
His eyebrows scrunch together. When you accepted Nakamura’s invitation to dinner, he smiled and you noticed his snaggle tooth—it was so cute. “I got a little excited after we kissed,” he admits. “I’m sorry for how I acted.”
”It’s fine, but it did put me off.”
He nods. “Understood. Do you think I could make it up to you?”
“I appreciate the apology, but I don’t think—Kirishima?” you cut yourself off. Nakamura looks at your confused until a red head comes up to your side.
”Mina said you left,” Kirishima says. Eyes on you, he doesn’t seem to realize Nakamura standing there. “Luckily, you didn’t get too far. I’ll walk you home.”
A beat of silence and a blush crawling up your neck to your ears. Kirishima notices the other man standing in front of you. “Am I interrupting—“
”I was asking her out—“
”No, we’re done—“
Kirishima looks between the two of you at the simultaneous replies. Your face gets more red. Nakamura sighs, says he’ll text you, and walks away.
The silence drapes over the two of you, heavy. You keep sending glances to Kirishima, but he doesn’t notice. His eyebrows are furrowed and his lips are pulled tight. The lights cast shadows over his face and he suddenly stops in his tracks and turns toward you.
“Why’d you say no?” he blurts.
You blink. “To what?”
“To him.” He gestures vaguely in the direction the guy walked off. “You’ve been trying to date more lately, right?”
“You think I should’ve said yes?” you ask, tone neutral but not cold.
“What? No! I—” He rubs the back of his neck, ears starting to burn. “I just meant, I’m curious. That’s all.”
You shrug. “I didn’t feel a spark.”
“Oh.” Kirishima’s chest warms again, uncomfortable and relieved all at once. “Yeah. Yeah, sparks are important.”
He says it too firmly, like he’s trying to convince himself. Because why did his stomach twist like that when the guy asked you out? Why did he want to shove himself between you and the stranger? Why did hearing you say no feel like someone untied the knot in his lungs?
You’re his best friend. That’s all. Just his best friend since childhood. Someone he cares about. Someone he wants safe. Someone he wants around. Someone he—
He cuts his own thoughts off, shoving them down like they’re too loud. Too real. And he hates that he doesn’t know why. Something unfamiliar stirs in his chest. Something he’s trained his whole life to ignore. Something he’s never had to name before.
Your apartment isn’t far. Just twelve minutes if you’re strolling, ten if you’re cold, and eight if you’re late for work. You’ve timed it—multiple times—because that’s what data analysts do. Everything becomes a pattern. A set of variables. Something measurable.
Except him.
Kirishima walks next to you, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders brushing yours every other step. He’s quiet tonight. Not the comfortable quiet he slips into sometimes, but something weighted. Something he’s trying to sort through.
You don’t ask.
You’re good at letting him come to his own conclusions. Better, maybe, than you are at letting yourself come to yours.
“So,” he says abruptly, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk, “your cat still trying to kill you?”
You snort. “Miso doesn’t try to kill me.”
“He knocked a glass of water on your face while you were asleep.”
“That’s just sabotage, not murder.”
Kirishima grins, and you feel it—like sunlight cracking through cloud cover. Like something loosening inside your chest that you didn’t know had tightened.
You’ve always been embarrassingly susceptible to his smile.
You shouldn’t be. You’re in your mid-twenties, you have a degree, a job that demanded way more statistical modeling than your parents thought was healthy, a cat who chirps at you like he’s proud every time you fold your laundry.
You’re an adult.
You shouldn’t still be in love with your childhood best friend. But here you are.
You’re close to your building when Kirishima slows. Not stops—just slows enough that you notice.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asks softly. And it’s not about the creepy date anymore. Not about the guy at the bar. Not about the walk home.
It’s about earlier.
About the way you’d looked at him. Or the way he’d looked at you. Or both.
“I’m fine,” you say, because you always do.
He looks unconvinced. Of course he does. He’s known you your entire life. He can read you with the same ease you read spreadsheets.
“Hey,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder gently. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Something inside you twists.
Pretend. God. If only he knew how much pretending you’ve done.
You stop in front of your building. The porch light flickers—it’s always flickering—and Miso is sitting in the window, tiny face squished against the glass like he’s been waiting for hours.
“See?” you say, pointing. “He missed me.”
“He missed food,” Kirishima replies, snorting.
You laugh, and the sound catches him off guard—he watches you for half a second too long, something warm in his eyes, something soft, something you try very hard not to name.
You unlock your door, and he stands there awkwardly, like he wants to say something but can’t quite figure out what.
“Thanks for walking me home,” you say gently. “I really mean it.”
He shrugs, looking everywhere except at you. “Yeah. Of course. I just—y’know. Wanted to.”
“I know.”
And you do. You’ve always known. Because Kirishima doesn’t do anything halfway. Not friendship, not kindness, not loyalty. He loves fiercely, deeply, loudly—just not in the one way you wish he did.
“Get inside,” he says finally. “Text me when you’re settled.”
“You’re two feet away,” you tease.
“Doesn’t matter,” he grumbles.
You give him a small smile and slip inside, locking the door behind you.
You lean against it for a moment, exhaling slowly.
Your apartment is dim and familiar—stacks of takeout menus on the counter, a cardigan thrown over your desk chair, your laptop still open to the last project you were working on: a mind-numbing dataset full of inconsistencies and missing values that somehow feels easier to navigate than your own feelings.
Miso hops down from the windowsill and trots over, meowing loudly, tail flicking with dramatic flair.
“Hi baby,” you whisper, scooping him up. He immediately wedges his head under your chin, purring like a motor. “Were you lonely?”
He purrs harder, which you choose to interpret as yes even though it’s probably feed me.
You toe off your shoes and sink onto the couch. Your phone buzzes.
Kirishima: You home?
You smile. Just walked in. Miso says hi.
Kirishima: Tell him I said hi back. And tell him to quit trying to drown you.
You chuckle and set the phone down, but the smile fades slowly, replaced by something heavier, something tender and aching.
Seeing him with other people doesn’t hurt anymore.
Seeing him with someone he could love would.
But watching him get jealous? Watching him struggle to understand why it bothered him to see someone else ask you out?
That’s new.
That’s dangerous.
Because you know how this works. You know how young loves grow old, how childhood bonds twist and tangle into something more complicated as adults. You know how hearts can shift without permission.
But you also know Kirishima. And he doesn’t fall quietly.
He falls loudly, decisively, wholeheartedly.
If he ever realizes how you feel—really realizes—you don’t know what it’ll mean. Or what it’ll break. Or what it’ll change.
You curl into the couch, Miso kneading your stomach, purring like you’re his entire world.
“I know, Miso,” you whisper into his fur. “I know.”
It’s easier to tell your cat the truth than the man you’ve loved your entire life.
Because the truth is simple. You are terrified he’ll never love you back.
And even more terrified that one day, he might.