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“You’re staring again,” you mutter from the kitchen.
Kirishima doesn’t even attempt denial from where he’s sitting at the counter.
“Can you blame me?”
“Yes,” you say immediately. “Very easily, actually.”
His laugh rumbles low and warm through the apartment. You risk a glance over your shoulder and instantly regret it.
He’s still half-dressed from patrol, black compression shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, red hair damp from a rushed shower. Fresh scars line his arms in pale silver streaks beneath the kitchen lights. He looks unfairly handsome in the casual, careless way only pro heroes seem capable of after fourteen-hour shifts.
Worse, he’s looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen all day. Disgusting behavior.
“You’re smiling,” Kirishima says.
“And you’re hallucinating.”
“You definitely are.”
You point your knife at him while chopping vegetables. “Keep talking and I’m poisoning your dinner.”
His expression softens immediately into something unbearably fond.
“There you are.”
You narrow your eyes. That tone always gets you. It’s like he’s been waiting for your attention all day and finally got it.
“You’re weird,” you tell him.
Kirishima props his chin in his hand, completely relaxed beneath your judgment. “Yeah, but you like me weird.”
“Debatable.”
“You moved into my apartment.”
“Rent in this city is criminal.”
He grins. “Sure, whatever you say sweetheart.”
You hate when he calls you sweetheart. Mostly because you like it.
—
Living with another pro hero means your schedules rarely align correctly.
Some nights you barely see each other outside exhausted greetings and shared showers before collapsing into bed. Other times you get entire evenings together, stretched soft and golden between patrols.
Tonight falls somewhere in the middle.
You’re tired down to the bone. Your shoulder aches from overuse. The villain you arrested earlier nearly dislocated your wrist, and the press conference afterward lasted long enough to qualify as psychological warfare.
By the time dinner is done, he’s watching you with that careful look again.
“What?” you ask.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe you.”
You click your tongue and carry your plate toward the couch. Kirishima follows a second later, large and warm at your side. The cushions dip beneath his weight. For a few quiet minutes, the only sounds are the television and the scrape of forks against plates.
Then his fingers brush your wrist gently, “Lemme see.” You don’t pull away, which is probably answer enough.
Kirishima turns your hand carefully under the living room light. His thumb presses lightly along the swelling near your wrist joint, expression tightening with concern.
“You should’ve wrapped this.”
You sigh dramatically. “Eijiro, it’s almost like I had a difficult day.”
His mouth twitches upward.
“Sorry,” he says, sounding entirely too pleased with your tone.
You stare at him. There it is again. That stupid little spark in his eyes every time you snap at him. At this point, you’re almost certain he’d wag his tail if evolution allowed it.
“You enjoy this way too much.”
“What?”
“The attitude.”
Kirishima’s grin turns sheepish. Which, unfortunately, confirms everything.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Liar.”
He laughs softly as he stands to grab the first aid kit.
Watching him move around your shared apartment still feels strangely intimate sometimes. There’s something deeply domestic about Kirishima in sweatpants, rummaging through cabinets while humming under his breath.
You remember him at sixteen—loud, eager, desperately trying to become someone brave. Now he’s twenty-five and one of the top heroes in Japan, broad-shouldered and steady, confidence worn naturally instead of forced.
But some things never changed. He still loves openly. He still throws his whole heart into people. Especially you.
Kirishima kneels in front of the couch, first aid kit balanced beside him.
“Hand.”
You offer it reluctantly.
“So dramatic,” you mutter as he starts wrapping your wrist.
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
His smile grows brighter.
You immediately regret speaking.
The thing about dating Kirishima is that affection transforms him into sunlight. Every tiny bit of love you hand him gets reflected back tenfold. Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes it makes your heart flutter in ways you don’t know how to explain.
“You know,” he says while adjusting the bandage, “Bakugo called me earlier.”
You groan instantly. “Why?”
“He asked if we were still together.”
You blink. “What? Why would he ask that?”
Kirishima’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Apparently you threatened somebody during a meeting today.”
“It wasn’t that serious. They mistook my tone.”
“Yeah, but this time you said—and I quote—‘I already have one loud idiot to deal with at home. I’m not adopting another.’”
You bury your face in your hands mumbling, “Oh my god.”
“He sounded genuinely concerned for me.”
“He should be.”
Kirishima laughs harder.
You peek through your fingers just in time to see him looking at you with unbearable adoration.
Again.
You glare at him while he finishes taping your wrist securely.
His hands are massive compared to yours now, palms rough with old scars and constant training. Despite his size, he touches you with startling care, aware of his own strength. When he’s done, he presses a quick kiss against your knuckles.
Despite this being a regular occurrence, your stomach still flips anyway.
“Done,” he says.
You inspect the wrapping critically. “Mediocre work at best.”
Kirishima’s eyes light up, “You think so?”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, leaning forward to give him a kiss. “There’s actually something wrong with you.”
He leans forward against the couch cushion, smiling lazily now. Comfortable beneath your scrutiny.
“You know what it is?” he says.
“What?”
“You’re only mean to people you trust. I figured it out a while ago,” he says quietly.
The words slip out, “Shut up.”
“You’re softer with me,” he says.
You scoff. “Objectively false.”
“Nah.” He rests his chin on the couch beside your leg, looking up at you. “You’re honest with me.”
He’s right. Unfortunately.
You don’t soften your words around him because you never feel like you have to earn his affection. Kirishima takes every sharp edged comment and holds it gently in his hands, never asking you to become easier to swallow. He’s the only person who’s ever made cruelty feel unnecessary.
“You’re being weirdly insightful,” you mutter.
“Occupational hazard.”
“You punch buildings for a living.”
“And yet.”
You stare at him for a long moment. Then, you sigh and reach down, threading your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. Kirishima melts instantly. His eyes close halfway as you scratch lightly against his scalp, expression going soft and sleepy in seconds.
“Oh,” you say flatly. “That’s just humiliating.”
He smiles without opening his eyes. “Don’t stop.”
“You’re like a giant stray dog.”
“A manly stray dog.”
“You’re lucky you’re pretty.” The words leave your mouth casually. The effect is catastrophic.
Kirishima’s eyes snap open. Slowly, very slowly, red spreads across his cheeks.
“You can’t just say stuff like that outta nowhere.”
You blink at him. “You literally call me beautiful every day.”
“Yeah, but it means more when you say it.” Kirishima watches you carefully, still flushed. Then he smiles again, small this time. Softer.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I really like when you’re mean to me.”
You groan immediately. “We are not having this conversation again.”
“I’m serious!”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
He laughs beneath your hand.
“It’s not the meanness,” he admits after a second. “Not really.”
“Then what is it?”
Kirishima shrugs one shoulder. “I like knowing you’re comfortable with me, that you love me.”
He says things so simply sometimes. No games. No hidden meanings. Just direct emotional truth delivered with complete sincerity. You don’t know how he survives in hero society without getting eaten alive. Then again, maybe that openness is exactly what makes people love him.
“You’re such a sap,” you murmur.
“There it is,” he says fondly.
You roll your eyes, but your fingers never leave his hair.
Outside your apartment window, the city glows restless and loud. Sirens echo faintly in the distance. Somewhere out there, tomorrow’s problems are already waiting for both of you. But here, in the warm spill of apartment light, Kirishima looks peaceful.
All because you insulted him a little and touched his hair. Absolutely unbelievable.
“You know,” you say after a while, “if anybody else enjoyed being verbally abused this much, I’d recommend therapy.”
Kirishima grins. “But not me?”
“Nah.” You tug his hair lightly just to hear him laugh. “You’re too far gone, beyond professional help.”
His smile turns helplessly affectionate. Then he pushes himself up from the floor, large hands settling on either side of you against the couch cushions.
“You done being mean to me?” he asks softly.
You tilt your head. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“How badly do you want a kiss?”
Kirishima stares at you for exactly one second before kissing you immediately. You snort against his mouth. His hands slide carefully to your waist, touch familiar and secure. He kisses like he does everything else—with his whole heart involved. No hesitation. No restraint in the affection behind it. When he pulls back, he’s smiling again.
“You’re happy,” you accuse.
“Very.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you love me anyway.”
You sigh dramatically, looping your arms around his neck.
“Yeah,” you mutter against his mouth. “Tragic, honestly.”
Kirishima laughs softly before kissing you again, warm and bright enough to make the entire apartment feel full of his sunlight.