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The dorm common room was quieter than usual.
Not empty, never truly empty in U.A. but softened, like the building itself had decided to exhale. The overhead lights were dimmed low, replaced by a scatter of warm fairy lights strung haphazardly around the bookshelves. Outside, snow fell steadily, thick flakes blurring the world beyond the windows until everything felt distant and muted.
Jirou sat perched on the arm of the couch, one boot resting on the cushion, guitar balanced easily across her lap.
Her posture was relaxed but deliberate, shoulders loose, fingers moving with practiced confidence across the strings.
Earbuds trailed from her ears, heartbeat steady through the jacks at her earlobes, grounding her in rhythm.
She wasn’t performing.
She never performed like this.
Deku stood near the kitchen counter, hands clasped so tightly in front of him his knuckles had gone pale. He’d meant to grab some tea. That had been his excuse to leave his room in the first place. But somewhere between boiling the kettle and hearing the first quiet notes drift across the room, he’d stopped moving altogether.
He watched her without meaning to.
There was something different about Jirou when she played alone. No sharp comments, no defensive sarcasm. Just focus. Presence. The music wasn’t loud or flashy, it was thoughtful, layered, careful in a way that reminded him of how she fought. Every sound had a purpose.
She’s amazing, he thought, immediately scolding himself for how obvious that was. Of course she is.
The song slowed, the last chord lingering in the air like a held breath before fading away. Jirou let her fingers rest against the strings, eyes closed for a moment longer than necessary.
Then she opened them.
“You’re gonna burn a hole in the counter if you keep staring at it like that, Midoriya.”
Deku jolted so hard he nearly knocked over a mug. “I! Sorry! I wasn’t- I mean, I was listening, but not like-”
She smirked faintly, adjusting the guitar strap. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”
“Oh.” He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was really good. I mean, technically good. Musically. Emotionally-”
“Midoriya,” she cut in, amused.
“Breathe.”
He did. Immediately. Too obviously.
She swung her legs down from the couch arm and shifted the guitar into a resting position. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true,” he said earnestly.
“You play differently when it’s quiet. Like… you’re not fighting the sound.”
Her expression softened, just a fraction.
“You notice that?”
“I notice a lot,” he replied before thinking, then winced. “I mean, not in a creepy way. Strategically.
Observationally.”
She snorted. “Wow. Way to recover.”
He managed a sheepish smile and finally moved closer, stopping a respectful distance away. Close enough to hear the faint hum of her heartbeat through her quirk. It was steady.
Calming.
“You ever think,” she said suddenly, eyes on the guitar instead of him, “that there’s too much noise around here?”
Deku blinked. “All the time.”
She glanced up, surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Everyone’s so loud. Expectations, training, villains, exams… even when it’s quiet, it doesn’t feel quiet.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s why I play when everyone’s asleep. It’s the only time I don’t feel like I have to… perform.”
The word landed heavier than it should have.
Deku hesitated, then spoke carefully.
“You don’t have to perform around me.”
She studied him for a long moment, searching for something, pity, maybe, or exaggeration. She found neither.
“…Thanks,” she said quietly.
Silence settled again, but this time it felt intentional.
Deku shifted his weight, gaze drifting upward, and froze.
A small sprig of mistletoe hung above the couch, tied to a light fixture with red string. He recognised Mina’s handiwork immediately. Of course she’d done this.
Of course she hadn’t taken it down.
He opened his mouth to point it out.
Then stopped.
Jirou followed his gaze anyway. Her
shoulders tensed.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Deku flushed. “We don’t- I mean, it’s just decoration. It doesn’t mean-”
“I know,” she said quickly. Then paused, fingers tightening slightly around the guitar neck. “…I know.”
Neither of them moved.
They didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t step away, either.
Jirou set the guitar aside with careful precision, leaning it against the couch like it was something fragile. When she stood, she didn’t immediately face him. She paced once, then turned back, hands shoved into her jacket pockets.
“Can I ask you something kind of stupid?” she asked.
He straightened instantly. “Yes. I mean- it won’t be stupid.”
She huffed. “You’re biased.”
“True,” he admitted.
She took a breath. “Do you ever feel like you’re loud on the inside? Even when you’re trying not to be?”
His chest tightened. That was…
uncomfortably accurate.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “All the time. My thoughts don’t really shut up.”
Her shoulders eased, just a little.
“Thought so.”
She stepped closer now. Close enough that he could smell her shampoo, something faint and clean. Close enough that the hum of her heartbeat grew clearer.
“You make it quieter,” she said, voice low. “When I’m around you.”
Deku swallowed. “You make me feel… steady.”
The words surprised him as much as they surprised her.
Jirou stared at him, eyes wide for a fraction of a second before she looked away, cheeks tinged pink. “Wow. Guess we’re being honest tonight.”
“I didn’t mean to-”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “I just-”
She stopped herself. Took one more breath.
Then looked at him properly.
“Midoriya… I like you.”
His heart stuttered. “I- I like you too.”
She laughed softly. “Yeah. I figured.”
There was no rush now. No pressure.
Just two people standing under a ridiculous piece of holiday decoration, choosing not to pretend anymore.
Jirou leaned in first.
The kiss was tentative, testing, like both of them were checking for permission even as it happened. Deku didn’t freeze, he leaned in too, careful and warm, hands hovering awkwardly at first before settling lightly at her sides.
It wasn’t fireworks.
It was better.
When they pulled apart, neither spoke right away.
“…You okay?” she asked quietly.
He nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah. I think… I really am.”
She exhaled, some tension finally leaving her shoulders. “Good. Because I don’t really do impulsive.”
He chuckled. “Me neither. Despite appearances.”
She smirked. “You’re a mess.”
“Your mess,” he said before thinking.
She blinked, then laughed, genuine and unguarded. “Don’t push it.”
They stayed there a while longer, shoulders brushing, listening to the snow against the windows and the quiet hum of the dorm.
No rush back to the noise.
No need to perform.
Just the space between notes, finally shared.