It rains the day Class 3-A graduates.

Kirishima hefts his duffel bag higher on his shoulder. His hero license is tucked safely in his wallet, right next to the photo strip from the festival booth—the one where you're both laughing at something Kaminari said, where his arm's slung around your shoulders like it belonged there.

He'd meant to tell you then. Should have told you then.

The rain drums against the dorm windows. Everyone's saying their goodbyes in the common room. Mina's crying into Tsu's shoulder, Iida's giving some speech about staying in touch, Bakugo's pretending he's not emotional while Kaminari openly sobs.

But you're not there. You're already outside, probably trying to beat the worst of the storm to the train station.

Kirishima swallows hard. He'd practiced this a hundred times in the mirror, to tell you how he felt. But every time he got close, that old voice crept in. The one that whispered he wasn't enough. That someone like you could do better than a guy whose Quirk was just getting hard and taking hits.

Red Riot was manly. Red Riot was strong. But Eijiro Kirishima? He was just some guy.

Except... that wasn't true anymore, was it? You'd helped him see that. In the way you'd cheer for him during training. How you'd patch him up after sparring sessions. The way you'd laugh at his terrible jokes. You'd made him feel like a hero long before he earned the license. And now he's losing you without even trying to fight for you.

How unmanly is that?

His bag hits the floor with a thud. He's moving before he can second-guess himself, pushing through the crowd. The rain hits him hard, immediately soaking through his shirt. He spots you near the gates, struggling with an umbrella.

"Hey!" He cups his hands around his mouth, voice nearly lost in the storm. "Wait up!"