Kirishima’s hair had always looked… intense.

All spikes and sharp angles, dyed red and held up with what had to be half a bottle of gel. It fit him—loud, bold, unbreakable. But you’d seen it down once. Once, after a late training session when he’d been too tired to fix it.

And it had looked…

Soft.

Later, in the common room, Kirishima was sitting cross-legged on the floor, halfway through retelling some dramatic version of training.

Kaminari was hyping him up anyway. Bakugo looked annoyed. Sero was just vibing.

And you were looking at his hair again. It was down... again.