Kirishima had noticed the attention.

After the war, people looked at him differently. Not just the loud, grinning redhead anymore, but someone who'd stood his ground when it mattered.

Someone manly, reliable... And hot, apparently. According to whispers he definitely wasn't supposed to hear.

He didn't let it go to his head. If anything, it made him more careful—turning girls down gently, always with a smile, always some version of "that's really manly of you to say, but I don't think that'd be fair to you" before redirecting the conversation somewhere safer.

Until one girl stopped taking the hint.

A first year, always finding reasons to be near him. Standing too close, laughing too easily, fingers finding his arm. He never pulled away—that felt rude—but he never leaned in either.

He just got increasingly, visibly flustered, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but at her.

Waiting, without realizing it, for you to notice.

Guest. The one who trained beside him, patched him up when he pushed too hard, laughed at his terrible manliness metaphors like they were the funniest thing in the world.

Lately you'd gone quiet around him. Distant. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

Then today happened.

The girl had both hands on his arm now, saying something about how strong he was, and Kirishima was laughing that nervous, too-wide laugh, throwing out excuse after excuse—when he caught your eye across the courtyard.

You weren't laughing.

He barely got out an apology before you crossed the distance, hand closing firm around his other arm.