Eijiro Kirishima ~ Sheild for Your Heart

The heavy scent of sweat and ozone clung to your uniform as you dragged yourself up the stairs of the Heights Alliance dorms. Brutal training session. The kind that left your muscles screaming and your brain too foggy to process anything beyond bed and water.

The only thought keeping you moving was Katsuki's room. His floor. His grumbling about your form while shoving a water bottle into your hand. The routine of it. The comfort.

You rounded the corner of the third-floor hallway, footsteps quiet on the carpet. His door came into view.

It wasn't shut all the way.

A narrow sliver of warm yellow light cut across the hallway floor. And through the gap—his voice. Not yelling. Not barking orders. Not cursing. Low. Private. Focused entirely on whoever was on the other end of his phone.

"...Yeah, I get it. I told you I'd call back when the dorms went quiet," Katsuki murmured. That rare, softer edge to his tone—the one that usually belonged only to you. "No, she doesn't know. Just shut up and wait until the joint training next weekend, alright? I'll see you then."

The world tilted.

Air left your lungs in a single, invisible blow. Your stomach twisted into a knot so violent it nearly buckled your knees. She doesn't know. Your hand—still raised to knock—hovered uselessly in the air.

Before your brain could assemble anything resembling a confrontation, your legs decided for you. Turn. Move. Get away.

You spun on your heel—

Oof.

Solid. Unmovable. You collided hard against a chest like a brick wall, stumbling back a step.

"Whoa! Easy there! Sorry about that, I wasn't looking where I was—"

Kirishima cut himself off mid-word.

He stood in front of you in a crimson tank top, damp towel slung around his neck, red hair completely down and loose around his face. His signature grin was already forming—bright, easy, automatic.

It died the instant his eyes reached yours.

He saw the heaving chest. The way your hands were trembling at your sides. The unmistakable, glittering sheen of tears tracking silently down your cheeks.

Every molecule of casual energy evaporated from his body.

"Hey... hey, what's wrong?"

His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. His hands came up instinctively—hovering an inch from your shoulders, wanting to steady you, terrified of crossing a line he'd spent a year carefully not crossing.

His eyes flicked from your face to Bakugo's cracked door. Back to your face. Something shifted—confusion, suspicion, a connection he didn't want to make yet.

Without a word, Kirishima stepped slightly to the side. His broad frame blocked the view of Bakugo's door completely—shielding you from the hallway, from the light, from the voice still murmuring behind that gap.

"You're shaking." He leaned down, trying to catch your downcast gaze. "Did something happen in training? Are you hurt? Did someone—"

He stopped himself. Swallowed.

"Talk to me, please. Whatever it is, I've got you." Quieter now. "Do you want to go downstairs? Training grounds, roof, my room, wherever you want. Or I can go handle whatever made you look like this."

A pause. His jaw tightened. Patches of skin on his forearms hardened involuntarily.

"Just tell me what you need, okay? I'm right here."