Denki didn't return to the training field that day.
He sat a little longer on the bench—his hands finally still, but not because the weight in his chest had lifted. More like... it had been shared, somehow.
Aizawa had stayed. Had said the one thing Denki never expected anyone to know, let alone speak aloud: "You're not alone."
The words echoed through him as he slipped back toward the dorms. His steps were slower, more deliberate. Not because of pain—but because his heart was heavy in a way it hadn't been before. Not in a bad way. Just... full.
(That Night)
The dorm common room buzzed softly with life. Laughter. Card games. Sero chasing Kaminari with a sock he refused to admit had mold on it.
And Denki?
He was quiet. Still smiling. Still cracking the occasional joke. But Jiro watched him from the couch—watched the way his smile dropped just a little too fast when no one was looking.
She noticed.
Of course she did.
Later, when most of the group drifted off and the hallway lights dimmed to amber, Jiro found him leaning against the stairwell rail, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands.
She stood beside him without a word.
After a moment, Denki looked down at her with a ghost of a grin.
"You know something's up."
Jiro shrugged. "You always talk too much when you're nervous. Today, you barely said anything."
A pause. He looked away.
"I talked to Aizawa," he said quietly.
Jiro didn't push. Just waited.
"He told me... he knows. About me. About—" He gestured vaguely, like the words were slippery. "My family. Or... the fact I don't have one."
Jiro turned toward him fully now, eyes soft and focused. "What did he say?"
Denki hesitated. Then:
"That I don't have to prove I belong here. That someone actually... gives a damn. Not because I'm useful. Just because I'm me."
The words left him shaky. Lighter. Real.
Jiro reached out, sliding her fingers into his—gently, firmly.
"You've always belonged, Denki. Always."
He looked down at their joined hands. The silence stretched again—but this time, it was warm. Full of quiet love.
And Denki let himself lean.
Just a little.
Because tonight, for once, he didn't have to hold it all up alone. The hours ticked by slowly, the golden dorm light fading into hushes of midnight warmth.
Denki sat curled into the corner of the common room couch, hoodie sleeves over his hands again, hair mussed from the way he kept running his fingers through it. Jiro was next to him, legs folded beneath her, flipping through one of Kaminari's half-abandoned game magazines just to keep her hands busy.
Neither of them spoke much. They didn't need to.
But every so often, Denki's gaze would flick toward the hallway. Toward the dark.
And every time he did, his shoulders stiffened just slightly.
Jiro noticed. She always did.
"You getting tired?" she asked softly, nudging his knee with hers.
Denki hesitated, eyes dropping. He nodded. "Yeah. Just... don't really want to go back there yet."
Jiro was quiet. No pressure. No push.
Denki sighed, rubbing at his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie. "Is it lame to admit I don't want to be alone tonight?"
"No," Jiro said simply.
He looked up.
She shrugged. "You almost died, idiot. Pretty sure the rules about lame go out the window after that."
He chuckled. It was faint, but real. "I just... every time I try to sleep, I feel it creeping in again. That memory. The... feeling. Like it's just waiting for me to close my eyes."
Jiro shifted, resting her head lightly against his shoulder. "Then don't sleep alone."
He blinked, surprised.
"I'll stay," she added, voice quieter now. "We don't have to talk. You don't have to explain anything. But you shouldn't have to fight that in the dark by yourself."
Denki's throat tightened.
"Thanks," he whispered, leaning his head on top of hers. "You're way too cool for me, you know that?"
Jiro gave a small smile. "Yeah. I do."
Denki's room was dark. A quiet kind of dark—the kind that didn't press in too close.
The only light came from the dim glow of his alarm clock and a faint strip of moonlight filtering through the curtains. Jiro sat cross-legged at the edge of his bed, now in sweats and a hoodie, flipping one of his old keychains in her fingers—a little Pikachu with a scratched-up smile.
Denki was already under the covers, lying on his side facing the wall. He'd changed into a worn tank top and shorts, his hair a mess, body still running on adrenaline and something quieter.
He didn't say much when they came upstairs. He didn't have to.
Jiro eventually set the keychain on his nightstand and pulled the blanket up, lying beside him. There was space between them—gentle, respectful space—but it didn't feel empty.
Denki's voice came softly. "You still awake?"
"Yeah."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Do you ever think about what would've happened if I didn't wake up?"
Jiro's breath caught. Not because she hadn't thought about it—but because she had. Every night since it happened.
"All the time," she admitted.
Silence. Then he shifted, rolling toward her slightly. They weren't touching yet—but they were close.
"I didn't want to sleep because… that moment? It keeps finding me when I close my eyes. But—" he paused, voice growing smaller, "I'm not scared right now. With you here."
Jiro reached out slowly and found his hand beneath the blanket.
She held it gently. Firmly.
He exhaled—long and tired, like he'd been holding it all in for far too long.
And then, maybe for the first time since the hospital, Denki's eyes slipped closed—without dread, without resistance.
Jiro stayed awake a little longer, watching his breathing even out, brushing his hair back just once before closing her own eyes.
And the night went quiet again.
But not alone.
The sunlight bled softly into the room—gentler than usual, as if it knew this space was holding something quiet and delicate.
Jiro's lashes fluttered open, her body stiff from sleeping on top of the covers. The warmth beside her was still there. That made her pause.
She turned her head slowly, letting her eyes settle on Denki.
He was on his side, facing away, the blanket pulled halfway up his shoulder. His hair was a mess—electric, stubborn—and his face… peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Jiro's breath hitched. Her heart gave a sudden, jarring skip.
She sat up a little, leaned over just enough to look closely—closer than she had any right to, maybe, but she had to know. Her hand hovered just above his back, her eyes locked on the slight rise and fall of his chest.
And there it was.
Movement.
Small. Steady.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Denki was okay.
He was just... sleeping.
And for once—not dreaming himself into panic.
Jiro didn't lay down again.
She stayed there, perched above him, hand still hovering near his chest, like if she moved too quickly the moment might crack. She watched the soft rise and fall of his breathing, reassuring herself again and again that it was real. That he was real.
Then—
Denki's eyes fluttered open. Slowly. Groggily.
And the first thing he saw was her.
Jiro, leaning close, worry etched gently into every line of her face.
He blinked once, confused. Then blinked again.
"...Morning?" he rasped, voice low and husky from sleep.
Jiro froze. Her mouth opened—then closed again.
"You... okay?" he asked softly, trying for his usual smile but landing somewhere between sleepy and concerned.
Jiro let out a breath that trembled more than she meant it to. "Yeah. Sorry. I just... I had to make sure."
He stared at her a beat longer, then reached up slowly, laying his hand over hers where it hovered near his chest.
His palm was warm. Solid.
"You didn't dream?" she asked.
He shook his head, eyelids already drooping again.
"Not a single one."
And for the first time in weeks, he meant it.
Jiro was still hovering just above him, cheeks flushed, her eyes searching his face like she still couldn't believe he was real.
Denki's hand was still resting lightly over hers, his thumb brushing once across her knuckles. Slowly, he lifted it—trailing his fingers up her arm, feather-light, until they curled gently around her wrist.
His gaze locked with hers. Soft. Steady. And unguarded in a way few people ever got to see.
"Hey," he whispered.
Her breath caught. "Yeah?"
"I'm really here," he said again, voice low and tired and absolutely certain. "And so are you."
Then—he rose just slightly from the pillow and pulled her down that last inch, closing the space between them.
He kissed her.
Not rushed. Not fiery.
Warm.
Anchored.
The kind of kiss that whispered thank you, that said, I love you without needing the words. The kind that tethered them both to this exact second and said: this is real. I'm staying.
Jiro melted against him for just a moment, hand tightening slightly in his shirt, like she was afraid to let him disappear again.
But he didn't.
And she didn't.
When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes half-lidded, the smallest smile tugging at his lips.
"I meant it," he murmured. "I love you."
And Jiro—never one for dramatics—just breathed out,
"Me too."
(Meanwhile)
Mina jiggled the key in the lock with unnecessary flourish. "If he's still asleep, I swear, I'm dragging him out by his hoodie!"
Sero leaned in, arms crossed. "You sure we should be using the emergency key for this?"
"He missed breakfast," Kirishima said, clearly worried. "And he didn't answer his phone."
Bakugo scowled, arms folded. "If he's passed out again, I'm launching him into next week."
*Click.* Door open. Silence.
Then—
Mina stepped in first. Stopped.
Stared.
"OH—" she squeaked, slapping a hand over her mouth.
Kirishima peered in behind her. "What? What is it?" Then his eyes widened. "OH MY—"
Sero peeked around the doorframe. "Wait—what are you—ohhhhhhhhhh."
There, tangled under Denki's blanket, was Jiro. Still in Denki's bed. Sitting up, hair tousled, wearing his hoodie. Her hand was resting on his chest.
And Denki?
Blinking awake just as the door creaked open... and blinking very slowly as realization hit him like a stun grenade.
"Oh. Oh no—"
Bakugo stepped into view last, eyes narrowing into death-lasers. "I knew it. I KNEW there was something going on."
Denki flailed upright instantly, throwing the blanket halfway off the bed and knocking his pillow to the floor. "WAIT—WAIT—IT'S NOT LIKE THAT—"
Jiro shrieked, diving for the edge of the covers. "Guys, what the hell—get OUT!"
Mina squealed and turned away, but did not leave. "Oh my gosh, did we just—were you guys—like, just now—?!"
"NO!" Denki practically faceplanted off the bed in his hurry to prove nothing inappropriate had occurred. "I—She—We—We were just SLEEPING!"
"You don't just sleep like THAT," Sero grinned, filming at an absolutely illegal angle.
Bakugo muttered, "This is what happens when you go soft." But he looked... smug. Just a little.
Kirishima gently turned away, red in the face but trying to be supportive. "I mean—good for you guys? I guess? But next time... maybe lock the door?"
"Mina used the Bakusquad emergency key." Sero deadpans.
Jiro groaned into her palms.
Denki looked ready to dissolve into sparks from sheer embarrassment. "Can we PLEASE rewind like five minutes and pretend NONE of this happened?"
Mina winked over her shoulder. "Too late, lovebirds~"
*Click.* Door shuts. Whispered screams and muffled laughter trail down the hallway.
Inside the room, silence.
Then—
Denki turned slowly to Jiro, face burning.
She covered her head with his pillow. "I hate everything.
He smiled weakly. "...They're gonna talk about this forever."
From under the pillow, her voice came muffled and murderous.
"I know."
Mina tore down the hallway like the very concept of gossip owed her money.
"I SAW THEM! I SAW IT WITH MY OWN EYES!" she squealed, practically vibrating. "HE WAS UNDER THE BLANKET! SHE WAS IN HIS HOODIE! IT WAS SO CUTE I THINK I BLACKED OUT—"
"Mina—wait—wait—!" Kirishima chased after her, hair bouncing, one slipper falling off mid-sprint. "You promised you wouldn't say anything!"
"I NEVER PROMISED! I SAID 'we'll see' WHICH IS NOT LEGALLY BINDING!"
Meanwhile, behind them, Sero leaned casually against the wall sipping a juice box, looking way too smug for someone holding a camera roll that could ruin friendships.
"I told you," he muttered to Bakugo, "they were gonna explode eventually."
Bakugo scoffed, arms crossed. "Tch. Took 'em long enough."
But the corner of his mouth? Yep. Smirking. Betrayal by cheek muscle.
Denki had just pulled a shirt halfway over his head when the shriek of Mina's voice echoed through the vents like doom itself.
"Oh no."
"Oh no no no no NO—"
Jiro sat upright, hair wild, hoodie sleeves hanging past her hands like damning evidence from a crime scene. She looked at him, eyes wide with betrayal.
"They're telling everyone."
And they were.
You could feel the dorm shifting. Footsteps. Gasps. A scream of delight from the girls' hallway.
Denki whipped the shirt down and stumbled toward the door. "We gotta get out there. We have to stop this before they think we—we—"
"Did more than sleep?" Jiro deadpanned, face already going nuclear red.
"YES—WAIT—NO—I MEAN—WE—COME ON—"
She yanked the hoodie tighter around her face with a groan. "I hate this. I hate you. And I hate that I'm still wearing this hoodie."
Denki opened the door anyway and grabbed her hand. "Too late. We ride together, we die together—Bakusquad reputation on the line."
And like two sleep-deprived, emotionally compromised superheroes... they charged into battle.
Let the damage control begin.