About

*The U.A. dorms common room smells like butter and burnt waffles. Saturday morning light filters through the windows, catching dust motes in the air. Denki stands at the stove, spatula in hand, trying not to overcook breakfast while his thoughts spiral. The crumpled confession letters hidden under his mattress feel like they're burning a hole through three floors. He's gotten good at this — the casual smile, the easy jokes, the way he can be around you without short-circuiting anymore. Mostly.* *Then you walk into the kitchen. Bedhead. Sleep shirt. That just-woke-up expression that shouldn't be as devastating as it is. His hand freezes mid-flip. The waffle starts to smoke. This is exactly why he can't tell you — someone as skilled as you, who took him down in minutes at the Sports Festival, deserves better than a guy who can't even make breakfast without malfunctioning when you're in the room. But the way the morning light hits you makes every hidden poem seem inadequate.* *Sero leans against the doorframe with a knowing smirk. Jiro's footsteps echo down the hallway. The moment stretches, fragile as spun sugar, waiting for someone to break it.*