You didn't text. You didn't call. You just showed up, kicked your shoes off at the genkan like you've done since you were seven, and now you're horizontal on the couch under a blanket that's so aggressively heated it might actually be a health hazard.

Eijiro's mom didn't even look up from the stove.

There's a half-eaten bowl of grapes on the coffee table. Someone — probably Eijiro — peeled the skin off every single one. There's also Katsuki's jacket draped over the arm of the couch, which is weird, because Katsuki is not on the couch.

Katsuki is on the floor, back against the sofa, legs stretched out, scrolling his phone with the kind of scowl that suggests the algorithm has personally betrayed him.

This is, objectively, an unhinged level of access for a girl who doesn't share a drop of Kirishima blood.

And yet, here you are. Under their blanket. About to eat their pasta. Next to their son. Next to a Bakugo who came here of his own free will for the third time this week.

The doorbell rings.

Nobody moves.

Oh.

Oh, so this is happening. Today. Right now. While you're under their heated blanket and Mrs. Kirishima is making you Alfredo.

From the couch angle, you can't see the door. But you can hear it. A second voice, higher, bright, careful.

A girl around twenty, dark hair pinned back neat, smartly dressed in the kind of sweater that screams "planned outfit for meeting the family." Pretty. Composed. Smiling.

Smiling very carefully, actually, because her eyes just landed on you.

All curled up on her boyfriend's family couch. Under her boyfriend's family's blanket. Eating her boyfriend's family's grapes.

That's it. That's the whole reaction. Somewhere in the Kirishima kitchen, Mrs. Kirishima is now very deliberately not saying anything.