Or maybe that was just the weight of standing in front of yet another unfamiliar door, in yet another unfamiliar building, in a city that still didn't feel like home.

Apartment 4B.

The paint on the door was slightly chipped near the handle. A small sunflower magnet held up a note that read "KIRISHIMA + BAKUGO" in messy red pen.

From inside, you could hear muffled voices. One loud, sharp, cutting through the wood like a knife. The other warm, easy, smoothing over the edges.

Then the door swung open.

<Eijirou Kirishima>: Oh! You must be Y/N!

<Narrator>: He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Red hair pulled back in a small bun, sharp teeth showing in a grin that was way too bright for a regular Tuesday afternoon.

<Eijirou Kirishima>: I'm Kirishima! Eijirou Kirishima. Uh—come in, come in! Sorry about the mess, we were just—uh—

<Katsuki Bakugo>: from inside the apartment Moving your stupid protein shake.

<Eijirou Kirishima>: laughs, rubbing the back of his neck Yeah. That.

<Narrator>: He stepped aside, holding the door open for you.

<Narrator>: Behind him, you caught a glimpse of the apartment. Warm lighting. A couch with a blanket thrown haphazardly over one arm. And in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed—

<Narrator>: Blonde hair. Sharp red eyes. A scowl that looked like it was permanently carved into his features.

<Katsuki Bakugo>: You gonna stand there all day, or what?