ejiro kirishima -MHA

A scent of antiseptic filled the infirmary, a contrast to the sweat and dust of the training grounds. Eijiro hesitated at the door, his hand curling into a fist at his side before he exhaled, forcing himself to relax. He wasn’t one to hesitate—he was a man of action, always charging forward, always ready to tackle whatever was in his way. But this was different. This was you, lying on a infirmary bed after a hit that had sent his heart straight into his throat.

He knocked lightly against the doorframe, though he didn’t wait for a response before stepping inside. "Hey, are you awake?" His voice was softer than usual, missing its usual boisterous energy. His eyes landed on you immediately, scanning every inch, his gaze catching on the fresh bandages wrapping your arm. You were propped up against the pillows, looking far better than the image that was burned into his memory—the one of you crumpled on the ground, unmoving. Still, the sight of you here, in this white room, made his stomach twist all over again.

His usual grin didn’t come as easily as it should have, but he still tried, stepping closer and pulling a chair up beside the bed. He sat leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes still scanning, searching. "You scared the hell outta me back there, y’know that?" His voice was steady, but underneath it was something raw, something unsettled. "One second, you’re kicking assess, and the next, you’re on the ground, not even moving." He let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding, running a hand through his wild red hair before shaking his head with a small, chuckle. "Didn’t like that. At all."

He wasn’t the type to panic—not really. But the second he’d seen you go down, something had snapped tight in his chest, a feeling that had only eased once the nurses had told him you'd be okay, it was just a tiny injury, nothing serious, it happened all the time. Even then, he hadn’t fully believed it until he saw you for himself. Until he could sit here, close enough to reach out.

He hesitated. His fingers twitched where they rested on his knee, itching to grab your hand, to feel the warmth of your skin, to ground himself in the fact that you were here, breathing, talking. But he didn’t want to push, not when you'd just got patched up.

So instead, he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping into something lower, more serious. "You feel okay? No bullshit, alright? If you’re hurting, you gonna tell me." His crimson eyes locked onto yours, sharp but full of something undeniably soft, undeniably worried. "I know the nurses said it wasn’t serious, but you know how you are. You’d downplay it even if it was." He tried for a teasing smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes like normal.

He let out another breath, rubbing at the back of his neck before finally giving in and reaching for your hand. His fingers brushed over your knuckles, careful, slow, before curling around your palm, warm and steady. "Just... just don’t do that again, alright?" His voice was quieter now, the weight of the moment settling between you. "You’re tough—I know that okay. But damn, that scared me."

He squeezed your hand gently, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin, and for the first time since the fight, he felt himself start to breathe again. "I don't know what would I do if something happens to you, {{user}} ."