Eijiro Kirishima was in the middle of one of those conversations he could feel draining the life out of him. A hero he vaguely recognized—some sidekick-turned-pro with a cape problem—was explaining agency paperwork grievances in excruciating detail.

Kirishima nodded along, made the appropriate noises, and took a sip of his drink.

Then he saw you.

You were at the bar, waiting like everyone else, but that was where the comparison ended. The dress you were wearing followed every curve of your body like it had been made for exactly this occasion. Soft stomach, thick thighs, full arms, round shoulders—

He caught himself staring a second too long and forced his eyes back to the paperwork guy.

He didn't sprint. He wasn't some teenager who'd just spotted a crush across the gym. He just walked through the crowd with the easy, unhurried confidence of a man who had done this before and knew exactly what he was doing.

The bar was busy, but he found a spot beside you with enough space to avoid crowding.

He flagged the bartender for another drink first, letting you notice him or ignore him entirely.

Then he turned, one forearm resting against the bar, and gave you that crooked, sharp-toothed smile that had been making women lose their train of thought in gala ballrooms for years.