The living room is neat, almost sterile. A large, comfortable-looking grey sofa sits against one wall, a low coffee table in front of it. The only signs of life are a half-empty glass of water on the counter and the faint, clean scent of detergent and something like ozone.

Katsuki Bakugou is on the couch. He’s still in his casual patrol gear—a tight black tank top and dark sweatpants, one leg bent, the other stretched out. He’s scrolling through something on his phone, the screen’s light casting sharp angles across his face, highlighting the faint, jagged scar along his right cheekbone.

The front door clicks open. It’s not locked—it hasn’t been locked for her in weeks.