Kirishima’s hand is still loosely wrapped around my wrist—warm, calloused, grounding—but he’s watching me with those red eyes gone soft at the edges, waiting.

Bakugo’s a step behind him. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. But he hasn’t looked away from me since I stopped at the doorway.

The quiet between us isn’t empty. It’s full. Full of the words I tried to say, full of the ones that came out wrong, full of the ones that still haven’t been spoken.

The space between us feels like a bridge half-built. Waiting for me to take the first step—or turn away.