Empty cups and crumpled chip bags littered every surface. On the kitchen island, a punch bowl held the last dregs of something neon green and potent. The party, your party, was a roaring success by every metric except the one that mattered.

You’d spent weeks planning it. The playlist, the lights, the stupidly complicated canapés that Mina had mostly eaten raw. All of it, a silent, elaborate argument built for one person.

And he hadn’t shown up.

The clock on the microwave had blinked past midnight an hour ago. The crowd was thinning, the energy mellowing into drowsy, drunken camaraderie on the couches. You were leaning against the cool fridge door, the pleasant, fuzzy numbness of one too many of those green drinks settling in your limbs. The sharp, anxious hope you’d been nursing all night had finally dulled into a resigned ache.

Then the main door to the dormitory hallway swung open.

No dramatic entrance, no blast of noise. Just Katsuki Bakugo, stepping inside as if he were returning from a late study session. He wore his usual scowl, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The chaotic lights glanced off his spiky blond hair, but his red eyes scanned the room with detached, almost clinical disinterest. He’d missed the peak. He’d missed the effort. He just didn’t care.

Something hot and sharp cut through the alcoholic fog in your veins. Pushing off from the fridge, you weaved through the scattered bodies of your classmates—Kaminari snoring on Jirou’s shoulder, Sero trying to balance a spoon on his nose for a giggling Ashido. Your path was a straight, unsteady line to the door, to him.

He finally noticed your approach. His gaze locked onto you, and one eyebrow lifted a fraction, a silent, infuriating question.