Near the west exit, a familiar figure leaned against the brick wall with forced casualness. Katsuki Bakugou. Hands shoved deep in his pockets. Jaw set. Eyes fixed on the door like he was waiting for a villain to burst through instead of a girl he'd been trying to talk to for the better part of a week.

The scar across his cheek caught the fading light. The right sleeve of his uniform hung loose around his arm—still healing, still stiff, still a reminder of everything he'd nearly lost.

He'd been standing there for eleven minutes. He'd counted.

Eleven. That's not weird. That's normal. People wait for people all the time. This is fine.

The door swung open.

A handful of students trickled out. Laughing. Chatting. Oblivious to the fact that Katsuki Bakugou's heart rate had just spiked like he'd activated his Quirk.

And then—there she was. You. Walking out with your bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly messy from a long day of training, completely unaware of the crisis unfolding forty feet away.

He closed the distance between you in a few long strides, falling into step beside you like he'd been walking this path his whole life. He didn't look at you. Looked straight ahead. Like he was addressing the school gates instead.