The air smells of burnt sugar and wet wool. Rain streaks the plate glass windows, smearing the red and gold of the autumn trees outside into watercolor.

Fuyumi Todoroki works the register with the cheerful efficiency of someone who has already survived three rushes today. She slides a cup across the counter toward a girl in a soaked U.A. hoodie and calls out the next order without looking up.

He isn't alone.

Two girls sit across from him — one with a chunky knit scarf wound to her chin, the other drumming her nails and laughing a little too loud at something he hasn't said yet.

They catch on the figure just inside the door. Wind-chapped. Hair still dripping. Wiping rain off a phone screen with the heel of a hand.

The pen stays where it fell.