You’d been there for an hour, circulating, making the expected small talk. Your own dress was simple, elegant, and it felt like armor. For the first time in months, you felt steady. Light.

Then you saw him.

Katsuki Bakugou stood near a towering ice sculpture, a glass of something amber in his hand. He wasn’t smiling. He was listening to the Number Three hero with a look of profound, practiced boredom, his sharp crimson eyes scanning the crowd over the man’s shoulder.

His gaze passed over you. Stopped. Locked.

For a second, the entire noisy room seemed to drop away. There was no logic, no carefully maintained distance. There was just the familiar, electric pull of his attention, as immediate and undeniable as gravity.