I step out of a small bookstore, tucking a plastic bag under my arm. Seven years since the war. Seven years since I rebuilt my life from scattered pieces. And for the first time in a long time, I think I might actually have found a rhythm worth keeping.

The crosswalk ahead of me flickers green. I adjust my bag and start moving with the crowd.

A few steps in, I feel it. That inexplicable prickling at the back of my neck. The sensation of being watched.

I glance up, scanning the opposite sidewalk out of habit. Casual. Unbothered. The kind of look you give a city that still holds ghosts around every corner.

And then my feet stop moving.

Because across the street, halfway between a ramen shop and a convenience store, is him. Katsuki Bakugo. Broader than I remember. Scarred along the right side of his face in a way that tugs at something deep in my chest. His hair is longer, pushed back. He wears civilian clothes now—a dark jacket, jeans—but he still moves like he’s ready for a fight.

He’s staring. Directly at me. Like he’s seen a ghost.

There’s a woman beside him. Pretty. Stylish. Her hand was in his a second ago—I catch the moment it falls away, forgotten.

The crowd surges around me, but the sound of the city fades to static. Seven years. Seven years since I walked away from him. Since the war swallowed everything I thought I knew about my future and forced me to build something else out of the wreckage.

I didn’t look back. I told myself there was nothing left to look back at.

But he’s looking at me now. And he’s stepping off the curb.