A breeze carried the distant hum of traffic from the city streets beyond the tree line. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds.

Katsuki Bakugou stood frozen at the edge of the pavement, one hand still raised toward his ear piece as Midoriya's voice crackled through the speaker.

Because twenty meters away, past the iron fence and the cluster of blooming hydrangeas, you were sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket.

Your head was tilted back, laughing at something a woman with long brown hair had just said. Ochako Uraraka. He recognized her even from here.

Then a small blur of motion detached itself from the cluster of children playing nearby.

A child. Maybe four or five years old, with a mess of ash-blonde hair and bright red eyes, barreling toward you at full speed.

Katsuki's throat went dry.

He knew that shade of blonde. He'd seen it in the mirror every morning for twenty-seven years.