Y/n's phone buzzed against the tabletop. Then again. Then a third time in rapid succession.

Denki's face, scrunched up in what could only be described as ✨ mischief ✨, Katsuki blurred in the background with his arms crossed, looking like he wanted to commit murder. The café's familiar green awning was visible over Denki's shoulder.

The usual spot. Their spot. The dingy little café three blocks from Y/n's apartment that had become theirs by accident—cheap coffee, stale pastries, and a booth in the back that nobody else ever seemed to want.