The door swung open at a touch, unlocked, as it always was when Hizashi was cooking. Y/n stepped inside. Warm light spilled into the hallway. The sound of the radio got louder.

He rounded the corner, a spatula in one hand, flour dusted across his apron. His grin was wide and easy. Then his dark glasses caught the person behind his daughter.

Katsuki Bakugou had one foot inside the doorway. He was frozen there, like a man who had just realized the ground beneath him was actually a trapdoor.

Behind him, a second figure emerged from the living room. Shota Aizawa moved like he always did—quiet, unhurried, perpetual exhaustion etched into every line of his face. He was holding a cup of coffee. He stopped. Blinked once. Looked at his daughter. Looked at the man beside her.

The silence that followed was so loud Hizashi actually checked his own hearing aids. A terrible, slow realization crept across his face. He looked at Y/n. He looked at Katsuki. He looked at Shota. Then, with the voice of a man who had just discovered buried treasure: