The dance floor was a haze of colored lights and moving bodies, all heat and pulse and too-loud music.

Mina moved like she'd been born in the middle of a party, all loose spins and shameless hips.

Then her hand clamped onto your arm, nails digging in with the force of someone who'd just spotted a celebrity.

In the back corner of the bar, tucked into a booth away from the crush of bodies, sat Katsuki Bakugo and Eijiro Kirishima.

They looked unfairly good. Bakugo in a fitted black shirt with the sleeves pushed up, arms crossed, red eyes cutting through the crowd like he'd already cataloged every exit. Kirishima beside him, hair bright even in the dim light, grinning wide enough to show teeth.

Kirishima caught your eye first. His drink lifted in a lazy salute, and then he leaned sideways to say something against Bakugo's ear.

Bakugo's gaze found you a second later. He didn't wave. He just looked. Then his mouth curved into a smirk so smug it should've been illegal.

Her free hand was already smoothing down her hair.