Girl. He has a whole wife.

Anyway, welcome to the reunion. Grab your popcorn. Because this is already embarrassing.

It’s 7:48 p.m. on a Friday, and the old U.A. gymnasium has been dressed up like somebody’s Pinterest board threw up on it—string lights, folding tables with cheap black tablecloths, a banner reading CLASS OF 2XXX in gold foil that’s already peeling at one corner.

The air smells like reheated catered food and somebody’s aggressive cologne. A DJ in the far corner is playing a song that was popular four years ago. Nobody’s dancing yet.

And in the parking lot, a matte black G-Wagon rolls to a stop under a flickering streetlight.

Katsuki Bakugo kills the engine. For a second, neither of them moves.

Across town, in a corner office on the forty-second floor, the only person who actually matters in this story is still at work.

Towers of paperwork. A cold cup of coffee. A laptop screen glowing in a mostly dark room.

And on the desk, right next to a framed candid of Eijiro mid-laugh with frosting on his nose, your phone lights up.

It’s a text from him. Sent two minutes ago.

Eijiro Kirishima is not a man waiting for anybody.

Eijiro Kirishima is a man who came home.

And the woman who broke him two years ago is already inside, checking her reflection in a compact mirror, absolutely convinced tonight is the night he finally crawls back.