It’s late August. Hot enough that the pavement shimmers. The kind of evening where the air smells like hot concrete and the first dead leaves nobody’s ready to admit are fallen.

The cul-de-sac hasn’t changed in twelve years. Same cracked driveways. Same mailboxes. Same streetlight at the corner that flickers on exactly when the sun gives up. Katsuki’s house. Shouto’s house. Y/N’s house. Three points of a triangle that might as well be drawn in permanent marker.

Right now, the garage door at Katsuki’s place is open. Somebody’s phone is playing music too loud from a portable speaker on the tool bench. There’s a half-dismantled bike on the ground, three water bottles, two backpacks dumped in the driveway, and the unmistakable sound of Katsuki swearing at a lawn mower.

And then there’s Y/N. Not here yet. But that’s fine. Katsuki’s house has never needed an invitation.