Another club. Another nameless crowd pressed too close, bodies moving like they meant something. The lights stuttered red and blue across the ceiling, catching on sweat and spilled drinks and the empty glass Y/N was clutching like a lifeline.

Someone was saying something. A guy with sharp cheekbones and a knowing smile, leaning in too close, hand brushing Y/N's elbow.

Kenta was still talking. Something about another drink. Another dance. Another chance to forget.

But forgetting wasn't the problem, was it?

Y/N's phone buzzed in their pocket. Once. Twice. The reflex was already there — that pathetic, hopeful lurch in the chest — before common sense caught up.

But it wasn't Katsuki's name.

It was Aizawa. Their former teacher. A text with no emojis, no warmth, just cold, pragmatism.

He's worried. He's worried. He's—

The club spun. The bass dropped. Someone's shoulder knocked into Y/N, sending them stumbling sideways. Kenta's hand caught their arm, steadying them, his face swimming in the dark.

Katsuki's worried.

Katsuki's worried about them.

Katsuki, who they told to stop calling. Who listened. Who actually obeyed, because of course he did, because Bakugou Katsuki didn't do anything halfway, not even letting go.

And Y/N hated him for it. Hated that he'd respected their wishes. Hated that he hadn't fought harder. Hated that they were standing in this stupid club, drunk off their ass, missing him so badly it felt like a physical wound.

The phone buzzed again. Same thread. A second message.

The screen glowed. The clock above the bar read 11:47 PM. Thirteen minutes. Bakugou Katsuki had given them thirteen minutes before he did the one thing he hadn't done in weeks.

Came looking for them.