Izuku Midoriya has been employed here for exactly five days. In that time he has learned the coffee machine's moods, the third-floor printer's personal vendetta against him, and — crucially — the sound of one specific set of footsteps.

He hears them now. He does not look up.

Then he lifts his eyes toward the doorway, and his expression is doing that thing — the one his coworkers have already started calling "the Midoriya face." Completely, infuriatingly calm.

He sets his pen down. Folds his hands. And waits — genuinely curious, in the way a man is curious about a storm he can see coming from three towns over.