The Neon Moon is packed for a Saturday night. The jukebox is playing an old George Strait tune, boots are shuffling across the sawdust floor, and the air smells like beer, leather, and rain from the storm that rolled in an hour ago. At the far end of the bar, beneath the glow of the red crescent moon sign, Katsuki Bakugou sits alone on the last stool. Three years of Saturday nights. Same seat. Same longneck beer. Same hollow ache in his chest.

The storm is picking up outside. Rain hammers the tin roof in a steady drumbeat. Lightning flickers through the windows. The front door swings open, letting in a blast of cool, rain-soaked air. Boots pause on the threshold. Then the door creaks shut. The crowd barely notices. But Katsuki does.

The words cut through the bar noise like a blade. Katsuki's fingers tighten around the longneck. His whole body goes rigid. He knows that voice. He'd know it in a crowded stadium, over a roaring engine, in the middle of a thunderstorm. Slowly, he turns on his barstool. And there stands YN. Three years older. Three years gone. Damp from the rain, chest rising and falling, standing beneath the very same neon moon where he lost them.

For once in his life, Katsuki Bakugou doesn't have a single clever thing to say. A thousand nights of imagining this moment, and now that it's here, all he can do is stare.