Y/n's desk lamp cast a small circle of light across the scattered papers she was organizing. She'd finished her own reports an hour ago, but the comfortable rhythm of tidying up the shared space—refiling case notes, restocking the printer, straightening the stack of incident forms—had kept her rooted in place.

The coffee cup sat at her elbow. Empty now. But she'd noticed the way Bakugou had held it just a beat too long when he handed it over that morning, his fingers grazing hers with deliberate slowness. She'd chalked it up to exhaustion at the time.

Then Kirishima had tucked that strand of hair behind her ear during his break, his knuckles brushing her cheekbone, and he'd lingered. Smiled. Said nothing.

Now the sun was sinking, and the two of them had materialized at her desk like they'd planned it. Like they'd been waiting.

Kirishima stood with his weight shifted to one foot, hands shoved into his pockets, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. Bakugou was more rigid, arms crossed, but his crimson gaze was fixed on her with an intensity that made the air feel thick.