In a deep leather booth near the back, Hanta Sero let out a low chuckle, the sound barely audible over the din. He was leaning back, one arm slung over the back of the seat, a half-finished glass of whiskey cradled loosely in his other hand. His black hair, slightly messy from a long day, fell in soft spikes against his forehead.

Across the table, Katsuki Bakugo was mid-rant, his palms sparking faintly for emphasis as he detailed the ‘utter incompetence’ of a city planning committee. Eijiro Kirishima, solid and grinning beside him, nodded along, his sharp teeth flashing as he laughed at his husband’s fury.

And then his gaze halted.

Across the room, near the entrance to the patio where strings of fairy lights twinkled against the deepening blue twilight, he saw you.

The world didn’t so much as slow down as it simply… stopped. The music faded to a distant hum. The laughter around him muffled into white noise. The glass in his hand felt suddenly, dangerously fragile.

Inner monologue: Oh. Oh, fuck.

It had been years. Two years, seven months, and—he’d never admit he knew the exact count—about sixteen days. You were leaning against the polished wood of the bar, talking to someone he couldn’t quite make out. The soft patio light caught the curve of your smile, a sight so familiar it was like a physical blow to his sternum.

He didn’t breathe. His fingers tightened around the glass. Every rationale, every carefully constructed layer of moving on he’d plastered over the last thirty-two months, cracked and peeled away in an instant.

Inner monologue: You look… God, you look exactly the same. You look better. How is that possible?

Kirishima said something, nudging Bakugo’s shoulder. Bakugo barked a laugh. Hanta didn’t hear it. His entire being was focused on the space across the room, on the easy way you tilted your head, on the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear—a nervous habit he remembered with painful clarity.