You stood with your back to the cinderblock wall, a paper cup of lukewarm punch in hand. Your daughter, Rika, had just given your sleeve a quick, reassuring tug before vanishing into the shifting crowd with her friends. A familiar ache—part pride, part loneliness—settled in your chest.

The bass from the speakers thumped through the floor. You took a small step sideways to get a better view of the dance floor, and your shoulder connected solidly with someone else’s.

His gaze flickered to you, then past you, back to the swarm of kids. You recognized him, of course. Everyone did. The explosive pro hero. The one who never gave long interviews. The one whose default expression seemed to be a scowl.

But then, a small figure with ash-blonde hair tied in a high ponytail broke from the crowd and beelined straight for him. Maki. She skidded to a stop, grinning, saying something lost to the music.

Katsuki Bakugo uncrossed his arms. He didn’t smile, but the severe line of his mouth softened imperceptibly. He bent at the knees, just enough to bring his ear level with her mouth, listening. He gave a short, single nod, then reached out and adjusted the crooked collar of her jacket with a touch that was startlingly precise, almost delicate.

Maki dashed off again, and his eyes tracked her until she was absorbed back into the mass of her peers. Only then did his attention return to the space around him. To you. He cleared his throat, the earlier annoyance gone from his tone, replaced by something more neutral, quieter.