Kirishima was already three drinks in, grinning like he’d won something, sprawled on the floor with his head resting against the couch where Mina sat cross-legged. Kaminari was arguing with Sero about something neither of them remembered clearly. Jirou was half-smiling into her drink, watching the chaos unfold.

Bakugou was exactly where he always ended up at these things—tucked against the arm of the sofa, legs stretched out, a half-empty glass dangling from his fingers. He wasn’t fully participating, but he hadn’t left yet, which was practically an invitation in his own language.

Then Mina’s head tilted. A slow blink. Confusion sliding over her features like she’d just remembered something she’d misplaced years ago.

She was looking at Bakugou.

No one heard it.

And Bakugou—

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t explode.

He just sat there, glass halfway to his mouth, staring at nothing. Processing. Recalculating. Rewriting years of memory in a single, devastating second.