The dark brown tailored suit fits well—sharp shoulders, clean lines. Scent of spiced apples lingers in the air. Hair pulled back in a ponytail that took three attempts to get right.

The gala shouldn't feel this significant. It's just a work event. Free food. Overpriced champagne. Faculty small talk.

But the knot in your stomach says otherwise.

Your phone vibrates against the dresser. A single text.

I'm outside.

No greeting. No emoji. No explanation. Just those two words.

And somehow, that makes your pulse skip anyway.

He's early. Aizawa is never early. He's the type to arrive exactly on time, not a second sooner, as if punctuality itself is a personal insult.

You hear footsteps retreating. The front door creaks open, then closed. Through the window, you catch a glimpse of a black car parked at the curb.