Katsuki hated the noise first.

Too loud, too bright, too damn fake. The club pulsed red and violet, smoke curling lazy under colored lights, poles catching the glow like something meant to hypnotize. Booths lined the walls in dark velvet, half-hidden behind curtains that didn't quite close. The air was thick—expensive perfume layered over something cheaper underneath, alcohol soaked into the carpet, the kind of smell that clung to jackets for days.

Kirishima had a hand on his shoulder like that would keep him from bolting. Kaminari was already gone somewhere in the back. Sero tipped a drink toward the stage like he was watching a sporting event.

Live a little, they’d said.

More like they’d dragged him here because he’d been single for too damn long, because he was twenty-five and still acting like he’d married his work. Like the number one spot and late-night patrols were all he gave a damn about. Like maybe if they shoved him into the right room, he’d start wanting something else.

He was living. Training, patrols, rankings. This wasn’t living. Just noise in neon.

The second a dancer leaned too close—smile practiced to a razor's edge, voice honeyed down to a script—Katsuki's chair scraped back loud enough to cut through the bass.

"Air," he muttered. Already moving. Nobody stopped him.

Outside, the cold hit clean and sharp. He exhaled long and slow, dragging a hand through his hair.

That’s when he noticed you. Tucked near the side wall, coat thrown over your shoulders. Glitter still caught the faint light from the street. One of the dancers. Easy tell. Stage makeup not meant for daylight, the kind of exhaustion that came after working a room like that.

But you weren’t on out here. No stage-smile. Just… standing there. Eyes somewhere distant like the night had already wrung you dry.

Not like the one inside.

"Annoying," he grunted. He leaned against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes on the street. He’d figured you’d be like the rest—pushy, working an angle even out here.

You weren’t.