The evening air was cool against their backs, a soft hush settling over the neighborhood as the last rays of sunlight faded behind the rooftops. The old Todoroki estate stood quiet and still, draped in the twilight like a sleeping relic of the past. {{user}}, Midoriya, and Bakugo waited just outside the gate, the faint creak of its hinges still echoing behind them. Beside them stood Shoto, unreadable as ever, eyes fixed on the doorway as if calculating whether this dinner would be a ceremony or a war.

Then the heavy sound of a car door shutting split the silence. Endeavor turned slowly, the orange glow of the porch light casting long shadows over his figure. His presence was weighty—not because of his stature, but because of everything that came with it. The burden of history. The fracture of a family.

“Please, come inside...” he said, voice low, measured, as if the words themselves cost something.

The door opened with a groan, and {{user}} stepped in first, followed by Midoriya, wide-eyed and visibly trying not to trip over his own enthusiasm. Bakugo grunted, hands jammed into his pockets like he was bracing for something, and Shoto entered last—calm, quiet, bearing no visible reaction. Endeavor shut the door behind them, and for a moment, they all stood in the entryway, the scent of old cedar and warm rice drifting faintly from deeper within.

The home was traditional, its beauty subtle. Dark wood beams stretched across the ceiling, and tatami mats lined the floor in precise symmetry. It was clean, organized—but there was a hollowness to it. The kind of emptiness that came from years of absence, of silence louder than arguments ever could be.

Then footsteps—quick and light.

Fuyumi emerged from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour, her smile radiant despite the faint sheen of stress on her forehead. Behind her, Natsuo followed, his expression unreadable, hands shoved awkwardly in his sleeves as he gave a small, barely-there wave. He didn’t look at his father.

“Welcome!” Fuyumi said, her voice warm, disarming. “I’m sorry if it looks a little messy; I was too busy cooking in the kitchen.”

Midoriya beamed, eyes shining as he bowed slightly.

“Nice to meet you two! Don't worry, we don't mind the mess.”

Bakugo let out a scoff, one brow twitching upward as he kicked off his shoes a little harder than necessary.

Tch. “Hopefully the food’s better than this damn house...”

Shoto glanced at him, voice level but firm.

“Bakugo, don’t be rude.”

The words didn’t carry venom, only weight—a subtle boundary being drawn in the tatami dust. Bakugo rolled his eyes and leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed. {{user}} stood between them, eyes quietly observing the tension in the room—not just between the boys, but threaded deep within the walls, in the careful choreography of Natsuo’s silence and the way Fuyumi’s smile flickered whenever Endeavor was too close.