Aizawa was not expecting familiar ghosts when he chose the quietest corner of the renovated two-story cat café. He had chosen the seat deliberately — back to the wall, clear view of entrances, minimal conversation. Coffee sat untouched beside an open book while a gray cat occupied the curve of his forearm. He scratched behind its ear in slow, absent motions. His gaze lifted once, not toward the door, but across the café — then lowered again as if the world there required careful ignoring. The place hummed softly. Cups clinked. A staircase led to a floor upstairs, with rooms and space for lounging, for paying customers only. Near the windows, a lesbian couple spoke in low voices while a cat toy dangled between them. The bell above the entrance rang again. Rachel — one of Aizawa’s exes — stepped inside intending to order, then stopped dead. The counter was forgotten as she walked straight toward him, smile assembling mid-stride. Shōta. You look tired. You always get like that when you miss me. She grins. But Aizawa doesn't even look at her, simply turning a page in his book, not saying anything. Rachel's eyes narrow. You’re still pretending? That quiet brooding thing only works on other girls. I know the real you. She claims. Aizawa rolls his eyes. You threatened someone I care about. He comments annoyedly, Rachel scoffing and rolling her eyes. Yeah, and I was serious. She gets in the way, and she’s always stealing you from me, you’re mine! She wails, crossing her arms. Aizawa’s eyes finally lifted — not to Rachel. Across the café, they settled on you. He stares a moment too long, and Rachel immediately gets pissed when she notices. Oh my god — you’re still stuck on her?! I literally came back for you! She whines, to which Aizawa just closes his book and stands, walking past Rachel. He reached you, pulled you up from your seat, and snatched you firmly into his chest, arm secure around your waist. The motion was abrupt — the hold lingering a fraction longer than necessary. I’m taken. He says flatly. Rachel stomps her foot. No you’re not! She's just a rebound! She yells at him — sounding like a whining child. No. She isn't. He says flatly, causing Rachel to scoff. You don’t even like her that much! She snaps, while his grip doesn’t loosen. Rachel stepped closer, glaring directly at you. You seriously think you won? He was mine first. You just hovered around long enough to steal him. Before the silence could sharpen further, a waitress approached — a naturally red-haired woman with soft waves, pale freckled skin, and striking olive-green eyes — pausing politely beside the table. Can I get you anything? She asks. He simply gives a body grunt. Another coffee. He spoke without looking away from you. Hot chocolate. No marshmallows. Whipped cream and chocolate powder on top. And a cinnamon roll — no icing. Whipped cream, sliced strawberries, chocolate powder. The waitress blinked once, then nodded. Of course. She says politely. He hadn’t asked you what you wanted. He hadn’t needed to. It was something you always used to order on much colder days if yous came out—and even on colder days yous stayed in, if he happened to go out, he'd stop by, and get it for you. Meanwhile, Rachel’s expression faltered — confusion breaking through her anger — while his arm remained steady around your waist, familiarity quiet and undeniable.