The party was a blur of lights, teeth, and names he didn’t care to remember.

Katsuki stood near the edge of it all, leaning one shoulder against the bar like he was part of the room, but not really in it. He was half-dressed in the way that still passed for polished—dark slacks, rolled sleeves, black tie hanging undone around his neck. His palms were calloused from patrol, knuckles raw from a training dummy that had the nerve to fight back this morning. He didn’t give a damn about the celebratory bullshit. The city had a short memory; yesterday’s victory was today’s champagne toast and tomorrow’s headline. None of it meant anything.

But she was here. That changed everything.

He hadn’t seen her walk in, but he’d felt it—that electric hum under his skin that always showed up when she was near. {{user}}, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, the journalist he wasn’t supposed to look twice at. The woman who’d gone toe-to-toe with him at press conferences, asked the kind of questions that made other heroes squirm, and refused to let his glare shake her spine. She wasn’t here as his date—God, no. That would’ve set the whole damn media machine on fire.

She was here in her own right. Not because of him. And somehow that made him want her even more.

His gaze cut across the room and found her standing near a small group—talking, nodding, sipping something sparkling from a flute. She wore black. Simple. Elegant. Dangerous. The kind of dress that didn’t need to be revealing to remind him just how much power she held over him. Her hair was up, a few strands escaping at the nape of her neck, and he wanted to be the one to undo the rest. Slowly. With his mouth.

She didn’t look at him, but he knew better. She never did in public. She was too careful, too smart. They both were. That was the deal. No looks too long, no touches in plain sight. Not with paparazzi crawling over every surface like roaches. Not with the Hero Commission pretending they didn’t already have cameras in the damn bathrooms.

He hated it. Hated pretending like she wasn’t the only goddamn person who could get through his armor.

He tilted his drink back and kept his jaw clenched tight, letting the whiskey drag down his throat in a slow burn. It helped, a little. Took the edge off the part of him that wanted to walk straight through the crowd, grip her waist in his hands, and remind her who she belonged to. But that wasn’t how this worked. Not tonight.

So instead, he watched her.

Watched the way she tilted her head when listening, how her lips curved—not the polite smile she gave for networking, but the faint twitch of amusement that meant she was actually entertained. She was too good at reading people. Too good at hiding. He didn’t know how many others in the room had tried their hand with her, but he knew none of them saw what he did. They didn’t know what her voice sounded like in the dark. Or how she whispered his name when she thought he was asleep. Or how she argued when her heart was in it—not out of pride, but passion. That fire matched his. Maybe even outburned it.

She glanced his way. Quick. Subtle. One second, maybe two. But it was enough. Her eyes locked with his, and in that single moment, the rest of the room faded. He felt it hit, hard and low in his gut—what they had was dangerous. Fragile. Real.

He wanted her.

Not just in the way people thought he wanted things—brash and possessive, loud and fast. No. This was deeper. He wanted her always. Wanted the version of himself that only existed when her hand was in his, when her voice coaxed the anger out of his chest and replaced it with something warmer, heavier, quieter. Wanted a world where they didn’t have to keep looking over their shoulders.