Renovation, I quickly learn, is just a fancy word for controlled chaos with occasional progress.

And by "occasional," I mean we spend three hours arguing about tiles.

"White," Mom says, holding up a sample.

"Boring," I reply immediately.

"Clean."

"Soulless."

She narrows her eyes at me. "Do you want customers or not?"

"I want style," I shoot back, holding up a darker tile. "This says 'cool, modern café.' Yours says 'hospital hallway.'"

"It does not!"

"It does. I feel like I need to sanitize my hands just looking at it."

She huffs.

I grin.

This is how most of our decisions go.

—

But somehow—

Somehow—it starts coming together.

Slowly.

Painfully.

But visibly.

The floor is the first real change.

We settle on something in between (after way too much debate): warm-toned tiles, not too dark, not too bright. Something that actually feels... welcoming.

The day they go in, I stand in the middle of the café and just stare.

"...okay," I admit. "This is an upgrade."

Mom smiles, brushing dust off her hands. "Told you."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

I step carefully across the new floor, testing it like it might betray me.

It doesn't.

Rude. I was kind of hoping for dramatic effect.

—

Next: windows.

Or rather—replacing the windows.

Because the old ones?

Yeah, no.

"Are you sure this is safe?" I ask, watching as the cracked glass gets removed.

"It will be," Mom says.

"That's not reassuring."

But when the new windows go in—

It's different.

The light changes.

Before, it was dull. Filtered through dust and age.

Now?

It actually shines.

Warm sunlight spills into the café, hitting the new tiles, reflecting softly off the walls.

I blink.

"...okay, that's actually really nice."

Mom glances at me, smiling like she knew I'd say that.

"Right?"

"Don't get used to me agreeing with you."

"Too late."

—

Then comes the walls.

Painting.

Which sounds simple.

It is not.

"Okay," I say, holding a roller. "Game plan: we do this efficiently, cleanly, and without turning this place into a crime scene."

"Agreed," Mom nods.

We make it—

ten minutes.

Ten.

Minutes.

Before there's paint on my arm.

I stare at it.

Slowly.

"...this feels like a personal attack."

"I didn't even touch you!" she laughs.

"Suspicious."

I dip the roller again.

Pause.

Then—

I flick a tiny bit of paint in her direction.

Not much.

Just enough.

She freezes.

Looks down at her sleeve.

Then back at me.

"...Izuku."

I grin.

"Oops."

There's a moment of silence.

A calm before the storm.

"...you did not just—"

She grabs a brush.

Oh no.

"Oh, you wouldn't—"

She absolutely would.

And does.

"HEY—"

Paint. Everywhere.

"THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A PROFESSIONAL ENVIRONMENT!"

"You started it!"

"I REGRET NOTHING—"

I dodge, laughing, grabbing a cloth like that's going to help me defend myself.

It doesn't.

Five minutes later, we're both a mess.

Paint on our hands, our clothes, probably in my hair.

I pause, breathing a little hard.

Look at her.

She looks at me.

And then—

We both start laughing.

The kind that makes your stomach hurt.

The kind that feels... easy.

"...we're never going to finish at this rate," I say between laughs.

"Probably not," she agrees.

"...worth it."

"Definitely."

—

We do eventually finish the walls.

Warm colors.

Soft greens and creams, with a few darker accents.

It doesn't scream "hero."

It doesn't need to.

It feels—

Calm.

Safe.

Like a place people might actually want to stay.

"...we did that," I say quietly, looking around.

Mom nods.

"We did."

—

Then comes the furniture.

Or rather—

The resurrection of the furniture.

Because buying new?

Yeah, no. Not happening.

"We can fix this," Mom says, eyeing one of the old tables.

I raise an eyebrow.

"This?"

"Yes."

"It's actively falling apart."

"It has potential."

"It has termites."

"Izuku."

"Fine," I sigh. "But if this collapses under a customer, I'm blaming you."

We get to work.

Sanding.

Repairing.

Repainting.

What used to look like abandoned junk slowly starts to look... intentional.

The tables get a fresh coat of paint.

The chairs get reinforced (because I refuse to be responsible for someone dramatically falling mid-coffee).

Even the counter—

The counter—

Ends up looking almost new after we clean it, fix the edges, and repaint it.

I run my hand over it when we're done.

"...okay," I admit. "That's kind of impressive."

Mom smiles proudly.

"See? No need to throw everything away."

"Yeah, yeah. You're wise and experienced. I get it."

She laughs.

—

Some days are just work.

Long.

Exhausting.

By the time we get home, I collapse on my bed and question every life choice that led me here.

"Why didn't I just become a normal student?" I groan into my pillow. "This was a terrible idea. I could've had homework instead of... whatever this is."

But then—

There are days like this.

"Give me that," Mom says, trying to grab the mop from me.

"No," I say, holding it out of reach. "I'm cleaning."

"You're making it worse."

"I'm innovating."

"That's not innovation!"

She lunges.

I dodge.

"Oh, you want it?" I grin. "Come get it."

"Izuku—"

Too late.

I take off.

She chases me.

Around the café.

Between half-finished tables and paint cans.

"This is highly unprofessional!" I call over my shoulder.

"You started it!"

"That's not the point!"

She almost catches me—

I slip—

Recover—

"Wow," I say, breathless. "That was almost a workplace accident."

"I'm going to make it one if you don't give me that mop!"

"Never—"

She grabs it.

We both freeze.

"...okay, now what?" I ask.

She smirks.

Oh no.

"No—don't you dare—"

Too late.

Water.

Everywhere.

"YOU DID NOT JUST—"

She laughs.

I stare at my now slightly soaked shirt.

Then grin slowly.

"...you've made a mistake."

And just like that—

Round two begins.

—

By the end of the month—

It's not perfect.

Not even close.

There are still things to fix.

Details to figure out.

But when I stand in the middle of the café now—

It doesn't look like ruin anymore.

It looks like something real.

Something ours.

I glance around.

At the floors.

The walls.

The windows.

The furniture we rescued.

"...huh," I say quietly.

Mom looks at me.

"What?"

I shove my hands in my pockets, a small smile tugging at my lips.

"...we actually did it."

She smiles.

"Yeah."

I look around one more time.

At the place that started as a broken idea—

And somehow turned into this.

"...not bad for a couple of amateurs," I mutter.

"Not bad at all," she agrees.