Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be just another elementary school field trip.

The bus stopped in front of the city’s astronomy museum; teachers told everyone to “stay together,” and the class immediately scattered like starlight.

Nine-year-old Midoriya Izuku stared up, awestruck.

Some kids mashed buttons to make comets streak across the digital ceiling. Others pressed their faces against the glass, trying to touch the meteorites beyond.

Bakugo Katsuki stood at the center of a circle of boys, smirking as he read the plaques with mock authority. “Tch. This is nothing. Bet I could blast a meteor out of the sky myself.” His friends roared with laughter. Normally, Izuku would’ve been there too, clapping and cheering — but today, something else tugged at him.

A glowing display showed planets circling a bright yellow sun. As the orbits turned, a calm voice narrated:

“For thousands of years, people believed Earth was the center. In the 16th century, Copernicus proposed a heliocentric model — that Earth orbits the sun. A simple shift that changed how we see the universe.”

Izuku froze.

Wait… everyone thought the sun went around us? But it’s us that move?

He crouched by the railing, pulled out his battered notebook, and scrawled, the words too big for the lines:

Copernican Revolution = Earth NOT center!!
Earth = orbiting!! Sun = center!!
THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING

He even doodled All Might flying across the sun.

It felt like turning the world upside down — just by thinking differently. A quiet idea powerful enough to change history.

Could he ever do that for someone? Could he be someone’s “shift”?

The thought planted itself deep, like a star at the edge of his universe.

Years later, it would stop being theory.

It would come as a small smile, a simple promise, a hand reaching back — and just like that, his world would move.

Chapter Text

Rain tapped softly against the panes of Izuku’s U.A. faculty office. He leaned back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling, mind far from the lesson plans on his desk.

It kept circling back to that night — the Class A reunion.

He’d sat between Todoroki and Bakugo. Nothing fancy, just laughter and easy chatter. Sero’s terrible jokes. Iida standing up mid-toast (of course). Kaminari’s pun getting booed by Jirou. Hagakure announcing that Kinoko and Kuroiro were officially dating. What stayed with Izuku wasn’t a single moment — it was the ease. The way they spoke without the weight of battle pressing down.

“Once you finally have some breathing room, you realize what you want to do,” Todoroki had said. For him, that meant learning to enjoy ordinary things — pottery classes, quiet meals, living beyond the fight.

Later, Bakugo pulled up in a new car. Kirishima called “Shotgun!” before Izuku could react, leaving him the back seat. They talked shop — agency gossip, hero rankings — until Bakugo side-eyed him.

“Oi. You quittin’ teaching or what?”

“Nah,” Izuku laughed. “I like doing both — teaching and hero work. And… thanks again for all the gear support. It’s what makes that possible.”

“Tch.” A pause. Then, quieter: “Start thinkin’ higher of yourself. Keep makin’ everyone ‘special’ and you’ll miss what’s right in front of you.”

The words hit a familiar chord — the same one that echoed from U.A.’s rooftop, when Uraraka Ochako had stood trembling but resolute before angry civilians, begging them to let him rest inside the school. Asking them to see heroes as human. Offering not an excuse, but hope.

Now, sitting at his desk, the memories blurred together — and with them came the memory of what happened after the dinner, when everyone had gone their separate ways. Stations. Dorms. Apartments.

He’d found himself running through the cold night streets, searching for her.

His loafers splashed through shallow puddles, breath clouding in the air, streetlamps pooling gold on the wet concrete. Then, he saw her silhouette and called out:

“Uraraka-san!”

She turned, surprised. “Deku-kun?”

Under a streetlight, her hair catching the wind, she looked soft — and a little startled. He had no plan, just a heart beating too fast and a truth that tumbled out anyway.

“I think highly of everyone — I always have. But tonight, I especially feel like—”

“I want to see more of you. Not just today… but later on too.”

Remembering it now, he groaned into his hands, face burning.

Oh no. I really said that. Out loud. To her.

And in that embarrassing memory, something else clicked — a quiet, dizzying realization. Ochako wasn’t just one of the countless stars scattered across his sky anymore. Somehow, without him noticing, she had begun to feel like the point everything else in his world might start to turn around.

They’d been friends since their very first day at U.A. Not just casual friends — the kind who could read each other’s intentions mid-battle, who could recognize fear even in silence. He remembered her floating him to safety during the war even while she was bleeding herself, or he catching her midair during training — how she’d laugh it off, breathless and smiling.

Once, he had even told her she was his hero.

That was supposed to be enough.

…So why wasn’t it?

“Do I… want more than that?” he whispered, horrified by his own honesty.

It felt strange — unsettling, even — to realize that the center of his world might be shifting. For so long, his life had revolved around saving people, chasing villains, and living up to a legacy. But lately, that steady orbit was tilting, tugged by something — someone — far more personal.

And then, inevitably — panic.

What if she’d only said yes to be polite?

He collapsed forward onto the desk, forehead thunking against his paperwork. “I’m gonna die. Just disintegrate. Right here.”

But her face from that night wouldn’t stop replaying in his head — glowing beneath the city lights, eyes soft and warm, voice steady and gentle. She was beautiful. She always was. But that night, she’d looked different. Closer. More real. Their hands had clasped. Her warmth had sunk into his fingers.

They’d promised to see each other again.

And now?

He stared down at the message on his phone. Still unsent.

What am I even asking? A movie? A walk? Dinner? Everything sounded wrong. Too formal. Too casual. Too personal. Too out-of-character for the version of them that only existed in “just friends” territory.

I just want to see her again. That’s all. Right? Just hear her laugh. Just talk. Just—

His thumbs hovered, trembling.

He typed:

“Hello Uraraka-san, how are you? Glad seeing you the other night. I was wondering if—”
Delete. Too formal.

Next try:

“Hey, I got these movie tickets… wanna come with me?”
Delete. Way too forward.

Another attempt:

“There’s a musical this weekend… it’s supposed to be good… no pressure though!!”

He stared at the screen, horrified. “‘No pressure though’?!” he hissed, already deleting.

He groaned and collapsed onto his desk, flopping the phone onto his face. “Why is this so hard?! It’s just an invitation….”

The phone buzzed softly in his palm. But he still couldn’t bring himself to send anything.

⸻

Dinner with friends was supposed to be relaxing. Supposed to take his mind off things.

The little soba shop Todoroki liked was warm and unpretentious — steamed-up windows, bamboo blinds, the faint aroma of dashi soaked into the wood. Worn tables gleamed from years of use, and the soft clink of bowls mingled with the steady hiss of boiling broth.

Izuku sat wedged between Bakugo, all elbows and scowls, and Todoroki across from him — their usual formation. These dinners had started after the war, born from one quiet moment when Todoroki had said, “My family issues are my own. Sorry for dragging you both in… but when you came to eat with me and my family, I was glad.”

Izuku had blurted back, “Then—when things got more settled down… should we eat together again sometime?”

Todoroki had smiled, soft and faint. “I’d like that.”

Bakugo, naturally, had grumbled something about “damn nerds making it sentimental.” But the routine stuck.

Now, Todoroki held his chopsticks with his usual poise. “This place reminds me of my sister’s cooking,” he said. “The soba is delicious. Most of all, I like eating with you two.”

Bakugo snorted. “You like it ‘cause it’s plain. No drama. Just noodles.”

“That’s the point,” Todoroki replied evenly.

Izuku chuckled, but his hand drifted toward his pocket. Normally he’d be fully absorbed in moments like this, letting the warmth of familiar voices of his best friends drown everything else. Tonight, though, his thoughts tugged elsewhere. The phone in his pocket seemed to burn against his palm.

He pulled it out. Stared at the cursed draft message again, thumb hovering like it weighed a hundred pounds. With a grimace, he locked the screen and shoved it away.

Too late.

“What the hell are you hiding, nerd?” Bakugo’s eyes narrowed.

“N-nothing! Just—just a draft!” Izuku flailed.

Bakugo’s smirk was already sharp. “What, you writing a damn essay? Thought you were supposed to be the teacher, not the other way around.”

Izuku went crimson. “Ahhh, actually, Kacchan… could you maybe proofread it for me? It’s just—a message. An invitation thing—”

“Tch. Get to the point already.”

The phone was snatched away from his hand before he finished.

“‘Hey Uraraka-san, I was wondering if maybe sometime you—’” Bakugo read aloud, sneering like the words themselves were an insult. “What the hell is this? A job interview? Just ask her out already, nerd.”

“I-I was going to!”

“Then freaking do it!”

With merciless precision, Bakugo hit send.

“Kacchan, NO!!” Izuku collapsed onto the table like he’d been decked by a top-tier villain. "I wasn't even ready for this..." At least not yet...

“Tch. If I didn’t do it, you’d still be sittin’ there overthinking it.” Bakugo snorted, leaning back with his arms crossed. “Cuz you’re so busy orbiting around everyone else you can’t even see what’s right in front of you.”

Todoroki calmly slurped another noodle. “That was nice. He was trying to help you.”

Izuku groaned into his folded arms—

Ping.

Ochako🍵: Sure! That sounds good. When?

Izuku froze mid-wail.

Bakugo leaned back, arms crossed, slightly smug. “You’re welcome.”

Izuku shot upright, panicked. “Wait, I’m not ready—I haven’t even thought of where to take her—!”

Todoroki blinked. “You can start thinking now.”

Bakugo groaned, shoving a hand into his jacket pocket. With exaggerated annoyance, he slapped two colorful tickets onto the table. “You’re a hopeless loser. Here. ‘Plus Ultra: All Might Golden Age Heroes’ at Musutafu Hero Land.’ Got ’em from my shoot. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Izuku’s eyes went wide, practically glowing. “Wha—WHAT?! Plus Ultra: Golden Age Heroes?! That’s the limited-time collab with the commemorative hero badges, the gold-foil trading cards, and the special snack menu — oh gosh, they even brought back the Detroit Smash Churro! Kacchan, this is—this is—!!”

Todoroki chewed quietly, watching Izuku practically vibrate. “You seem happier now.”

Bakugo pushed his empty bowl away with a snort. “Of course he is. Nerd runs on All Might merch like it’s oxygen.”

⸻

The late afternoon sun slanted across the agency windows as Ochako slipped out, tugging her jacket tighter around her shoulders. Patrol had gone smoothly today — a string of petty thefts handled, a collapsed fence repaired with her quirk, and one elderly resident escorted safely across a flooded crosswalk. Nothing headline-worthy, but steady progress. She felt a sense of satisfaction.

Her last stop had been a home visit for her quirk counseling work. A little boy whose parents had worried over his withdrawn behavior finally greeted her at the door with a shy smile. He was starting to open up, to his classmates and to the world again. Ochako’s chest swelled with relief… until that smile flickered against another face in her memory. Pale skin, trembling lips, and the glint in his eye.

The desperation in the pair of eyes reminding her of Toga Himiko.

Ochako lingered outside the building after the visit, the cold air biting her cheeks. She’d told herself for years: if she had only listened more carefully back then, if she had been braver, if she had said the right words at the right time… maybe Toga wouldn’t have needed to face death. Maybe she could have been saved.

That guilt had planted itself deep. It was why she devoted so much energy to this kind of counseling work — home visits, follow-ups, patient listening. To make sure no child who teetered on the edge ever slipped through the cracks again.

That’s one of the reasons why I keep pushing forward, she reminded herself, breathing out into the cold. Because I couldn’t do it for her.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced down.

Deku🥦: Hey Uraraka-san, I was wondering if maybe sometime you want to hang out?

Ochako froze mid-step.

Her heart leapt into her throat.

Oh god… That night after the class dinner flashed before her eyes: him jogging after her down the quiet street, breathless under the lamplight, blurting those impossible words — “I want to see more of you.” She had barely recovered from that, had barely convinced herself to read it as a friendly wish. And now… this.

Don’t read too much into this, Ochako! she scolded herself, clutching the phone tighter.

She breathe in deeply, and typed in her replied, keeping her reply tone light and casual.

Another message popped up almost immediately:

Deku🥦: Oh sorry!! That was—uh—Kacchan stole my phone. I mean—he didn’t steal it, I asked him for suggestions and then he—anyway! Sorry if that was weird!! 😅

Ochako blinked. Then burst out laughing.

So him…

Ping.

Deku🥦: But I do have these tickets! To the “Plus Ultra: All Might Golden Age Heroes” collab event at Musutafu Hero Land! They brought back the original merch lineup, there’s a Golden Age Coaster, and even popcorn buckets shaped like his gauntlets!! I thought maybe you’d like to come?? Only if you’re free though!! 😳

Her lips curled into a smile, involuntary and warm. All-Might themed Popcorn buckets. Of course. Classic Deku — the way his voice practically leapt off the screen in fanboy sparkles.

Still…

She took a breath. Stop. Stop reading into it. You know better.

After all… they were good friends. That alone is something precious, and should be enough.

Wasn’t it?
Yet somewhere beneath the calm she tried to hold onto, she felt it — the faintest tug, like gravity shifting. As if she were drifting out of a safe, familiar orbit… and fighting not to be pulled closer.

⸻

That evening, she stopped by Tsuyu’s apartment. The place smelled faintly of tea, steam curling from a small kettle. Tsuyu sat at the table, methodically peeling an apple, her steady hands precise as always.

“So,” Tsuyu said without preamble, eyes flicking up. “He asked you out, huh?”

Ochako nearly dropped her cup. “Wh—what?! No no, it’s not like that!”

“Midoriya finally acted. Took him long enough. Ribbit.”

Ochako waved both hands, cheeks burning. “He’s just… he’s just like that! He cares about everyone. So, he’s definitely doing the same to me. After all, we haven’t talk properly in a while. I think he just wants to reconnect as friends. And that’s fine. Really, it’s more than enough.”

I can’t let myself hope too much.

Her words tumbled faster, defensive. Back in high school, she had liked him. But because she didn’t want to get in the way of either of their paths, she always covered it with easy friendship — a fist bump, a joke, cheering each other on like purest teammates. She never wanted him to mistake/notice her feelings, never wanted to hold him back.

After graduation, they had gone different ways: he into teaching, she into pro hero work and quirk counseling. Their meetings became rare. And she kept hiding her feelings. Hiding had become habit, so ingrained she wasn’t sure how to stop.

Tsuyu rolled her eyes with exaggerated patience, making Ochako laugh nervously. “You’re both twenty-four. Still stuck at grade-school crush level. Ribbit.”

Ochako groaned, collapsing against the table, hiding her face. “Don’t say it like that…”

Tsuyu slid the peeled apple slices toward her. “I’ll say it anyway. It’s pathetic. But… kinda cute. You two are still circling each other after all these years — like planets too scared to close the distance.”

Ochako peeked out between her fingers, cheeks hot, torn between laughter and tears.

Chapter Text

He’d tucked the two tickets carefully into the small inner pocket of his yellow backpack like precious cargo. They’d already agreed on a time—tomorrow. The thought tied his stomach in knots and made it flutter all at once. What should he do? What should he say? Was this… a date? The more he tried to decide, the fuzzier it got.

Eventually exhaustion won. His breathing slowed—and as he slipped into sleep, the past rose up to meet him.

In his dream, he was transported back at U.A.’s gates on entrance-exam day, floodlights slicing long stripes across the pavement.

He stumbled — and a girl’s hand caught his sleeve, weightless and warm, stopping his fall.

“Are you okay?” she asked with a bright, slightly apologetic smile. “That was my Quirk — sorry for acting on instinct. But, y’know… falling on your first day would’ve been a bit unlucky.”

He couldn’t even manage a proper response — just a strangled squeak, every neuron in his brain short-circuiting.

She grinned. “Let’s both do our best.”

The very first time he’d spoken to a girl at U.A. And she wasn’t just any girl — she was warm, lively, soft around the edges. The kind of girl who landed a direct hit right in the strike zone of his heart, making it thump uncontrollably. For a nerd who mostly talked to notebooks, it felt like his whole system might shut down.

Time jumped. Hallway light. First time seeing her wearing the U.A. uniform, neat bow, gravity-pink cheeks. Then hero training — her first costume, the way she planted her feet and smiled like she meant it. His brain noticed everything at once: the gloves, the visor, the way “Let’s do our best” sounded so earnest.

He went red up to his ears.

From the corner of the memory crept Mineta’s gawking — loud, crude, eyes glued to her in that first hero costume. “I love this school!” he’d shouted, far too loudly, as if her body were part of the scenery.

His dream-self froze, just like he had back then, but the older Izuku watching from inside the memory burned with retroactive indignation. How could anyone look at — or talk about — Uraraka-san like that? (Not that he’d said anything at the time; he’d been far too busy trying not to combust on the spot.) Back then, he could barely look at her for more than a heartbeat. She was just too dazzling.

The dream lurched.

Smoke. Rubble. The metallic tang of blood.

Okuto Island — the war.

Himiko Toga stepped out of the chaos like a living echo, eyes wide and voice trembling in that haunting, saccharine way that always twisted something in his chest.

“I like you, Midoriya Izuku. Can you go on a date with me?” Toga had said, smiling with that heartbreaking, warped sweetness.

He flailed, of course he did. “W-what are you talking about?! Isn’t d-dating like — like — going to an amusement park and, um, holding hands and — sharing a crepe?!”

Even in the memory, it made him wince. Painfully dorky. Face burning. But that had been his honest answer — his fumbling attempt to describe happiness. Something simple. Something untouched by blood or grief.

And then, gently, he told Toga he couldn’t return her feelings.

Her expression had tilted — not angry, just… lonely. Distant. And then the dream cracked. Shattered like glass.

He woke with a soft gasp.

The room was still dark, washed in muted shadow. Sweat clung to his brow. His throat felt dry, like he’d just run ten kilometers. For a long moment, he lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the storm in his chest to settle.

Uraraka-san must still carry the weight of Toga too, he thought quietly.

And then, almost involuntarily, his mind drifted back to that awkward line — about amusement parks, holding hands, crepes. Back then, he couldn’t even think straight. Everything was war and urgency and choices that left scars.

Those words had been just a dorky example at the time — a clumsy picture of a life he thought he’d never have. But now, the image of something so simple — fingers brushing as they shared a crepe — felt like it could quietly rearrange his entire orbit.

With the battlefield finally silent and his heart given space to breathe, he realized it had always been her in those daydreams of ordinary happiness. A sunny afternoon at an amusement park, fingers laced together, sharing a crepe beneath a bright blue sky — it was always Uraraka-san standing there beside him. Always her laughter echoing next to his. Always her smile turning something simple into something unforgettable.

He swallowed, a soft, nervous laugh slipping out as the weight of that realization settled over him.

Rolling onto his side, he glanced toward his backpack. The tickets were still tucked safely inside, the little All Might logo peeking from the pocket just enough to make him smile. He reached over and gave the bag a gentle pat — like a personal good-luck charm — before shutting his eyes again.

“Today’s going to be that day,” he whispered into the dark. “Let’s do this.”

⸻

The sun blazed overhead, a bright, cheerful spotlight over the grand entrance of Musutafu Hero Land. Banners snapped in the breeze, the faint echo of heroic theme music playing from hidden speakers. For Izuku, though, it felt less like a welcome and more like an interrogation lamp.

He’d been awake for hours — heart pounding, thoughts spiraling — replaying every possible scenario for the day ahead. And now, as the gates swung open and the sweet scent of popcorn and cotton candy drifted through the air, one thing was painfully clear: he was a total, absolute mess.

Then he saw her.

“Deku-kun!”

Ochako waved from the entrance, radiant as always. She looked effortlessly cute in a simple cami and denim skirt, casual in a way that felt disarmingly intimate. He was so used to seeing her in her hero costume or work clothes that this softer version — warm, bright, and entirely herself — felt like a glimpse into a part of her world few people ever got to see.

“I was so excited! I even went to bed early last night so I’d be full of energy today. Let’s go!” she said cheerfully.

Meanwhile, he’d spent the whole night wide awake, agonizing over what to wear. After several wardrobe changes and a minor crisis, he’d ended up in his special-edition All Might T-shirt from Men’s Non-no, layered under a button-up — an attempt at casual that still looked very much like his usual, hopelessly geeky self.

“G-good morning, Uraraka-san! Th-thanks for coming, uh…” he stammered. Oh God, why did I suggest this? A café, a movie — literally anything else would’ve been safer. Wouldn’t a mochi café or a shopping trip have been more fun for her? He was so deep in self-flagellation he almost didn’t notice her peering at him with concern.

“Deku-kun? Are you okay? You look a little pale.” Her lips curved into a teasing smile. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

And just like that, his eyes welled up — a ridiculous mix of relief and embarrassment flooding out all at once. “I—I’m just… so happy you’re here! But, um, I was worried this might be too much of my kind of thing. I still get way too excited about this stuff — even as a pro hero — and it feels kind of silly, you know?”

Ochako’s smile softened. “That’s exactly why I wanted to come,” she said gently. “I like seeing you excited. I missed it.”

Her words hit him square in the chest — a soft, unexpected rescue from the spiral he’d been trapped in. He took a deep, shaky breath, and for the first time all morning, his heartbeat started to calm.

The rest of the morning unfolded in a blur of easy joy — laughter bubbling between them as they hopped from ride to ride, cheered for the mini All Might parade, shared snacks, and competed in silly games (most of which she won, to his dismay).

At one point, while Ochako lingered by a souvenir stand, Izuku ducked to the side and nervously pulled out his phone.

what to do on a first date
amusement park dos and don’ts
conversation starters when you already know each other really well
how to stop blushing

He was so focused on frantically scrolling that he didn’t notice her walk up behind him until a startled little gasp escaped her.

“Deku-kun! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to peek — but did you really search all of that?”

His face went scarlet instantly. “W-what?! N-no, it’s just… research!” he blurted, slamming his phone shut like it was evidence in a crime.

Before she could tease him further, her attention shifted to the absurdly heavy backpack strapped to his shoulders.

“Okay, now I have to ask — what’s in there?”

Izuku froze. “…Uh.”

With a resigned sigh, he slowly unzipped the bag. Inside was a perfectly organized, almost comically thorough survival kit: two bottles of green tea, a small first-aid kit, a folded handkerchief, insect repellent, a power bank, a tiny notebook with a park checklist, and even a few hero-themed snacks arranged neatly in labeled Ziplocs.

“Deku-kun…” she said, dissolving into laughter.

He waved his hands frantically, face burning. “I didn’t mean to go overboard! I just—” He exhaled, lowering his voice. “It’s my first time hanging out with you like this… just the two of us, since we graduated. And I… I really wanted today to be perfect.”

Her laughter softened into something gentler. She looked at him for a long moment, eyes warm, the corners of her mouth curling into a smile that made his heart skip. Then she stepped closer, sunlight catching in her hair as she tilted her head.

“Forget about all that,” she said softly. “Let’s just have fun — you and me.”

—

They did. They drifted from booth to booth like they had all the time in the world — snapping a photo in a cramped sticker booth, arguing playfully over which ride to try next, and getting far too competitive over a ring-toss game where he won her a tiny All Might keychain and she pretended not to float a ring for “good luck.” He kept the curbside when the crowd thickened; she tugged his sleeve whenever something sparkled in a storefront window. By the time the sun slid lower and the music softened into the afternoon lull, their steps had fallen into the same easy rhythm.

Later in the afternoon, they stopped by a small food stall tucked between souvenir shops, the scent of fresh pastry and strawberries wafting through the air.

“Crepes?” Ochako suggested, tilting her head with a smile. “Feels like a must on a day like this.”

A minute later, they were sitting on a bench beneath a fluttering All Might banner, sharing a single crepe piled high with whipped cream and fruit. It was clumsy — their fingers accidentally and awkwardly brushed as they passed it back and forth, and once, Izuku nearly dropped the whole thing whenever that happened.

It was ridiculous. Silly. Ordinary. And yet, as sunlight caught on the corner of her smile, he remembered the words he’d once blurted to Toga in panic — about how a date meant holding hands and sharing a crepe. Back then, it had been just a nervous example. But here, with Ochako beside him and strawberry cream clinging to his fingertips, it felt like something far bigger.

When the sun was beginning to dip, streaking the sky in orange and rose as they walked toward the station gates. Long shadows stretched across the pavement, and the warm, fading light made the whole day feel like a memory already.

Izuku walked beside her, arms full of souvenirs — everything from the limited-edition Detroit Smash churro bucket to a gleaming gold-foil All Might trading card set. His hair was a little mussed, his steps a little slower, but his grin was bright and boyish, like he’d just lived the best day of his life.

“I can walk you home, Uraraka-san,” he offered, straightening up a little under the weight of the bags.

Ochako laughed, her gaze drifting over his collection of merch bags. "Are you sure? With all the stuff you're carrying?"

Izuku’s smile tightened a little, but he pushed through with cheerful determination.

“It’s fine, really — I’m used to carrying things,” he said with a sheepish chuckle. “Even with teaching full-time now, I still train and work out and stuff, so… uh… I’ve got this.”

Ochako's smile softened. "Alright, fine. Let's let you walk me home."

The train ride was a different world from the bustling, joyful chaos of the park. The car was quiet, bathed in the soft hum of the tracks, and they sat close together, their knees occasionally brushing. The playful energy of the date settled into a more comfortable, easy silence.

"I really missed this, you know?" Ochako said, breaking the quiet. "Just... hanging out with you. It's been so long."

Izuku's chest tightened. He looked down at his hands, a feeling of regret washing over him. "Me too," he admitted softly. "I've just been so busy with teaching, and hero work... and, well, everything." The unspoken words hung in the air: he had also been subconsciously avoiding facing this, this terrifying and wonderful possibility of something more.

He decided to distract himself with the mundane. "Teaching has been a lot, honestly," he said, a small chuckle escaping him. "Just yesterday, one of my students tried to use their Quirk to turn their homework into a cloud so it would 'float away' from the deadline."

Ochako giggled, leaning her head on the back of the seat. "Classic."

“What about you?” he asked, his shoulders easing as the conversation shifted. “How’s your counseling work going?”

Her expression softened, then grew thoughtful. “It’s good. Rewarding.”

Izuku smiled faintly. “You must be busy…”

Ochako laughed. “Actually, we have enough hands. Hawks, as the head of HPSC, worked with the Ministry of Education to secure funding and update the curriculum, so everything expanded more smoothly. Quirk education is much better now.”

Her smile faded just a little. “But it’s hard, too. The hardest part is when you meet a kid who reminds you of someone you couldn’t save.”

Izuku’s mind went back to the cliff by Troy—the overlook where he and Ochako had talked before the Final War, a memory burned into him. “Like Toga-san?” he ventured, his voice a low whisper.

Ochako nodded slowly. "Yeah. I do it because I love seeing people happy, but also… because I want to help someone like her. I want to reach out to them before they become a villain, before they get lost and nobody's there to reach back."

His chest ached. He thought of every time he’d stretched out his hand to Shigaraki Tomura—on shattered streets, atop the airborne U.A., even in the vestige world—and it was never taken.

"I feel the same way. With Shigaraki… I wanted to save him. I thought if I could just get through to him, I could pull him out from somewhere. And strange as it might sound, there was this… part of him that felt familiar. Not the destruction. But that ache — like no one would ever reach him in time. Sometimes I wonder if, in a different life, I could’ve been him. Or he could’ve been me.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Then gently, she said, “But you’re not.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He’d spent so much of his life trying to pull others back from the edge — reaching, reaching, always reaching — but Ochako’s quiet strength tugged at him in a way nothing else ever had. It was subtle, steady, like gravity itself, quietly shifting his understanding of what it meant to save someone.

The train rocked softly. Their reflections shimmered in the window — not the kids they used to be, but not strangers either.

“…Thanks,” he murmured.

The train rocked gently, a low mechanical hum filling the space between them. They soon fell back to easy conversation; and suddenly her phone lit up with a soft ping.

She glanced at the screen. A message from one of her coworkers.

The boy from today… he had another episode. Locked himself in again. Said he doesn’t trust anyone. We might have to temporarily suspend the follow-ups for now.

Her fingers hovered above the screen longer than they should have. The smile she wore didn’t change, but something in her eyes dimmed, just slightly. She locked the phone, slipped it back into her pocket, and kept talking.

Izuku noticed anyway.

She was still laughing at his dumb story about a student who’d accidentally set a classroom mannequin on fire. Still asking questions, still smiling. But her gaze kept drifting toward the window. Her hands twisted together in her lap.

He’d seen her do this before for too many time: putting on a cheerful face because that’s what the people around her needed.

He wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he just watched her a little longer, memorizing every subtle flicker of emotion she tried to hide.

⸻

The walk from the station to her apartment was quiet. The streets were empty, washed in the yellow glow of streetlights. He carried the ridiculous amount of merch, filling the silence with light talk about upcoming student projects and agency meetings.

At her doorstep, she turned to him with a soft smile. “Thanks for walking me home. And for today. It really was… fun.”

“Uraraka-san.” He hesitated.

“I know you always do that.”

She blinked. “Hm?”

His voice was gentler now. “Pretend everything’s fine, even when it isn’t.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t say anything.

“I’m not trying to pry,” he went on, “I just… I want to be someone who can ease some of that weight. Even if I don’t really know how… but if there’s ever a way I can help, I want to try.”

Her gaze softened, and a genuine smile, small and tired, touched her lips. "Deku-kun... it's no big deal, really. I'm okay."

He wanted to press the point — to tell her that it was a big deal to him, that her burdens were his too. But it was late, and the weariness in her eyes held him back. He’d said what he needed to say. For now, that would have to be enough.

"Okay," So he nodded instead, "Just... please take care of yourself. Okay?”

"You too," she replied. She reached out and gave his arm a light, fleeting squeeze before turning and slipping into the building. He watched the door close behind her, the glow of the hallway light disappearing.

Chapter Text

It started slowly, almost naturally — a new rhythm to their days.

After the amusement park, they started texting more. Sometimes it was just dumb memes or links to hero news, sometimes longer conversations about their workdays.

Once or twice a week, Izuku would even work up the courage to call her. He always had some excuse ready — “One of my students is struggling with aerial balance during training, and I thought you might have some tips,” or “I was reviewing lesson plans and figured I should ask someone who actually knows this stuff.” But deep down, he knew those were just flimsy reasons to hear her voice.

And knowing she was the type to hide her worries behind a smile, those calls were also his quiet way of checking in on her.

Most of the time, she sounded perfectly fine — cheerful, helpful, always ready with thoughtful advice. Sometimes she’d sound a little tired, but she’d brush it off quickly and steer the conversation toward lighter topics. She never lingered on her bad days, never complained. And he, ever mindful of her space, never pushed — even when part of him desperately wanted to.

Then came the storm.

The rain that night came down in heavy sheets, lashing against the windows of his apartment. The wind howled through the streets. Power lines flickered. He was grading student essays by lamplight when he found himself staring at her contact name.

It’s just a check-in call, he told himself. Nothing weird.

He hit “call.”

The dial tone barely rang once before her voice came through.

“Hey, Deku-kun.”

“Hey. I was just—uh—wondering if the storm’s bad over there too. It’s really windy here.”

“It’s fine,” she said, but her voice was soft, distant. “Just dark. The power went out a little while ago.”

He was about to make a joke about how she should stock up on glow sticks when a sudden, sharp crash echoed through the line.

Then — a startled gasp.
High, breathless, raw.

“Uraraka-san?!” His chair scraped back as he shot to his feet.

“What happened? Are you okay—?!”

The call cut off.

“—Uraraka-san?!”

Nothing. Just silence.

His heart slammed against his ribs. The rational part of his mind whispered that it was probably nothing — a blown fuse, a fallen object. But rationality had never won when it came to her.

He grabbed his jacket and was out the door before reason could stop him.

By the time the next thunderclap rolled across the city, he was already sprinting through the rain.

The storm had worsened by the time he reached her neighborhood — wind whipping his drained hair, rain blurring the glow of the streetlights. As he turned onto her street, he noticed a cluster of neighbors standing under awnings, pointing toward a darkened stretch of houses. A massive tree branch had torn through a power line, leaving the entire block cloaked in shadow.

“Please be okay…” he murmured under his breath as he climbed the last flight of stairs two at a time.

Her apartment was dark when he arrived. Every window pitch black.
For one horrible second, his breath caught — but then he saw a faint glimmer of light flicker through the curtains.

He heaved a sigh of relief. She was home.

He knocked once, twice. No answer.

“Uraraka-san?” His voice wavered. “It’s me.”

Still nothing.

Heart pounding, he circled around the small garden path to the side window — and that’s when he saw her.

She was sitting on the floor, knees drawn to her chest in the corner of the darkened living room, the faint glow of a battery lamp tracing silver over the tear-streaks on her cheeks. Shoulders trembling. Head bowed.

Something inside him cracked — soft, breathless, and completely soundless.
I should’ve called earlier. I should’ve run faster.

He rushed back and knocked again, firmer this time. A long pause — then the chain scraped, the latch clicked, and the door creaked open.

She stood in the candlelight with that familiar, fragile smile — the kind that tried to pass for I’m fine, and almost did. Her lashes were clumped together from hastily wiped tears.

“Deku-kun, gosh, you didn’t have to——Sorry,” she said, voice too light, too quick. “I’m actually okay. The power just went out — that’s why the call cut off. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Are you… really okay?” he asked, only to realize — embarrassingly — that he was the one trembling.

“Of course I am! Really. You’re just being overly helpful, as usual.” She let out a small, airy laugh.

But her hands were still shaking.

His chest tightened. She was always like this, wasn’t she? Smiling like nothing hurt, even when the weight was clearly there.

He stepped forward slightly, reaching out. Carefully. “I know you’re not, and you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” A soft breath.

“But… please, at least let me do this.” he said, gently taking one of her hands. “Sometimes just holding a hand can put your heart at ease.”

The words brought him back—to that moment after the War, when he’d found her standing on the cliffside, trying to hide her tears. He’d said the same thing then, and she’d taken his hand. If the rest of Class A hadn’t shown up moments later…

Would I have pulled her into my arms, even back then?

Probably. Yes.

“Please…” His voice softened further. “I don’t want to watch you carry everything alone again. You always smile through it. I want to do something — anything. If you’re willing… you can tell me.”

She didn’t pull away. At first it was just contact — cool fingers, a small tremor. Then, a tiny squeeze back, a pulse of trust. Finally her breath hitched; mouth wobbled. The smile fell.

Big, bright tears brimmed and finally spilled, tracking fresh over the dried lines. His chest instantly flooded with that fierce, aching tenderness — the kind that felt like pain and vow at the same time.

“It was the counseling boy,” she whispered. “He said we’d never understand. That we’re just hypocrites — adults with normal lives — and that we’d never feel what he felt. He said he never wants to see us again.”

Her voice cracked, and his throat tightened with it. He wanted to say something — anything — but stayed silent, letting her speak.

“It’s not the first one,” she admitted, her breath trembling. “It keeps happening. Kids who shut me out. Families who stop responding. People who look at me like I’m naïve for even trying. Sometimes… even in the middle of a rescue work, I freeze and wonder if what I’m doing is really helping anyone — or if I’m just pretending.”

Her hands curled in her lap. “Honestly… usually I can shake it off. Watch a little TV, eat some snacks, and I’m fine. But then the rain started pouring, the power went out, and I just… felt worse and worse. I must sound so childish, right? It’s funny— I’m already twenty-four and still like this.”

His heart twisted. “No,” he said softly. “It’s not funny, and you don’t sound childish at all.”

He hated that she carried all this alone. He squeezed her fingers gently, trying to anchor her to the present.

“I wanted to stop people from falling through the cracks. I wanted to be someone’s hero before it was too late. But I keep failing — again and again. And lately… I keep dreaming, or seeing phantom visions of Toga.” Her gaze drifted somewhere far away.

“I don’t even know if it’s really her or just something I made up. But she says things like… ‘I already lived freely. So you should live freely too.’”

His breath caught. Just as he suspected — even gone, Toga still haunted her conscience.

A small, breathless laugh slipped from her lips, though it wasn’t really laughter. “Isn’t that ridiculous? Even in my head, she’s the one telling me to stop hesitating. To go after what makes me happy.”

He wanted to ask what that happiness was — wanted, selfishly, for it to be something that included him — but the thought dissolved when her eyes shimmered with fresh tears.

She swallowed hard. “But I don’t even know if I deserve to, when I fail again and again…”

“Hey…” he murmured, voice low. “You didn’t fail. Never did.”

“Then why does it feel like I did?” she whispered, shoulders trembling.

He shifted closer, careful and cautious, searching her face for any sign he was overstepping. “Can I… sit with you?”

She nodded. He slipped inside, set the battery lamp on the low table, and sat beside her on the floor so they were shoulder to shoulder, hands still linked. A quiet beat passed.

“Would it be okay if…” he started, softer than the rain outside.

She didn’t answer. She just tilted her forehead slightly toward him.

He exhaled shakily, as if that small gesture was permission. Inch by inch, he wrapped an arm around her back — tentative, ready to pull away if she flinched. But she didn’t. If anything, she leaned in, just a little more, until the weight of her against him felt solid and real.

He gently tightened his hold, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades, the other still cradling her fingers. He angled his shoulder to make her more comfortable and rested his chin lightly against her hair.

He traced slow, steady circles against her back — a quiet rhythm to guide her breathing. Now and then he murmured softly near her ear, wishing he could pull every jagged thought from her chest and replace it with the steady rise and fall of his own — the silent promise that she wasn’t alone.

Little by little, she clung back — hesitant at first, then desperately, like something inside her had finally snapped. Her sobs deepened against his chest, raw and exhausted. For so long, his life had revolved around saving people from villains. But this — holding her as the storm raged outside — felt like a different kind of gravity. One he couldn’t pull away from even if he tried.

“After all these years… I’m still the same,” she choked out between breaths. “I still can’t do it right. I can’t be a hero… what should I do, Deku-kun?”

The words punched the air out of him. His chest felt like it might burst. He cupped her cheek gently, brushing away tears that wouldn’t stop.

“It’s not true,” he whispered, his voice trembling with everything he couldn’t quite say. “You are a hero. My hero. Always have been.”

He swallowed hard, leaning closer until his forehead touched hers. “It’s you. It’s always been you who saved me.”

Something in her softened at that — the trembling eased, her sobs slowing into tiny, shuddering breaths. She nestled closer into his arms, seeking the warmth he was so ready to give.

They stayed like that for what felt like forever, neither speaking, just breathing in sync. The storm raged outside, but here, the world had gone still. Eventually, her tears stopped. Her weight grew heavier against him, her breathing deeper, steadier. She’d cried herself to sleep in his arms. The storm outside was wild and untamed, but here, everything was still — as if the whole world had shrunk to the small, quiet orbit between his heartbeat and hers.

He held her for a long time, longer than he probably should have — because, truthfully, he didn’t want to let go.

He quietly savored the rise and fall of her chest, the soft tick of her heartbeat against his own. Every detail lodged itself in his senses: the floral, honeyed scent of her shampoo, the way her hair brushed his jaw when she shifted. The warmth of her body seeped into him, chasing away an ache he hadn’t known he carried.

The realization that he was really holding her made his heart pound — somewhere between awe and disbelief. He knew he was being selfish, lingering like this. But how could he not? When everything felt so still, so quiet — as if the whole world had shrunk to the space between them.

When he finally moved, it was with infinite care. He slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her with a tenderness that felt almost reverent, carrying her to the bed. He laid her down slowly, pulling the blanket over her shoulders.

For a moment, he just knelt there, brushing a stray lock of brown hair from her face.

It was softer than he’d imagined — silken strands sliding through his fingers, catching faintly in the dim light.

She looked so peaceful now, lashes still damp, cheeks faintly flushed.

He lingered by her bedside, watching the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips parted slightly in sleep.

I’d do anything for you, he thought quietly.

His body finally betrayed him, the adrenaline ebbing away.

He slid down beside the bed, back resting against the frame, and let his eyes drift closed.

The last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was her — safe, breathing, there — and that was enough.

⸻

The night of the storm didn’t end when the rain stopped. Something had shifted — quietly, imperceptibly, but deeply — in the space between them. It wasn’t just about comfort or kindness anymore. It was the feeling of having seen each other raw and unguarded, of standing closer to the heart of who they really were.

And once you cross that kind of line, even the smallest moments afterward begin to feel different.

So life resumed — but with a new, subtle rhythm. He still called her during the week, especially after that evening, just to make sure she was okay.

But now, those calls carried more weight. They weren’t just check-ins or casual excuses to hear her voice — they were quiet promises, each ring a small echo of the night he’d run through the rain without thinking.

And he knew — it wasn’t only the counseling setbacks that had broken her down. She wasn’t that fragile.

It was deeper than that.

It always circled back to Toga.

Ochako had been carrying the weight of that death for years, convinced it was her fault — that if only she’d reached out sooner, things might have been different. Counseling, for her, wasn’t just work. It was atonement. A promise to make sure no one else slipped too far into the dark without a hand reaching back.

But it was never going to be easy. People weren’t simple. Hearts weren’t easy to save.

And she wasn’t wrong. She was radiant — because she kept trying. Because she never stopped. He just didn’t know how to tell her that. How to make her see how deeply he admired that light in her.

To be fair, his intentions really were just to check in on her whenever he called her — there was no ulterior motive. Yet every time his thumb hovered over the call button, it would hesitate a second too long. His heart would start hammering for no logical reason.

Why? he’d scold himself. You’re just calling to see if she’s okay…

Maybe it was because of that night — the one where they’d stopped orbiting each other and collided, even if just for a moment. He hated himself a little for it — she’d been in pain, and yet he couldn’t stop noticing her softness. He couldn’t forget the warmth of her body curled against his, the gentle weight of her leaning into his chest. The faint honey-and-floral scent of her shampoo that clung to his shirt. The delicate sweep of her damp lashes brushing his cheek as she shifted in her sleep.

Each small detail had carved itself into his memory, turning his usual protectiveness into something deeper — something that made his chest ache and burn all at once.

He thought back to that stormy night at her house — how he’d ended up falling asleep on her floor. It should’ve been awkward, and maybe it was, but he’d never felt more at peace. His heart felt… full. Warm.

The next morning, she’d looked genuinely startled to find him still there, rubbing her eyes as if to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. He’d scrambled to his feet, flustered and red-faced, stumbling over apologies about intruding. But she quickly waved them away with a soft, wholehearted smile.

“It’s fine,” she’d said warmly. “Thank you so much, Deku-kun… for staying with me.”

It looked like she wanted to say something more — her lips parted, cheeks flushed — but in the end, she only offered him tea and walked him to the door.

Before he left, he paused, looking at her solemnly. “Don’t bottle everything up, okay?” he said. “I know it’s hard — I used to do that too.” He laughed awkwardly, scratching at his cheek. “But if you’re ever in trouble… or feeling down… you can text me. Or call me. I’ll run straight to you. No matter what it is, no matter when. I want to protect you.”

She froze, cheeks pinkening at the weight of his words. He flushed too. “S-sorry,” he mumbled, panicking a little. “That probably sounded self-important… but I meant it.”

“You don’t have to trouble yourself like that,” she murmured, shy and flustered. “I can take care of myself, really…”

“Oh… I see,” he said, shoulders drooping slightly.

“Hey…”

“That was a… very speedy rejection.” He involuntarily pouted, dark clouds practically forming above his head.

“Don’t say it like that,” she sighed, half-exasperated, half-amused. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then, please,” he said, eyes wide and earnest now. “I’ll worry. I’ll lose sleep.”

“Fine, fine,” she relented, a small, gentle smile tugging at her lips. “If something happens… I’ll try to tell you.” Her voice was soft, almost shy.

“That’s good to know,” he said, smiling back, a little sheepish but glowing inside. “Thank you… for trusting me.”

⸻

And from that morning on, something in the air between them was just… different.

Whenever their paths crossed — during joint patrols, hero briefings, the occasional mission where his part-time work overlapped with hers, or over small coffee chats squeezed in between shifts — her smile had returned to its usual brightness, and there was a steadier light behind her eyes.

Not perfect, of course; he could still sense when something weighed on her, when she lingered in thought between debriefs or stared at her phone a moment too long. But the heaviness that had clung to her that night felt lighter now, as if something inside her had shifted.

Maybe things were getting better. Maybe she’d talked it through with friends like Tsuyu. Or maybe — just maybe — it was because they were no longer walking side by side as two separate satellites, but slowly, tentatively, beginning to move in orbit together.

…Maybe it was him?

The thought hit him mid-walk and he nearly tripped over nothing.

“W-wait, no, don’t be ridiculous!” he muttered under his breath, face burning. “I’m not that impactful— I mean, am I? No. Definitely not. Probably not. …Right?”

Whatever the reason, every time he saw her now, his heart thudded louder than before.

He didn’t even know that was possible. How could he possibly get more flustered than he already was around her? And yet, just hearing her laugh across a room was enough to make his pulse go haywire.

Lately, he’d noticed her coverage in media more often: interview spreads, promo events, new hero-safety campaigns. It wasn’t surprising. She was brilliant at rescue work, dedicated to her Quirk counseling programs, and had that warm, approachable “girl-next-door” energy that made people gravitate toward her.

Last week, during a joint training PR shoot, he’d seen it happen firsthand.

A couple of guys from the production team had approached her during a break, asking for a photo together. Ochako looked a little embarrassed but nodded politely, tucking her bangs behind her ear.

He could’ve sworn—just for a flicker of a second—her eyes darted toward him. Was it just his imagination?

After the shutter clicked, the guys walked off excitedly, huddled around their phones.

He hadn’t meant to listen. Really. But the words carried too easily in the open space…

“She’s so damn pretty in person.”

“Kind, sweet, actually listens to people—she’s the real deal.”

“Huh? Didn’t you say last week you liked Mt. Lady or Ryukyu?”

“C’mon, that’s just their looks. If I were gonna date someone, it’d definitely be Uravity. She’s girlfriend material, y’know?”

“Yeah, for real.”

Izuku froze. A strange, tangled sensation stirred in his chest.

At first, his thoughts were a mess — dorky, chaotic, all over the place.

Girlfriend?! Uraraka-san?! Are we even allowed to say those words in the same sentence?!

His soul promptly left his body, did three frantic laps around the sun, and came crashing back. He tried to play it off, laughing nervously to himself.

Well, of course people liked her. She was amazing. And she deserved to be admired. And they were just saying what was obvious. Yup. Totally normal. Nothing to panic about—

But the laughter faded, replaced by a quieter, more complicated weight in his chest.

His eyes dropped to the ground, and he found himself fiddling with the edge of his gloves — anything to keep his hands from clenching, as he stared at the concrete instead of the crowd around her.

Because deep down, somewhere beneath all the respect and admiration and earnest wishing-her-happiness he’d always told himself were enough… there was a darker whisper clawing its way up from his chest.

He didn’t want someone else calling her their girlfriend.

He didn’t want someone else learning the way her smile tilts when she’s embarrassed, or knowing how she hums softly when she’s thinking.
He didn’t want someone else sitting across from her when she had her late-night snacks, watching her eyes light up over a bowl of mochi, or knowing that she always steals the last bite even when she swears she’s full.
He didn’t want anyone else standing where he had stood that night — holding her as the rain poured, feeling her heartbeat steady against his own.

It was ridiculous — selfish, even — but the thought of someone else becoming the center of her world made something in his own tilt unsteadily.

And the fact that he was even thinking all this made his heart stumble.
Since when did I start feeling this way…?

The more he tried to swallow it, the harder it was to ignore. It curled tighter with every heartbeat, quiet but relentless.

And then — just as he began to spiral — a female reporter suddenly sidled up beside him, far too close for comfort. She leaned in, brushing against his arm while asking for a quote.

“Ah — um — e-excuse me, could you— just a little space—?” he stammered, stepping back with an awkward laugh and a polite bow.

“Oh, sorry, Hero Deku,” The reporter said with a teasing smile, still hovering a little too close. “It’s just… up close, you’re even more adorable than the posters make you look. Honestly, with that baby face, I’d believe it if the media said you were still a freshman at college.”

His ears went scarlet almost instantly. “N-Not at all! Th-Thank you, but— um— please, personal space—!”

Just as he tried to politely edge away from the reporter — who was still lingering against his shoulder — he caught a fleeting look from Ochako across the room. It was barely there — just a small pause, a slight downturn of her lips, a blink held a second too long — and then she was smiling again, chatting with the sidekicks as if nothing had happened.

What was that, anyway?

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly unsure. Maybe he imagined it.

—-

After the PR shoot wrapped, the crowd thinned, and the bustle of the studio faded into the low murmur of crew packing up equipment.

He was gathering his bags and trying to stuff his coat back into one of them when Ochako approached.

“Hey, Deku-kun,” she said, her voice casual, light. “Thanks for waiting around.”

“Ah—of course! You did amazing today. I mean, you always do, but especially today.”

Ochako smiled, then reached into her tote bag. “Oh — I actually got something for you.”

He blinked in surprise as she handed him a small keychain — a tiny, handmade All Might plush holding a takoyaki plate.

“I was on a little girls’ trip with Tsuyu, Yaoyorozu, and Jirou last weekend,” she explained cheerfully. “We stopped by this craft market and saw this. It’s a local version, and it made me think of you… so here you go.” She added with a playful wink.

“Oh— it’s adorable,” he smiled. “Thank you. I’ll put it on my bag right away.”

She laughed softly at his reaction, then reached into her tote again and pulled out a slightly larger pastel-wrapped package.

“And,” she continued, “we also found this wagashi shop near the market. They had all these seasonal sweets, and I remembered you saying your mom likes them. So… this one’s for her.”

The paper felt cool under his fingertips as he took the gift, “That’s… really thoughtful of you. My mom’s going to love this.”

Not that his mom needed another reason to like Ochako. She already loved her since high school — a fact that made his face warm with familiar embarrassment every time he thought about it.

Ochako smiled and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s no big deal.”

They lingered a beat too long, until she lowered her gaze slightly.

"Speaking of which," she said, her tone a little teasing, but with a surprising edge of nervousness. "You’re really popular, huh?"

Izuku blinked. "Ehh? No way, I’m not!"

"You are," she insisted gently, but with a laugh.

He scratched his cheek, flustered. “I-I think you’re confusing popularity with getting ambushed by media people who don’t understand personal space…” He trailed off, then added with a half laugh, “You’re the popular one, Uraraka-san, like seriously.”

“Geez… you really don’t realize…” she muttered, lips curving into a small pout.
You’re usually so observant, she thought — at least about everything else.

Then, even quieter — barely audible — she added, “That’s why I try to keep my feelings to myself.”

Izuku blinked. “Huh?”

But she was already smiling again, brushing it off with a wave of her hand. “Anyway! Be sure to tell your mom I said hi.”

⸻

Later that weekend, he stopped by his mother’s place for dinner and handed her the souvenir.

“Uraraka-san gave this to you,” he said, placing the box on the table. “I think she picked it up on a trip to Kanazawa.”

Inko’s face lit up. “Oh, Ochako-chan! How thoughtful of her!” She praised Ochako endlessly, smiling as she carefully unwrapped the sweets.

Izuku offered a sheepish smile. His mom still adored her — and why wouldn’t she? Ever since that day when Ochako had stood on U.A.’s rooftop and defended him before an angry crowd, she’d never forgotten the girl who stood by her son when he needed it the most.

Even now, his mom often brought her up. “That day she spoke up for you in front of everyone…” she would say, her eyes soft with memory. “She’s such a nice girl. How’s her work going? Do you two still hang out?”

Sometimes, she even nudged him with a knowing little smile, hinting at something deeper. “Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you?”

“M-Mom!” he yelped, cheeks flushing. “It’s not like that… I mean — it’s not like it’s up to me! I have to respect her feelings.”

He hesitated, fumbling for words. “Besides… she’s… Uraraka-san.” As if that explains everything. After all, she’s someone he had always admired — someone he’d always looked up to.

For years, that had been the quiet truth — that someone like her, so bright and full of light, existed on a plane just slightly beyond his reach.

But now…

Now that explanation didn’t feel quite right anymore. Because the look she’d given him today — that fleeting, unguarded look — had stirred something deeper. And her words, soft but unmistakable — That’s why I have to keep my feelings tucked away — wouldn’t stop echoing in his mind.

Maybe it wasn’t that she was out of reach. Maybe it was that he’d been too afraid to reach in the first place. Too afraid to risk changing something precious. Too afraid to believe she might ever look at him that way.

And as he stared down at his hands — the same hands that had once reached out to save her, the same hands she had clasped in the darkest moments, and the same hands that had held her close on that stormy night — a new thought crept in, quiet and hesitant, but impossible to ignore:

They’d both spent years orbiting one another, like two celestial bodies terrified to cross the invisible line of their shared gravity. But now, in the quiet aftermath of the raw, desperate honesty, the rigid tension of that distance had finally started dissipating. Perhaps there was a chance to simply exist in the same light.

What if now… things could be different?

Chapter Text

The classroom lights had long since dimmed, and the halls of U.A. were quiet, save for the faint hum of the janitorial bots gliding past. Izuku stretched his back with a soft groan as he stacked the last of his grading sheets into a folder. Another day of classes done.

“Midoriya,” came Aizawa’s voice from the doorway, flat and unhurried as always. “There’s a sponsor-hosted hero event next month. Formal. Your attendance is expected, so don’t be late.”

Izuku looked up, tired but smiling. “Got it, Aizawa-sensei. I’ll be there—on time. Is there a dress code beyond ‘don’t show up in the hero suit’?”

Aizawa’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Suit and tie. Not combat boots. Try to look like you slept.”

“Copy that. Two alarms. Three, if you’d prefer.”

“Use your judgment.” Aizawa started down the corridor, capture scarf dragging in his wake. “Eat dinner. Then go home. Show up to the event like a functioning adult. Don’t make a scene.”

Izuku let out a quiet laugh. “I’ll do my best.” He slid the last folder into his bag as the hallway lights dimmed into night mode, the janitorial bots humming softly past.

A faint warmth lingered in his chest — the comfort of knowing that he and Aizawa had grown close. Not just teacher and student anymore, but colleagues, even friends. They could toss around dry remarks, argue over lesson plans, share things. That meant a lot to him.

He remembered the days before Class A and Kacchan helped him secure the new gear — when he’d been grounded, having lost One For All years ago— thus unable to fight alongside his friends. Back then, Aizawa had been the one to quietly notice, seeing straight through the forced smile to the loneliness underneath. It meant more than Izuku could ever say, that someone understood him that deeply.

Thankfully, those days were behind him now, and that heavy, helpless feeling had passed. He could teach, fight, and keep pushing forward as both educator and hero — still chasing the same ideals he’d held onto since the very beginning. And that, he thought, he would always be grateful.

He thought again about Aizawa’s words. A hero-sponsor event. He knew the concept — networking, charity auctions, press conferences, where heroes and agencies brushed shoulders with the corporations that kept the system running. But he’d never set foot in one. The image of stepping into a ballroom filled with Japan’s top heroes and industry elites made his stomach tighten.

Still… if Aizawa said it was expected, he’d go.

On impulse, he pulled out his phone.

Deku 🥦: Hey, Uraraka-san. Um… random question, but are you planning to attend the sponsor event next month?

The typing bubbles appeared almost immediately.

Ochako 🍵: Yeah! My agency said we’re expected to go. You too?

His heart gave a small, stupid leap.

Deku 🥦: Y-yeah. Looks like I’ll be there too.

The tiny “ping” of her reply tugged at him with quiet force, the way a small moon tugs the tide.

He knew it was just work — but knowing she’d be there too made the thought of going feel a little less daunting… maybe even something to look forward to.

—

Then came the night of the annual Hero Charity Ball — the kind of high-profile event that always made Izuku a little more aware of his heartbeat and his tie.

The ballroom glowed with soft golden light, the kind that made even the polished marble floors seem to shimmer. Heroes, sponsors, and dignitaries mingled under crystal chandeliers, their laughter and clinking glasses weaving into a hum of luxury and purpose. It was the annual Hero Charity Ball — part fundraiser, part networking event, and part media spectacle — and Midoriya Izuku was still getting used to being on the guest list.

He’d arrived early, partly to help with setup, partly because the idea of walking in late and having everyone turn their heads made his stomach twist. Now, standing near one of the display panels highlighting rescue operations and community outreach projects, he was trying to look composed while internally overanalyzing everything.

“Ah, Midoriya. Glad to see you here.”
“Midoriya-kun, over here — quick photo?”
“You’re still with U.A. as a full-time instructor, while doing part-time hero works right? How’s the next generation shaping up?”

The questions came in waves — reporters, pro heroes, alumni, and a few investors curious about collaboration projects. Izuku answered them politely, smiling a little too tightly, nodding earnestly. Aizawa stopped by long enough to mutter something about “don’t get cornered into making promises,” while Todoroki quietly handed him a glass of sparkling juice and stood by as a silent buffer. Aoyama popped in with a dramatic flourish, throwing sparkles into the air.

“Très chic, Midoriya-kun! The green suit — très heroique! C’est très vous.”

“Ah—uh, thank you, Aoyama-kun!” Izuku said, cheeks pink.

Even a small group of female fans drifted over for selfies, and a sponsor had pulled Bakugo aside to pitch some sort of “explosive propulsion system” that sounded one lawsuit away from a disaster.

Then he heard the familiar voice.

“Deku-kun!”

He turned.

For a heartbeat, his steady axis wobbled—constellations on her skirt and a sudden sense that a night sky had found its sun.

There she was — a soft beige bodice fitted to her frame, flowing into a deep navy puff skirt scattered with stitched constellations like a fragment of the night sky, as if she were floating between earth and space.

Her makeup was soft and natural — rose-pink lips and earthy eyeshadow that deepened her gaze without overpowering it. Her hair was swept into a braided bun, revealing the delicate curve of her neck and bare shoulders, while tiny galaxy-themed accessories caught the light with every subtle movement.

“Uraraka-san!”

They met halfway across the room, smiles awkward and warm.

“Hey — you’re early too.”

“Y-yeah!” he blurted, then cleared his throat to steady himself. “Wanted to, um… get settled in.”

“Does it look weird?” she asked, tugging self-consciously at the fabric near her waist. “My manager said not to wear pink this time — said I should go for something more… mature, and something with themes more tied to my float quirk. I don’t know if it’s too much.”

“I-It’s not too much at all,” Izuku stammered, hands flailing uselessly before he forced them to his sides. “It… fits you. Really. Perfectly.”

Her cheeks tinted pink. “Thanks… I’m glad.”

Before he could say anything else, someone from the press approached her for an interview, and she excused herself with a quick smile.

“Oh — sorry! I’ll be back, okay?” she said, touching his arm gently before slipping into the crowd.

He stood there, dumbfounded, watching her go, then it hit him all at once.

Way too pretty… ahhh…

His heart pounded.

She looks so different today… so radiant…and the hair is up… damn…Her neck is so pale… her shoulders… oh no—don’t go there—!

He dragged a hand down his face.

But… too much skin exposure. Isn’t she cold? And so many people are staring at her… well, of course they are, she’s gorgeous…

…But I don’t like that…

“…Midoriya.”

He nearly jumped. Aizawa was standing beside him, holding a glass of wine and giving him a long, unimpressed stare.

“What are you spacing out at—” He followed Izuku’s gaze and sighed. “…Actually, never mind.”

Izuku managed a weak laugh, but it didn’t fool anyone. His eyes drifted back toward her almost immediately, thoughts swirling too fast to stop.

“But… what should I do? Should I tell her? But would that be overstepping? But guys have been staring at her since she walked in… Maybe I should lend her my jacket, at least to cover some of the exposed parts… But that’s part of the dress design — it’s meant to reflect her Float quirk, the lightness of it…”

The mutter tumbled out fast, a chaotic stream of thought that sounded a lot like strategy briefing.

“…What the hell is he saying?”
Shinsou, who had approached from behind, blinked warily.

“Don’t ask,” Aizawa muttered.

Nearby, Monoma snorted under his breath. “See? This is exactly the kind of behavior I expect from Class A.”

Across the ballroom, Ochako laughed politely at something a sponsor said.

“Hey… isn’t that Yukimori?” someone whispered near the buffet. “President of Yukimori Holdings — the guy who owns half the skyline in Tokyo.”

“Oh, him? Yeah. He’s basically royalty in the corporate world. His company sponsors like, five of the Top 10.”

Izuku’s stomach tightened. He followed their gaze — and sure enough, standing far too close to Ochako was Yukimori Haruto himself, perfectly tailored suit, champagne in hand, smile sharp and calculated.

“Yeah… and he’s talking to Uraraka,” someone murmured. “…Really close. Way too close.”

Izuku took a slow step forward, heart thudding. He told himself it was fine — just a sponsor chat, part of the job — but the scene unfolding before him said otherwise.

“Miss Uravity, my pleasure to finally meet you in person,” Yukimori said smoothly, voice low and practiced. “Truth to be told, I’m a bit of a fanboy myself. Did you know your popularity’s shot up? Especially among men, eighteen to thirty-five. Most of them say you’re the heroine they’d most want to date. Quite something.”

“Oh… hah…” Ochako laughed weakly, shoulders tense. “That’s… surprising.”

“Can you blame them?” He murmured, leaning closer. “You’re talented, beautiful, kind. Falling for you isn’t strange — not falling for you would be.”

He smiled thinly. “I read somewhere that part of your motivation to become a hero was financial — you wanted to support your family. Admirable. I like a practical girl.” His voice dropped lower, almost intimate. “Lucky for you, I’m very rich. And I can make that wish come true ASAP, you just need to stay close to me.”

His grip on her hand lingered — too long, too firm — and then the other slipped around her waist, pulling her in. Ochako stiffened, eyes darting for someone from her agency, but no one was in sight.

“And you know,” he breathed near her ear, “someone like you shouldn’t have to worry about bills. You should be spoiled… the way you deserve.”

He kissed the back of her hand, lips dragging too slowly. Ochako’s breath hitched — not from flattery but discomfort. Her lips trembled, eyes glistening.

“Excuse me,” Izuku cut in — he’d already moved before he even realized it. His voice is polite, but there’s a storm underneath. “I think the conversation’s over.”

He reached out and calmly but firmly pried Ochako’s hand free from Yukimori’s grip, stepping between them with a protective ease that left no room for argument.

Yukimori’s smile faltered as he turned. “Ah. Mr. Midoriya, right?” he chuckled, low and condescending. “Didn’t recognize you without a notebook in your hand.”

Izuku said nothing. He only held Yukimori’s gaze, polite smile still in place — but his eyes had gone dark.

“Seems like you’re close friends with Miss Uravity,” Yukimori drawled, the mockery now obvious. “What now — trying to steal her away?” He leaned in, lowering his voice so only Izuku could hear. “I know the headlines. Honorary U.A. teacher. All Might’s favorite. Number four in the hero rankings… But I also know what you really are. Bullied as a kid, right? Quirkless. Pathetic. Do you really think she’d even talk to you if you hadn’t lucked into One For All?”

His grin twisted cruelly. “She’s too good for you. Some hierarchies never change… oh — oops. Just kidding.”

Izuku’s polite smile didn’t move, but something in his expression shifted — not anger, but something colder, deeper. The air seemed heavier, enough that even Yukimori’s confidence wavered for half a second.

“…Excuse me,” Izuku said again, steady and quiet. “I’ll be taking Uraraka-san now.”

And this time, he didn’t ask.

---

Ochako’s heart was still racing long after Yukimori had backed off. Izuku’s hand was still holding hers — warm, steady, grounding — and she couldn’t stop staring at it.

What? What is this…?

Her fingers twitched slightly against his, unsure whether to pull away or hold tighter. She could feel her pulse thudding in her wrist, her breath coming quicker than it should. When she finally looked up, it startled her all over again.

She’d rarely seen him like this before. His eyes, usually so bright and earnest, had gone sharp and unwavering. There was a strength in them she wasn’t used to — not frantic, not explosive, but quiet and absolute.

Is he… mad? Oh no oh no oh no…

The memory of those last few minutes still clung stubbornly to her skin — the too-long grip on her hand, the weight of an arm looping around her waist, the suffocating feeling of being cornered and small. She hated how powerless she’d felt, hated that her body had frozen even while her mind was screaming move, say something, do something.

It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to stand up for herself — she did. She’d faced villains head-on, taken on Bakugo in the Sports Festival, stared down Toga’s madness, and now, as a pro, she’d handled countless crises, counseling victims and mediating tense situations. But this… this was different. A sponsor wasn’t a villain. He wasn’t threatening her life. He was smiling and talking about “opportunities,” wrapping the wrongness in silk and status. And part of her — the part that hated making a scene — kept whispering, Maybe you’re overreacting. Maybe if you just stay polite, it’ll end.

But Izuku hadn’t accepted that.

His gaze had cut through the noise, fierce and unyielding. He hadn’t cared about optics, about rank, about the headlines tomorrow. He had simply stepped in, decided enough was enough, and taken her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her cheeks burned. What is this… a shōjo manga? she thought helplessly, pressing her free hand to her face. The strong, silent type stepping in just as the heroine’s about to cry? Seriously, what chapter is this? She risked a glance at him — and then immediately looked away when he caught her staring. Oh no, he’s still holding my hand. Still. Holding. My. Hand. Breathe, Ochako. Breathe.

“Uraraka-san…” His low voice cut through the whirlwind of her thoughts. “Do you still want to stay… or do you want to leave?”

“Oh— I…” Her words tumbled over themselves. “I think I’d like to go.”

“Then I’ll walk you out.”

“Oh, um, I actually came with Yaoyorozu and the others — we carpooled in her car.” She gave a weak little laugh. Right. Momo, the fancy car, the ‘girls from U.A.’ reunion.

“I see. I came with Kacchan — he drove. Sorry, Uraraka-san, I can’t drive you home myself.”

“It’s okay, really…”

She glanced up at him. There was still a faint darkness lingering in his expression — a trace of that cold edge she’d seen when he’d stepped between her and Yukimori — but over it now was something gentler, almost apologetic, as if he was sorry for not being able to do more.

“Then… may I at least ride the train with you?” he asked quietly.

“Mm…” She nodded, her chest tightening with something warm and unsteady.

“Where’s your coat?” he asked after a beat, his gaze flicking briefly to her bare shoulders.

“Oh— I think I left it in Yaoyorozu’s car.”

Without a word, he shrugged off his suit jacket and carefully draped it over her shoulders, his touch lingering just long enough to make her breath hitch.

“…Thank you,” she murmured.

“...I just didn’t want you to catch a cold,” he said, voice soft, almost bashful — but she could tell it wasn’t just about the weather.

----------

The train lurched gently as it sped into the night, fluorescent lights humming overhead. It was nearly midnight now, and the carriage was packed — salarymen half-asleep on their phones, students chatting quietly, strangers pressed close enough that breathing room felt like a luxury.

Ochako shifted on her feet, a little uneasy. Her mind was still tangled with the night’s events — Yukimori’s words, the way his hand had lingered too long, the humiliation she was still trying to swallow. Too much had happened tonight, she thought, staring down at the floor tiles as the train doors hissed shut behind them.

The late-night rush poured in — passengers pressed forward, bumping shoulders and elbows, the crowd swelling until there was barely space to breathe. Someone brushed past and clipped her heel, and her balance wavered dangerously on the stilettos.

Izuku moved closer without a word, positioning himself between her and the worst of the crowd. With one arm lifted, he gripped the pole just above her head; his body shifted, forming a subtle barrier around her. To everyone else, they probably just looked like two people standing side by side. But she knew this was one of those quiet, subtle things he always did.

She blinked up at him, startled. “…Thanks.”

He shook his head quickly, curls falling across his forehead. “There’s not much space left… so this’ll have to do. Just stay close, okay?”

Her heart gave a small, ridiculous jump. The train swayed and rattled, but all she could feel was the warmth radiating from him — the way his chest hovered so close to her shoulder, the steady line of his arm above her. The cuff of his shirt was rolled to his forearm, and the sight of his hand braced against the wall beside her made her stomach flip unexpectedly. Why is this suddenly so embarrassing?

When they stepped off the train, the night air was cool against her cheeks, but the heat beneath her skin refused to fade. As they walked, he naturally shifted to the side closest to the street, leaving her the safer inner edge of the sidewalk. When the path narrowed, his hand brushed lightly against her back — a gentle, wordless guide that made her pulse stutter. And even though she was perfectly fine in the heels (come on, she wears higher ones under her hero costume, for crying out loud), he still slowed his pace a little, glancing down from time to time as if to make sure she was steady.

Because even after everything that had happened — after the sponsor’s patronizing words, after the way her body had locked up when she wanted to scream, after how much she’d hated herself for freezing — walking beside him now, she felt safe. Not because she was being sheltered, but because he saw her. All of her — even the messy, trembling, humiliated parts she wanted to hide — and still treated her like someone worth protecting.

He had always been protective — that was part of who he was. But tonight felt different. More deliberate. More personal. Like something inside him had shifted, and now he was holding her a little closer to his orbit. And she couldn’t help but wonder if it had everything to do with what had happened earlier.

Of course it does, she thought, cheeks heating again. He’s doing this because he knows I was upset. Because he saw me at my worst and now he’s being extra careful. That’s all. It’s not like this is anything more than friendship. This isn’t a shōjo manga. This is real life. Get a grip, girl.

And yet — she clutched his jacket a little tighter around her shoulders, as if trying to steady herself.

When she glanced sideways at him, he looked calm on the surface, but she could tell there was something stormy churning beneath it — a quiet darkness to his expression that hadn’t faded since the ballroom. Protective, yes. But also thoughtful, distant, like his mind was still caught in the echo of that confrontation. She could feel it: he wasn’t just watching out for her. He was carrying something too.

---------

The streets were nearly empty by the time they reached the block where they’d part ways. The night air was cool and quiet, broken only by the sound of their footsteps against the pavement. Neither of them had spoken much since the station — it wasn’t an awkward silence, but a heavy one, like something unspoken hung in the air between them.

They stopped beneath a streetlamp, the glow painting faint gold across Izuku’s face.

“Please,” Ochako said gently, turning toward him. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“You always tell me not to hide things,” she continued, her eyes steady. “Not to carry everything alone. Can you please… do the same for me?”

“I…” he started, then stopped. His hands tightened and relaxed in his pockets, and he let out a breath that sounded heavier than it should have. “It’s… nothing.”

Her chest tightened. “Hey… this has something to do with the sponsor, doesn’t it?”

“…No,” he lied, too quickly.

“I heard him say something to you,” she pressed, softer now. “I could tell. The moment you came back, something was off.”

His jaw shifted slightly. “It’s… nothing important,” he mumbled. “Just words.”

“Please,” she said again, taking a small step closer. “I’ve known you since day one of high school… no, even before that. We met during the entrance exam, remember?”

He let out a small, helpless laugh. “How could I forget? I was such a mess that day.”

“And we became friends right after,” she said, smiling at the memory. “You almost tripped, and I used my quirk to stop you. Sorry about that. But… I’m really glad I did. Because if I hadn’t, I might never have gotten to know you.”

He looked down at his shoes, his lips twitching slightly. “I was so embarrassed. But… yeah. I’m glad, too.”

She paused, letting the memories flood back — the nights training side by side, cheering for each other’s victories, dragging each other out of hopeless moments. “We’ve been through so much. I like to think I know you well enough to notice when something’s bothering you. Remember that day by the cliff?”

“Of course I do,” he said, his voice gentler now.

“I was such a mess that day,” she sighed. “I said I wanted to go home, but you knew something was wrong. You even wasted the energy of your Ember just to come find me.”

“That wasn’t a waste,” he said immediately, with more force than before.

“It was! You shouldn’t have used something like that — you didn’t even have much left at the time.”

“I don’t care,” he cut in, firmer now, meeting her eyes without hesitation. “I’d do it again. Every single time.”

She smiled faintly, her chest tightening. “I was crying. Do you remember what you said to me?”

“Of course,” he replied softly.

“You told me that when things feel unbearable, even something as simple as holding someone’s hand can help. And you were right. It did help. I was so grateful for that.”

His gaze softened, distant, like he was reliving that night with her. “I meant every word,” he murmured. “I still do.”

Her voice lowered. “In our second and third years, we stayed friends, even though we both had a lot on our minds. After the war, we were just trying to heal. And those little happy moments — those were enough. And then, before we knew it, we graduated.”

“Yeah,” he said with a small smile. “Time really flew by.”

“And after graduation, we still talked,” she continued, “but life got busy. You became a teacher. I became a pro hero. Patrols, missions, press conferences… there was always something. It wasn’t like before — we didn’t see each other every day. We didn’t talk as much. And then, a few weeks ago, when you finally got that new gear that let us work together again… it felt like old times. And I realized how much I’d missed it.”

Izuku’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, then closed again. “I… missed it too,” he admitted. “More than I realized.”

She took a slow breath. “What I’m trying to say is… I still want to share your burdens. Even if I’m not great at opening up myself, I want to. Because of that promise we made on the cliffside.”

His throat bobbed. “You always try so hard for other people,” he whispered. “Even now.”

Her voice trembled slightly, earnest and vulnerable. “So can’t you do the same for me?”

The words hung between them. He stood there, unmoving, and for a moment she thought he might not answer. Then his shoulders dropped, and a long breath slipped from him, as though something inside had finally cracked.

“…What the sponsor said,” he whispered finally, “wasn’t wrong.”

The words fell from his mouth like stones, heavy and self-loathing — and she felt her chest ache as she realized just how deeply he’d let them cut.

“He merely reminded me---I was that kid,” he said, his voice barely above a breath. “The one who got bullied. The one who was quirkless. And you…” He glanced up at her, then quickly away, his throat working around the next words. “You’re bright — like the sun. And I’m just… just some boy who orbits around it. I was nothing all the way up to the end of middle school.”

His hands curled into fists.

“I know I’m not that person anymore. I know that. I got One For All. I trained. I learned every quirk I could. I did my best and… I think I did okay.”

“You did more than okay,” Ochako cut in, fiercer than she meant to sound.

But he only shook his head.

“And then, in the final battle… I lost One For All. All that power — gone.” His voice dropped, unsteady, like saying it out loud still scraped something raw. “By second, third year of high school, all I had left was the remainder — the last sparks. Just the ember.”

He swallowed. “And later… even that ember went out.”

He stared down at his hand and slowly flexed it, opening and closing his fingers. Such a normal movement. But the way he was looking at his own palm made her chest hurt.

“Back then,” he said quietly, “I told myself teaching was still a way to help people. I decided that was enough. But in the back of my mind there was always this voice asking…”

His breath caught.

“Am I even still a hero?”

He laughed then — a hollow, self-deprecating sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “Honestly? I think I’ve always had imposter syndrome. The truth is, I never really felt like One For All was mine. It was always something borrowed, something I was entrusted with… but never something that truly belonged to me. Not something I deserved. Like I was just holding it until someone better came along.”

His lips twisted faintly, the corners caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “I’m just… a lucky boy who stumbled into a miraculous power and got to live a dream I was never worthy of in the first place.”

The words hung in the night air — quiet, bitter, painfully sincere. And once they left his mouth, more followed as if they had been waiting years to be spoken.

His gaze stayed glued to his hand, voice shrinking into something small and vulnerable. “Someone like me… and someone like you… maybe if I’d never gotten a quirk, I never would’ve even spoken to you. I never would’ve entered U.A. I never would’ve met any of you. I’d still just be that kid — the one standing on the sidelines, watching you from a distance while you chased the future.”

He gave a shaky exhale, and a bitter smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I know it’s ridiculous,” he murmured. “I’m a teacher now. A pro hero. People look up to me. I shouldn’t be bothered by things like this anymore. It’s been so many years. It’s all in the past.”

But then his voice wavered — thinner, more fragile. And he didn’t need to say the rest, because she already knew. The fear. The insecurity. The gnawing feeling of not being enough — of being an outsider looking in — had never truly left him. It was still there, buried deep beneath the titles, the victories, the smiles. It had just gone quiet for a while.

When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were glistening with something raw. Not weakness — but truth. A truth he had spent years trying to bury under layers of effort, responsibility, and relentless selflessness. And now, laid bare under the glow of the streetlamp, it looked achingly, heartbreakingly human.

Ochako’s vision blurred as hot tears welled up in her eyes. She tried — she really tried — to keep them from falling, to stay composed the way a pro hero should. But the sight of him standing there, shoulders hunched and eyes heavy with self-loathing, was too much.

“Are you an idiot…?” she whispered, voice trembling. And before she could stop herself, she closed the distance between them and threw her arms around him.

Her body shook against his chest as she clung to him, the tears she’d been holding back spilling freely now.

“Uraraka-san…” Izuku’s voice was achingly small. “If I’m ever quirkless to begin with… if I never met All Might, never inherited One For All… if I was just a bullied, quirkless boy and nothing else… would you even notice me? Talk to me at all?”

That question shattered something in her. The dam she’d been holding back broke, and the tears came harder now, unstoppable. She clutched him tighter, burying her face against his chest, her fingers curling desperately into the fabric of his jacket as if anchoring herself — or him — from slipping away into that awful “what if.”

“You’re just… wrong,” she choked out between sobs. “So wrong about me. About yourself. How can you — you — notice every tiny change in my mood, every little thought I try to hide, every time I pretend I’m fine when I’m not… and still think something like that?”

Her words came out in gasps and hiccups, but her conviction never wavered. “Of course I would. I will notice you. I will talk to you. And we’d still grow close, even if you were quirkless. All I’d need is a chance — just one chance to talk to you, to know you…”

“But if I were quirkless,” he interrupted quietly, his voice breaking, “I wouldn’t even be in U.A. I’d never have that chance. I’d just be some nobody, watching from afar while you became a hero… and I’d be nothing. Just a boy with no power, no future — someone you’d never even see.”

Her tears came harder now, but her voice grew firmer — steadier — with every word. “Then my world won’t be the same.”

He blinked. “Huh…?”

“If that were the case,” she said, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes through her tears, “maybe, yes… I’d still become a hero. But the world would feel emptier. Something important would be missing.” Her breath hitched, but her words didn’t waver.

“I wouldn’t get to see you work so hard. I wouldn’t be inspired by you. I wouldn’t want to become stronger because of you.”

Her voice cracked, but the truth poured out anyway. “Yes, maybe I’d still be a hero. But without you — quirk or no quirk — that world wouldn’t be nearly as beautiful.”

“Even if you had no quirk,” Ochako whispered, her voice trembling but sure, “I’d still be moved by you. Because it’s you I care about — not your power, not the title of ‘hero.’ I don’t care if you’re quirkless or not… It’s you — your heart, your strength — that matter to me.”

Izuku’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped to the ground, fists clenched at his sides.

“You… you think too highly of me,” he murmured, voice cracking. “I’ve always felt like an imposter. Deep down… I still do.”

Ochako opened her mouth — instinct ready to protest, to tell him he was wrong — but he shook his head slightly and kept going, his voice smaller now, like each word cost him more than the last.

“But…” He swallowed hard, his throat tight, breath trembling. “But I still… hope for something more. With you. Is that… too selfish?”

The final word cracked like glass. And then, at last, the tears he’d been fighting to hold back spilled over — quiet and steady, tracing down his cheeks as if something deep inside him had finally given way. It wasn’t dramatic or loud. It was the kind of crying that came from a place far beneath the surface — a wound he had carried alone for far too long, now laid bare before her.

“I know I’m not good enough,” he whispered, his voice raw and trembling. “If we had met back in middle school… I could’ve only watched you from afar. I know that. I really do… That’s the life I lived.”

The rest caught in his throat — too heavy, too painful to speak.

He had become a hero because he wanted to save everyone. Anyone who needed help, anyone who was hurting. But deep down, buried beneath all the ideals and determination, there was something else — something he could never admit aloud.

Because part of that “everyone” had always been himself.

The boy who had no quirk.
The boy who was bullied until he stopped believing he was worth anything.
The boy who didn’t even know if he counted as a person.

And yet — that boy met her.

The girl who saw the real him from the very beginning.
The girl who, on the day of the entrance exam, had reached out and saved him before he even had the chance to fall.
The girl who once said, “I like the name Deku — it sounds like doing your best,” and turned a cruel nickname into something that made his heart swell.
The girl who looked so radiant in her hero costume that he couldn’t even meet her eyes.
The girl who shouted from the rooftop for him to rest, to come back inside — who turned U.A. into his hero academy, too.

She was too good — too kind, too bright — and he was too greedy. Greedy enough to want to be a hero even without a quirk. Greedy enough to wish that someone as wonderful as her might stand beside someone like him.

A beat of silence passed. Then another.

Ochako took a step forward, heart pounding. “You’re not an imposter,” she said, shaking her head — hard — like the thought itself offended her. “You’re not some image to live up to. I don’t care about the hero part. I don’t care about that at all.”

Her hands clenched in the fabric of his jacket, as if she needed to anchor herself to him. Her voice dropped, trembling again. “It’s Midoriya Izuku that I…”

She faltered, the last words catching in her throat — not because she didn’t mean them, but because they mattered too much.

But she didn’t have to finish.

The way her breath hitched, the way she held onto him like she couldn’t bear the thought of him slipping away — it said everything.

“You’re the person whose smile I want to protect,” she whispered instead. “The one whose voice I never want to stop hearing. That’s what matters to me. The only one.”

Izuku’s shoulders shook. And then he broke — completely and without defense.

Sobs tore from his chest, raw and unrestrained, like something too long held back had finally given way. He pressed a trembling fist to his mouth, as if trying to quiet it — but it was no use.

“Uraraka-san…” His voice cracked on her name. He blinked rapidly, as though the tears and the blur in his vision were the only things keeping him from losing his grip on reality. “Do you… really mean it?”

“I do.”

Her answer came steady this time. Her hands were still trembling, but her eyes didn’t waver. Fierce, despite how soft her voice was. “Please. Just… trust me.”

Something inside him stilled. For a heartbeat, the city noise vanished — the distant hum of traffic, the faint hiss of the wind — everything dropped away. All that existed was the girl standing in front of him, her eyes bright with resolve and a kind of tenderness he’d never believed he deserved.

He looked at her — really looked at her — and the words rose before he even thought them: “I do.” His voice was rough but unhesitating. “I trust you. Always.”

Because he did. He always had. Even when he’d been afraid of himself, even when he’d been sure he’d fall short, she’d been there. She had seen the parts of him he thought were too broken, too heavy to show anyone — and she had stayed.

His hand rose almost on its own, fingers brushing her cheek. His calluses caught slightly on her damp skin; he could feel the faint tremor under her jaw. Her makeup was smudged in places, her hair coming loose in soft curls, the once-perfect dress wrinkled from how tightly they’d clung to each other during the evening’s chaos.

And yet, standing there, she was breathtaking. Not despite the imperfections — because of them. The rawness, the vulnerability, the way her lips parted just a little as he touched her. He’d never seen her more beautiful.

A shuddering breath escaped him. Without thinking, without planning, he drew her against him, arms closing around her back with quiet finality.

She went willingly, her hands slipping up to clutch the back of his jacket. Her forehead came to rest against his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. For a moment, neither of them moved, the two of them swaying gently as though the world had narrowed to a single heartbeat.

His heart hammered so hard he thought she might feel it.

She’s real. She’s here. She chose to stay.

He exhaled shakily, his chin resting lightly against her hair, inhaling the faint scent of her shampoo — floral, rain, and something he couldn’t name but had missed for so long. And for the first time in a long time, the weight inside his chest felt just a little lighter.

The city kept spinning, but their little system settled—steady, warm, and newly true to its center.

Chapter Text

The air between them still hummed with everything unspoken. Her fingers lingered at his back even after she meant to let go, tracing the line of a seam through his jacket. His breath brushed the top of her head — careful, awed — like he was afraid that even a small movement might break whatever spell they’d stumbled into.

“Deku-kun…” she started, voice soft, unsure.

He looked down. His eyes were wide and a little uncertain, but there was a faint glow to them in the streetlight. “Yeah?”

For once, there was no mission, no disaster, nothing dragging them apart. Just the echo of a shared heartbeat, pulling them closer.

They leaned in — not fast, not dramatic, just drawn into the same space by a quiet, undeniable gravity. The air between them thinned, charged and fragile. Every breath she took brushed his skin; every heartbeat felt too loud in the stillness.

Izuku’s hand lifted before he even decided to move. Hesitant. Almost worshipful. His fingertips brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, then stayed, hovering at her temple, tracing the faint tremor in her jaw.

She didn’t pull back.

If anything, she leaned into the touch — just slightly, just enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin beneath his shaking hand.

He could see the rise and fall of her breathing. The shimmer in her eyes. For a moment, neither of them moved. The world narrowed to two people and the impossible distance of a few inches.

He swallowed. The question caught in his throat, then slipped out as barely more than breath. “Can I—?”

Her answer wasn’t words. It was a small nod. A pulse of air. Her lashes trembling as she tilted her chin up. Her lips parted, unsteady, waiting.

Their foreheads touched first — soft, tentative, the gentlest collision. The contact sent a shiver through both of them. It was an answer all by itself.

And then—

Her phone rang.

The sound cracked the stillness like glass.

Ochako froze, breath caught, pulse still tangled with his as the device buzzed in her purse. For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved. The echo of what almost happened was still hanging there between them, bright and fragile.

Izuku blinked, startled, then huffed out a tiny, helpless laugh.

“Figures the universe would pick now of all times,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “You… should probably answer.”

She almost didn’t. For a split second, she considered tossing the phone into the nearest storm drain and pretending it had never existed. But then she glanced at the caller ID — and groaned.

“It’s Hawks.”

Izuku winced. “Oh. Yeah, maybe don’t throw that one into a drain.”

“Ugh…” She sighed, digging for the phone. “Timing of the century.”

For a moment, there was still a lightness between them — shared, embarrassed, breathless. Then reality caught up.

She stepped back — not because she wanted to, but because she had to — and lifted the phone to her ear.

“Hi, Hawks,” she said. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “What’s up?”

“Evening, Uraraka,” came Hawks’ easy drawl on the other end. Beneath it, though, was weight. Not a casual check-in. “Sorry to call so late. I wouldn’t if it weren’t important.”

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s fine. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been in meetings all day,” Hawks said, his tone shifting brisk. “We’ve got a situation — a complicated one. A string of quirk-related incidents in Eastern Europe. Civilian casualties are rising, and local agencies don’t have infrastructure for early-stage counseling or escalation control.”

Ochako’s grip tightened. “You’re thinking…?”

“I’m thinking you’re the best one we’ve got for this,” Hawks said simply. “You understand the counseling framework better than anyone, and you’ve actually built trust in communities where people are scared to even talk about their quirks. The local governments are asking for Japan’s cooperation — and I want to send you to lead the field team.”

Her mind stumbled. Abroad. Possibly weeks — maybe months — away from home. Away from… this.

“I know it’s sudden,” Hawks added, his voice softening, like he could feel her hesitation even through the line. “And I’m not asking you to decide tonight. I wanted to ask you directly, not through the committee, because this isn’t just policy. This is people. And I trust you to reach them before things spiral.”

Ochako stood in silence, listening to the hum of the streetlights and the pulse of the city around them. A minute ago, the night had felt close and warm and simple. Now it felt wide again — complicated and full of choices.

“I… I understand,” she said quietly. “I’ll think about it. I’ll get back to you tomorrow morning.”

“I figured you would,” Hawks replied, a little warmth returning. “Get some rest, Uraraka. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

The line clicked off.

She lowered the phone slowly, staring at the darkened screen for a beat before slipping it back into her purse.

Izuku hadn’t moved.

He was still there — close enough that she could feel the faint pull of him, but with enough distance that the look in his eyes was already saying “I get it”.

“Work?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Work.”

Silence settled over them again. Not heavy. Just… there. And in that quiet, the kiss that didn’t happen still hovered between them — intact, delicate, unresolved. So close, and somehow already out of reach.

—

They didn’t see each other again before she left — not in person, anyway.

But the night before her departure, long after the city had gone quiet, they were still on the phone. Neither of them mentioned what almost happened under that streetlamp the other night. They didn’t have to. Something between them had already shifted — fragile, tentative, and real.

“Tomorrow, huh?” Izuku murmured, lying on his back and staring at his ceiling.

“Mm.” Ochako’s voice was soft through the receiver. “Hawks wants me on-site as soon as possible. It’s looking more like long-term relief than a simple extraction. It might turn into a standing program.”

“I see…” His voice dropped. “Good luck. You’ll be… really helpful out there.”

“Thanks.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Maybe two, three months?”

“Oh.”

The ache hit him before he could brace for it — small, involuntary, impossible to hide from himself. Rationally, he knew he should be proud. This was exactly the kind of work she had built herself toward. But still. The thought of her that far away pressed a slow, dull ache into his chest.

Three months sounded like forever.

There was something he wanted to say — something that had been lodged at the edge of his heart for a long time — but not like this. Not the night before she left.

“By the way,” Ochako said suddenly, breaking the quiet, “I filed a report with the Commission about that sponsor.”

Izuku blinked. “You… did?”

“Mm. Yukimori. The guy who said those gross things at the ball.” Her tone sharpened, but it was steady. “I submitted an incident report this morning and requested a review. I also told my agency I won’t be attending any future events sponsored by his company.”

“You won’t?” Izuku sat up, alarm flickering across his face even though she couldn’t see it. “That could cause problems for you, right?”

“I thought about that,” she said simply. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

He frowned. “Still… what if he tries to make things hard for you? He feels like the type who’d have connections. He could pull strings, twist things around—”

“Then he can go ahead and try,” she said lightly. Calm. Certain.

Izuku blinked, thrown by how unmoved she sounded. “But if he actually has that kind of influence — what if other sponsors follow his lead? That could really affect your work, or even your agency’s funding—”

“Well,” she said breezily, “then I’ll just have to figure something else out.”

She said it like she was talking about changing train lines. Confident. Grounded. Unshaken.

“Jeez, Uraraka-san…” he groaned, dragging a hand through his hair, voice pitching somewhere between panic and affection. “You can’t just say that like it’s nothing! What if things really do get harder because of this? And — wait — don’t you still send money home sometimes? If your income drops, that’s less for your family, and if you try to make up for it with more hours, you’ll overwork yourself again, and then your health will—”

He stopped. Realizing he’d slid straight into a mutter spiral at full speed. “Oh no, I’m doing it again, aren’t I — sorry, I just — ahh—”

He made a strangled noise and shoved his face into his pillow.

On the other end, Ochako laughed.

Not polite. Not performative. A real laugh — warm, helpless, and so soft it went straight through him.

“Hey, hey,” she said gently, her voice still smiling. “You really don’t have to worry that much. Though… I appreciate that you care.” Her tone dropped, fond. “If I lose a sponsor or two, I’ll manage. That’s part of being a pro hero — things don’t always go smoothly. If it gets tough, I’ll just work harder. But letting someone like that keep doing whatever he wants? No thanks.”

Izuku let out a breath, some mix of relief and awe loosening his shoulders. “You’re… amazing,” he said quietly. “You’re way stronger than I’ll ever be.”

“Please,” she teased. “Says the guy who’s saved the world multiple times.”

“Still,” he murmured, cheeks heating as he smiled into the dark, “I mean it.”

Silence settled again. This time it felt easy.

And then — in true Midoriya fashion — his thoughts tripped out of his mouth ahead of his courage.

“Hey, um… when you’re in Eastern Europe, could you maybe send me pictures sometimes? You’ll be gone for a while, and I… I’d like to see how you’re doing.” The last part came out barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” she said softly. “I will.”

He hesitated, fingers curling in his blanket. “A-and, uh… when you come back—” He winced at himself and tried again. “I mean, you will come back, obviously, I just — when you do, could you… let me know? Right away, I mean. I’d really… like to know.”

“Of course,” she replied without even thinking about it. Warm. Certain. “You’ll be the first to know.”

—

After the call ended, Izuku lay there in the glow of his phone screen, heart still racing.

She was leaving tomorrow.

Saying he wouldn’t miss her would’ve been a lie so transparent even he couldn’t pretend to believe it.

He thought about her — about the almost-kiss under the streetlight, about the warmth that hadn’t really gone away even after the moment shattered, about the way her laugh was still clinging to him like a thread he couldn’t stop holding.

It felt… improbable. That they’d somehow ended up here again — not as classmates chasing the same dream, but as two people who had already been through hell and were still, somehow, reaching for the same light. Being around her felt like rediscovering gravity after years of drifting. Quiet. Impossible. His.

He rolled onto his side, looking toward the window. The city glow blurred faintly across the glass.

Hero.

That word still felt too big, too heavy.

He’d heard, after the war, from Class A — little pieces of conversation that had leaked back to him long after the fact. That during his worst stretch, the so-called “dark Deku” times, when the pros had basically tried to use him as bait to pull out Shigaraki, Bakugo had snapped at them.

“He’s insane,” Kacchan had apparently said — sharp, furious, shaken in that way only he could be. “He doesn’t give a damn about his own life. He’ll destroy himself if you let him.”

Back then, Izuku hadn’t known what to do with that. He’d worn that recklessness like proof. See? I’m not scared. I’ll push past the limit. I’ll go further than anyone.

But lying here now, with the adrenaline long gone and no one left to impress, he wasn’t sure it had ever really been bravery.

It felt a lot more like self-erasure.

A kind of quiet self-destruction born from low self-worth. From never fully believing he was something worth protecting.

That was why he was always giving. Always saving. Always looking outward.

Because he genuinely didn’t know what to do when someone reached back.

He’d been so locked into that tunnel vision that he hadn’t noticed anything. Or anyone.

During the last battle with Shigaraki, he’d thrown himself past every limit — literally hurled One For All out of his body just to stop/save Shigaraki, just to protect everyone else. And when it left him, when the last of his hard-earned Quirk bled out of him, everybody said he took it well.

Calm. Accepting.

He’d smiled and said it was fine. Said it was natural.

And in a way, he’d meant it.

Because deep down, he had always treated One For All like something borrowed.

If something was never really yours, you don’t get to be angry when it’s gone. You just give it back quietly and say thank you.

That’s what he told himself.

It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t optimism.

It was resignation — the belief that the world had just reset to how it was supposed to be. No power. No specialness. Just him again. Until Class A shoved new gear into his hands and reminded him — in words and in actions — that he still mattered.

And even now, under all of that, a familiar voice still whispered:

If you’re not saving someone, what are you good for?

He exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. A tired smile tugged at his mouth.

That smile — people always called it bright, hopeful. To him it felt more like armor. A coping strategy he’d built over years of fear. A way to protect the small, stubborn kid still crouched inside him, terrified that if he stopped trying, even for one second, the world would see him for what he really was: not enough.

Which was why Uraraka Ochako always hit so hard.

Because she never demanded that armor.

She never asked him to perform. She never asked him to be the symbol or the answer. She just… stayed.

And him — he’d taken everything he felt for her and buried it somewhere deep in his own mind.

She was a good friend, yes. Kind, steady, painfully genuine. But it wasn’t just that.

He thought of the entrance exam — the way they’d saved each other before they even knew each other’s names.

He thought of the day she’d turned “Deku” into something he could stand to hear, reshaping a wound into a promise.

He thought of Blackwhip bursting loose for the first time, panic everywhere, and her being the one to reach him through it — pale, shaking, but eyes absolutely unshaken.

He thought of the rooftop at U.A., when she’d lifted the weight of the entire crowd off of him, not with strength but with understanding, and let him be caught instead of crushed.

She’d always been there.

He just hadn’t let himself see her.

There was always a reason to look away. Always someone else to save first. And besides — wanting her felt selfish. Dangerous. Like reaching for something too good for him to hold.

So he did what he’d always done.

He translated feeling into analysis.

From childhood, that was how he survived. Wanting something as himself felt wrong — so he learned to turn every desire into observation, every ache into scribbles in a notebook. If you can map how to help someone, you never have to ask where you fit in their world.

Wanting something is wrong — especially wanting someone that precious. Someone as wonderful as her.

So instead of letting himself want, he mislabeled every signal:

Heart racing? That’s just because “a girl talked to me”, not because it’s her.

Warmth spreading through his chest when she smiled? Gratitude.

The ache when she laughed with someone else? Fatigue.

The quiet pull to stay near her? Just really good friendship. Nothing weird. Right?

Even he had to admit that kind of reasoning was ridiculous — but what else was he supposed to do?

Because…

Instead of “you matter to me”.
Instead of “don’t go”.
Instead of “I need you”—

He always defaulted to “thank you”.

Gratitude was safer than affection. “Thank you” didn’t demand anything in return. It let him sound composed when his heart wasn’t.

Only recently had the static started to clear.

When Kacchan told him, point-blank, that he treated everyone as special and therefore no one actually was, the blade slid in clean. Because if you flatten every desire into duty long enough, then everything becomes equally urgent — everything except you.

So the first time he actually said to her, “I want more with you” — and the world miraculously didn’t collapse — it was earth-shattering for him.

It was the first crack in the idea that burying what he felt made him a better hero. Maybe it just made him lonelier.

He sighed and rolled back to face the window, where the city lights trembled faintly in the glass.

He’d always been the boy who circled love but didn’t dare step inside it. Studying it. Admiring it. Afraid to touch it.

And now, thinking about her leaving, a stupid little thought came up, uninvited:

If I’d just widened my vision a little sooner… if I’d just looked past the mission, past the fear and insecurities… I might… could’ve had more time with her.

He let out a helpless breath and let his head sink deeper into the pillow.

Eventually, he forced himself to sleep.

⸻

She left just after sunrise.

It wasn’t dramatic. No airport sprint, no tearful goodbye at the gate.

She’d told him not to come — “We’re going to see each other again soon anyway, right? No need to make it this huge scene,” she’d said, laughing. “I’ll text you, so you just focus on work, okay? Do your best, Mr. Pro Hero Teacher~!”

That had pulled a real smile out of him in spite of everything. That was so her — always trying to keep things light so he wouldn’t worry himself sick, always cushioning the hard parts so they’d feel a little less like goodbye.

So instead of a dramatic send-off, there was one last message before boarding: “I’ll text you when I land, ok?” Plus a little comet emoji.

He’d stared at that for a long time, thumbs hovering over the screen.

He typed “Safe travels” and deleted it. He typed “I’ll miss you” and deleted it faster.

What finally went through was: “I’ll be awake. Let me know you’re okay.”

He meant it.

Then she was gone.

The day moved without her anyway.

He went through the motions — training check-ins, review notes, a meeting he barely absorbed. People talked to him and he nodded in the right places. On paper, it looked like a normal day.

It didn’t feel like one.

By the time night settled over the city again, the apartment felt too quiet.

Izuku sat on the edge of his bed, then let himself fall back and stare at the ceiling, phone resting on his chest.

For a while he just lay there in that silence, the absence of her louder than anything else in the room.

Then his phone buzzed.

He smiled before he even unlocked it.

A message from her. Two photos. The first — a quick snap at some unfamiliar airport, her luggage pulled off to the side. The second — clearly taken from whatever transport was driving her out: an Eastern European relief site, canvas tents lined in rows, the sky washed gold by sunset.

“It’s so beautiful,” he typed back.

But the next thought rose before he could stop it:

Where is she? She’s nowhere in the picture…

No face. No smile. No proof she was doing well. It was irrational — he knew that — but still, he wanted to see her. He wanted to see that she was safe, that she was warm, that she was still there.

He set the phone down, pulse still a little fast.

Twenty-four years old, and maybe this was the first time he’d actually let himself recognize this kind of wanting.

If he was honest, though, it had always been there.

Chapter Text

It had been exactly one month since Ochako left for Eastern Europe.

And today… Still no new message.

She’s okay, he told himself for the third time that morning. Probably just busy.

Izuku’s day started like always. Quiet breakfast. Morning train. First-period lecture. A quick lunch. Afternoon session. Everything moved like clockwork on the outside.

But inside?
She was still there — like a faint song stuck in the back of his mind. One he couldn’t turn off.

Still, he had plans tonight. So he powered through the day with laser focus. Efficient. Productive. Distracted in all the right ways.

After work, he graded papers — fast, precise, thoughtful. Personalized comments for each student. An encouraging note here, a strategy tip there.

Then, right on schedule, he logged in.

The hero MMO had just rolled out a major update.
His monitor glowed blue. Login screen flickering. One earbud in, the other dangling as the AC hummed faintly in the background. The faint city lights blurred behind half-drawn curtains.

“Oi, dorky dweeb, you’re pushing too far ahead again!”

“Ah—sorry sorry! I thought you were covering left—!”

“I was covering left until your dumbass ran straight into their tank!”

It was chaos. Familiar, fast-paced, and Bakugo yelling loud enough to blow out his mic.

Todoroki’s calm voice cut through. “I think I’ve got the hang of this now.”

Bakugo groaned. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?! You couldn’t even aim two days ago! Someone upload aim-assist into your half-and-half brain or what?!”

“I practiced,” Todoroki replied evenly.

Izuku chuckled, covering their flank. “He did watch a few tutorials during break…”

“Figures. Freakin’ tryhard.”

The match ended. Tension eased. Familiar banter buzzed in his ear like old music.

Todoroki yawned. “I’m heading to bed. Patrol at six. Night.”

“Tch. Go dream about cooldown timers, Ice Prince,” Bakugo muttered.

The team disbanded. Just the two of them now.

“You should crash too, Izuku,” Bakugo said after a pause.

Izuku’s cursor hovered over the lobby button. “Yeah, I… might check the news a bit first.”

A beat.
“…You mean stalking Uraraka?”

His heart jumped. “I’m not—! I mean, it’s not—!”

He flailed. Bakugo didn’t even laugh. Just let him stew.

Izuku rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s just been… busier, that’s all. She still replies, just slower. And I get it. I do. But…”

He trailed off. His inbox was still empty.

“I just wanna know how she’s doing. Sometimes the hero news updates faster than the messages do, so I… yeah.”

Silence.

“…God. That does sound stalker-ish, doesn’t it?” He laughed weakly, a little hollow.

Bakugo was quiet. Weirdly quiet.

Izuku braced himself. Here it comes. The insult. The jab. The—

“…Yeah. You were always like that.”

“…Huh?”

“Since we were kids. You wanted stuff, but always acted like you weren’t allowed to.”

Bakugo’s voice was low. Rough around the edges, like he hated saying it and hated not saying it more.

“…Guess that’s on me too. You didn’t exactly grow up thinking your feelings mattered.”

Izuku blinked. That landed hard.

“…I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I was the one saying most of the crap, wasn’t I?”

Izuku huffed out a laugh. “…Yeah.”

Bakugo shifted. Still gruff. But gentler now.

“…You’re wrong, though. Wanting something doesn’t mean the world’s gonna end, dumbass.”

That made him blink again.

“You hear me?” Bakugo added, sharper now. “There’s nothing noble about tearing yourself down. That crap doesn’t help anyone.”

Another pause. Voice lower. “And yeah, maybe it’s my fault you think that way. But if you waste your whole damn life carrying that just because of me…”

A sigh filtered through the mic.

“…That’d be a damn shame. Even for you.”

Izuku looked down. His smile was small. Shaky.

“…I didn’t think you’d say that.”

“…Besides,” Bakugo huffed, trying to sound annoyed, “how the hell are you supposed to outdo me with that mindset? You’re No. 4 now. Meanwhile I dropped to freakin’ ten, thanks to those damn reporters and their ‘anger issues’ headlines about me—what, you just gonna start slacking ‘cause you’re a little ahead now?”

Izuku laughed. “Kacchan, that drop was tragic.”

“Shut up.”

“No, really. Your patrol stats are amazing but you glare at every news crew like they insulted your ancestors.”

“I don’t care about PR!”

“You yell at people who compliment you!”

“I SAID I DON’T—”

Izuku was cracking up now. “You’re inspiring and terrifying. Honestly impressive.”

“…Shut your face.”

But the tension had lightened. Familiar. Easy.

Then—

“…So yeah,” Bakugo muttered. “You like her. You wanna see her. That doesn’t make you broken.”

Izuku swallowed. “…Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” Bakugo snapped. “Just remember — you’re allowed to want things.”

Izuku breathed in deep. Something in him settled.

“…Got it. Thanks, Kacchan.”

“Didn’t I just say—?! Go the fuck to sleep already.”

Izuku laughed, warm and soft. “Okay. Goodnight, Kacchan.”

But by the time he said it, Bakugo was already gone.
The lobby music looped. No new messages. No updates.

But the silence felt just a little less heavy.

⸻

The Next Day – UA Faculty Lounge, Noon

Izuku sat slumped at his desk, forehead resting on one hand. His tablet blinked innocently, syllabus cursor still waiting. His notes for the afternoon lecture were only half-done.

He loved teaching — today’s lesson was a cool one: battlefield formation re-enactments. Strategic thinking, team coordination, classic pro-hero tactics. The fun kind.

But right now?

His eyes were staging a mutiny.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed up so late…” he muttered, knuckles against his temple.

Late nights weren’t new. As a student, he used to stay up scribbling in notebooks, watching hero videos, obsessing over stats. But last night? It wasn’t research.

It was fun though. Back in UA days, they had never allowed that kind of downtime. But now, with long days and real-world weight, that small window — playing with friends — felt… precious.

Still, after logging off, his hand had moved on its own. Swipe. Refresh. Hero news tab.

Just in case.

No updates then.

But now?

His half-lidded eyes snapped open.

He froze.

There she was.

URAVITY AND TEAM DE-ESCALATE MAJOR CONFLICT AT BORDER

Front page. High-stakes mission. A shadowy anti-Quirk group had nearly pulled something catastrophic — until her team stepped in. They defused everything with calm, skill, and empathy.

There was even a photo.

Amber sky, fading sunset behind Eastern mountains. Wind in her hair. She looked exhausted, but still absolutely radiant, as always.

Without thinking, he saved it.

He didn’t realize he was smiling like a fool until—

“Oooh~ Looking at your waifu already, Professor?”

Izuku yelped. “P-P-Present Mic?! She’s not—!!”

Yamada gasped like he’d witnessed scandal. “What?! Don’t tell me you still haven’t confessed! Tragedy of the century!”

“I-It’s not like that!! We’re colleagues! Professionals!!”

Yamada leaned in, smirking. “Oh sure. The most professional. So focused. So not quietly refreshing international headlines at noon—”

He winked. “Buddy. You are smitten.”

Izuku buried his face in both hands.

And then — a miracle.

Aizawa passed by, sipping coffee.

“Yamada,” he said without looking up, “try not to kill our coworkers before finals.”

Izuku beamed. “Aizawa-sensei—!”

Yes. Yes. Finally. A cool, composed adult. A beacon of logic. Someone who would understand that this was not—

“…Even if it’s all true,” Aizawa added, utterly deadpan, “don’t overdo it.”

Izuku collapsed into his tie.

Yamada cackled behind him, clapping him on the shoulder.

Hero rankings? No. 4.
Emotional stability? Still pending.

⸻

By the time he peeled himself away from the faculty lounge and headed down the corridor toward his classroom, Midoriya Izuku was still glowing faintly—equal parts embarrassment and anticipation. Present Mic and Aizawa had ganged up on him with their usual sarcasm, but even that couldn’t dampen the spring in his step.

He loved this part of the day.

Teaching. Helping kids. Getting to the heart of the younger generation.

Ever since Kota, Eri, the hospital, the war—ever since All For One—he’d found that nothing grounded him like reaching students. When a kid who’d lost their way started to find their direction again, or looked at the future with clearer eyes, something inside him settled in the best way.

People online still speculated.

“He only became a teacher because he lost One For All.”
“Temporary job.”
“Pity career.”

But they didn’t get it.

The spark in a student’s eyes when they understood something for the first time. The way confidence slowly bloomed with every breakthrough. That quiet courage when someone began imagining the kind of hero they wanted to be—

That had nothing to do with losing his power. That was who he was. Helping kids was the one thing he’d always done right.

He looked young—still only twenty-four—and standing next to his sixteen or seventeen-year-old students, he didn’t look much older than them. Some clueless parents had even mistaken him for a student. He gave off a peer-like vibe, wasn’t strict in the traditional sense (Aizawa had once grumbled that he should be stricter), but he had his own methods.

When Midoriya Izuku stood at the front of the room, his honesty disarmed even the rowdiest first-years. He didn’t command respect—it was given. Quietly. Naturally.

Even Kota, who sat in the back pretending to be too cool for everything, lifted a hand in greeting.

“Morning, Deku-sensei.”

Izuku smiled. “Good morning, Kota.”

And then—

“Midoriya-sensei, you look half-alive today!”

“Sensei, did you oversleep~?”

“Did you stay up gaming again?”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You guys really pay attention, huh. I did stay up a little late—don’t follow my example, alright?”

“Wait, wait—was it another international crisis? Did you secretly save the world again?”

He waved both hands quickly. “No way! Thankfully, the world didn’t need saving last night. I’m not Starflare Tempest or anything,” he added with a sheepish grin, referencing the overpowered protagonist of the hero manga he’d been binge-reading.

One of his students lit up. “Wait—you read Starflare Tempest too? I’m more of a Galactic Defender Omega fan. Way more OP.”

“Oh, no way. Omega’s so broken. That’s just plot armor at this point—”

Izuku and his students fell into a spirited geeky debate about their favorite hero manga series.

Finally, someone asked, “Okay, but if you weren’t saving the world or napping—what were you doing at lunch, Sensei?”

“Of course I was working on your lesson plan,” he said with mock innocence.

One student leaned in dramatically. “Lies.”

Another squinted. “Your face is screaming, ‘I stayed up because I’m in love.’”

Izuku froze.

“…HUH?! W-WHAT—NO—THAT’S—okay class is starting!! Everyone take your seats!!”

He knew it was a hard pivot. The kids knew it too.

They loved messing with him. Usually, he gave as good as he got, tossing back clever remarks, playing along with their rhythm. But this—this teasing—was new. And mortifying. Was he that obvious?

——

Today’s lesson was on historical flanking maneuvers used by early pro hero teams.

Izuku launched into it with his usual verve, hands slicing the air, eyes alight.

“So in this scenario,” he explained, “the whole objective is to break their formation. You want to apply just enough pressure to crack their defenses—sometimes even shatter them entirely. That creates the opening your team needs to—”

A hand shot up.

“I know this one!”

Izuku paused. “Go ahead.”

The student grinned. And then—

”I WON’T STOP SMASHING UNTIL THE LID IS SHATTERED TO PIECES!!!”

The class erupted.

Izuku turned scarlet. “N-NO! THAT—THAT’S OUT OF CONTEXT—! IT WAS A VERY DIFFERENT SITUATION!!”

“Sensei, that meme is legendary.”

“They use it in unboxing videos now!”

“There’s a lo-fi remix on YouTube that loops it for three hours.”

That one nearly killed him.

Ever since the battle against Shigaraki had been broadcast worldwide, Midoriya Izuku had become a household name. His lines, his movements—even the unintentional ones—had become internet phenomena. And somehow, even though it was years ago, a few lines had gone viral again thanks to a popular streamer. His students were thrilled.

Kota groaned from the back. “Guys, please stop bullying him…”

The class turned immediately.

“KOTA. You use Deku memes more than anyone.”

“Yeah, dude, don’t act innocent.”

Kota sputtered. “I do not—!”

In unison, the class replied:

“You sent the ‘You looked like you needed saving’ sticker when Minami forgot her homework.”

“And the ‘Meddling is a core trait of heroism’ one when you were mad about cafeteria prices.”

Izuku nearly crumbled.

“K-Kota… you too?”

Betrayal. From his last bastion of logic.

Lesson plan? Abandoned. He slapped it onto the podium like hitting a panic button.

“GROUP WORK!! NOW!! FORM TEAMS!! NO MORE MEMES IN CLASS—!!!”

His voice cracked.

To his amazement, it worked.

Chairs scraped. Papers shuffled. For a fleeting moment, peace descended upon the room.

Until someone said, far too casually—

“Hey, Sensei. So… are you really not dating Uravity?”

Izuku combusted on the spot.

“Huh?! What?! I—NO—that’s—I don’t—where did that even—?!”

But it was too late.

They’d all seen it.

The tabloid photo.

That night after the alumni reunion—when he’d sprinted up to her in the middle of the street and blurted out that painfully raw, way-too-personal question in front of a dozen onlookers, civilians, people actually gasping around them.

A paparazzo had caught it.

His face. Her face. The charged air between them.

Gosh. He wanted to die.

Why had he done that out in public? In front of random pedestrians, civilians—blurting out something that raw?

But that was the thing.

Once he decided on something, his body always moved first.
That had always been his way.
What else could he do?

“And at Hero Charity Ball,” another student added gleefully, “didn’t you roast that sponsor?”

“YEAHHH, he snapped!”

He spun. “I didn’t snap—!”

Unsurprisingly, that incident had hit the news too.

“Their stock dropped!”

“Midoriya-sensei, you’re a menace!”

“Investor Slayer Arc!!”

“How do you all know this?!”

“Because we read,” someone said cheerfully. “And we love you, Sensei~”

“I—I wasn’t trying to protect anyone specific—!”

A girl grinned. “Sure you weren’t. We all know you were defending your waifu.”

Izuku short-circuited.

“N-No!! Don’t say it like that—! She’s not my—!”

…Not yet.

He flailed.

But he was laughing, too.

Even as the class howled and phones whipped out and someone pulled up the Hero Ball clip mid-discussion—

He couldn’t help smiling.

They were chaotic. Wild. Shameless.

But they were his chaos.

And he wouldn’t trade them for anything.

—

It was nearly midnight by the time he stepped through the door.

He let his bag slide to the floor, tugged off his tie, and collapsed onto the couch in a heap. His whole body ached—not from battle, but from surviving another day of being relentlessly teased by his students. They were good kids. Just… also too good at pushing his buttons.

He doesn’t heartily mind though. He felt more like himself with them than he had in years.

He let his eyes drift shut—

Ping.

A message lit up his phone screen.

“Hey, Deku-kun.
Are you awake?”

His eyes flew open.
His pulse jumped.

He sat upright so fast the couch creaked, clutching the phone like it might evaporate if he loosened his grip.

Calm down, Midoriya Izuku, he told himself. It’s just a message, not a—something catastrophically romantic he wasn’t prepared for.

“YES IM AWAKE!!!
I’M TOTALLY NOT SLEEPING!!!
How—how have you been???”

He sent it before his brain could intervene.

Her reply came after a brief pause.

“Sorry… it’s been really busy.
We just wrapped up a mission.
I finally have a moment to rest.”

Then another message, hesitating—like she typed it slowly.

“Can I… video call you?”

He nodded furiously to the empty room and typed back:

“Yes!! Of course!! Definitely!! Anytime!!”

The screen blinked.

Come on, Midoriya Izuku, he scolded himself. It’s just a FaceTime, not a marriage proposal. Your heart can stop acting like it’s about to eject itself.

And then—she appeared.

Ochako’s face filled his phone, framed by what looked like a shared dorm hall in the Eastern European Hero Safety Bureau. Her hair was a little messy, her eyes tired, but she was still—somehow—the most beautiful thing he had seen all week.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Hi,” he breathed. “It’s… uh… really good to see you. You look—I mean—you seem tired but good! And your dorm looks professional—”
He groaned. “I’m not making sense.”

She laughed. Warm. Easy. Familiar.

“Everything’s fine here,” she said. “We had to de-escalate a really tense situation. Some anti-Quirk group tried to pull something reckless, but… we talked them down before it got bad.”

Izuku’s eyes widened. “I saw that in the news! That’s incredible. That’s—exactly what you’re amazing at!”
He beamed at her, proud enough to glow.

She giggled. “It wasn’t just me. But… thank you. How about you? How’s teaching?”

He groaned dramatically. “My students discovered a new meme compilation of my Shigaraki battle footage.”

She nearly choked laughing. “Oh no—what did they say?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Is it the one where they autotuned your quotes into a pop song?”

“WHY DOES THAT EXIST—”
His hands flew up as she burst into laughter again.

”Or the remix where Danger Sense pings every time someone opens a microwave door?” she added helpfully.

He covered his face. “I’m hanging up. I’m actually hanging up.”

“Nooo, don’t! It’s cute!” she said, wiping a tear from laughing. “You’re so easy to tease.”

“That’s not a good thing,” he muttered, red.

They talked about everything—class, patrols, weird dorm food, ridiculous tabloids, and the terrible memes that refused to die.

And at some point… the tone shifted.

Izuku glanced down, fiddling with the blanket edge.

“…You know,” he murmured, “after the Hero Ball… when I walked you home… I told you we probably wouldn’t have met if I didn’t have a Quirk. And you said you’d still want to know me. Even without it.”

His smile was small. Shy.

“…That made me really happy.”

Ochako blinked.

Then softened—eyes gentle and warm.

“Of course I would,” she said. “You’re you.
If something like that could erase who you are…
if that meant I wouldn’t get to grow close to you…
that would’ve been such a loss.”

He flushed hard. “Y-You’re teasing me…”

“I’m not.”

Silence fell—but it was warm, not awkward. A gentle quiet that wrapped around them.

Eventually, they said their good nights.

He was still smiling like an idiot when the call ended.

⸻

Izuku stared at her name in the message log.

The words are typed out before he could second-guess them:

Having you around feels like a miracle.
There’s something I want to tell you.
When you get back… if it’s okay…
can I?

He hovered over the send button.

Hesitated.

…tapped it.

And froze.

The message didn’t go to her.

It went to—

THE CLASS A ALUMNI GROUP CHAT.

His soul left his body.

There were three full seconds of silence.

Then:

Ping.

Ping ping ping ping.

Kaminari: “BRO DID YOU JUST CONFESS TO SOMEONE?? LIVE??”

Ashido: “THIS IS A LOVE STORY UNFOLDING IN REAL TIME AAAA”

Iida: “MIDORIYA-KUN PLEASE CONFIRM THIS IS NOT A MISFIRE”

Kirishima: “GO FOR IT, SENSEI!!! MANLY AS HELL!!!”

Jirou: “He types like a dude who’s shaking.”

Sero: “Update us when she says yes.”

Tokoyami: “A miracle… poetic.”

Mineta: “Even his love life has more plot than my entire existence? THIS IS INJUSTICE.”

Izuku let out a strangled noise and collapsed face-first into a pillow.

He wanted to die.

Burrow underground.

Erase himself from existence.

He glanced at the chat again, stomach dropping.

Everyone had seen it.
All of them.

And worst of all—
She had definitely seen it.
Her read receipt was right there.

But no reply.

That means she saw it oh no oh god she definitely saw it I’m going to die she must think I’m an idiot should I clarify should I apologize should I fake a blackout no I should move to a remote village and never use technology again—

Ping.

He froze mid-spiral.

A new message from her. Not in the group chat—just to him.

It was just a single mochi emoji with a tiny, soft smile and a gentle nod, next to a speech bubble that said in big, friendly letters:
“okay!”

Was it just his imagination, or… did that mochi kind of look like her? Sweet. Warm. A little shy. Just like—

And with that—just a tiny little thing—was enough to make his heart pound.

Chapter Text

The sky over the relief zone had deepened into a bruised shade of violet, smoke from distant fires drifting like thin scars across the horizon. Eastern Europe was still raw from the week’s quirk-related incidents; even now, emergency tents glowed faintly in the dusk, generators buzzing in tired bursts.
 
Ochako sank onto a low concrete step beside the transport truck, finally letting her shoulders drop. Her legs were leaden, her gloves stained with dust and dried smoke. All day had been decisions and triage—evacuation routes, negotiations with terrified families, calming hot-headed civilians before panic turned into violence. She’d mediated three disputes, redirected a stampede, lifted half a collapsed awning, and held a sobbing child until he stopped shaking.

 A convoy coordinator waved a flag.

“Teams A and C, load up! Next stop, North Outpost for rotation and rest!”

North Outpost. A converted logistics station, part shelter, part rest hub—spare cots, hot water, comms equipment, a canteen if you were lucky.

“Got it!” she called back.

She boarded the transport truck with the others. The engine rumbled awake, and they rolled away from the ruined district toward the safer northern zone.

 When the trucks finally pulled in, the exhausted responders dispersed—some to the canteen, some toward the temporary showers, others toward the heated rest units.

Ochako stepped off the truck and inhaled the cold evening air. The rest yard was wide and quiet: rows of supply crates, portable lamps, a makeshift bench formed from two stacked pallets. A field medic brewed instant coffee near a heater vent.

Finally… a moment to breathe and be herself.

She grabbed a bottle of water from a crate and walked to the edge of the outpost, where she could see the temporary shelters below—little islands of warm light in the blue dusk.

She lifted her phone and snapped a photo.
 
As promised.
She tapped out a short message to him, attaching the photo, and hit send.
 
A breath escaped her — half relief, half… something else.
 
Her mind drifted.
 
She thought of him, how he’d been acting a bit differently since that dinner… after he’d said he wanted “more.”
 
Of the way he had looked at her — like she mattered, like the world was quieter when she was near.
 
Of the way he’d looked at her at the Hero Gala—caught between awe and panic, like his heart had stepped on a landmine.
 
Of how carefully he’d touched her cheek, as if afraid she might vanish if he wasn’t gentle enough.
 
Of the tremor in his voice when he asked, “Is wanting more too selfish?”
 
He was… he was so Deku.
Earnest. Warm. Brave in every way except the one that involved his own heart.
She couldn’t help smiling — a soft, helpless curve of her lips she couldn’t have controlled even if she tried.
 
And then her face heated.
 
Because there was that message.
The one he’d sent a few days ago, right before her mission briefing.
 
“There’s something I want to tell you when you’re back.”
 
Those words.
 
They kept looping in her head like a tiny glowing spark she couldn’t ignore.
 
If this happened few years ago, she’d told herself not to read into it — they were both still figuring themselves out, and maybe he just meant something sweet and simple. Something friendly.
 
But… his behavior lately—
 
The way he’d unconsciously reached for her hand before catching himself.
 
How his eyes softened every time he said her name.
 
And when their paths crossed during her visits to UA — she’d been there to help with a joint rescue workshop — the way he’d gone bright red as she adjusted his tie — even though, to her, it had just been a quick, casual gesture to help him look presentable.
 
The way he sounded devastated-but-sweet when she said she’d block the sponsor.
 
The quiet ache in his voice when he asked her to send photos.
 
And the softness — the real softness — when he said, “Let me know when you’re back… I’d really like to know.”
 
Just remembering it made her ears burn.
 
None of it felt like friendship.
 
Not anymore.
 
She pressed a hand to her cheek, cheeks warming. “What are you doing to me…?”
 
Her heartbeat picked up as the realization hovered just outside her reach.
 
Does he…? Could he really…?
 
Her thoughts tangled, looping back into flustered knots.
 
“Break time?” came a familiar, lazy drawl from behind.
 
Ochako nearly dropped her phone.
 
She twisted around. “Hey, Hawks.”
 
The Commission director lifted an eyebrow, the outpost floodlights stretching long shadows behind him as he strolled up with his hands in his pockets.
 
“You look like you just got caught texting your boyfriend,” he said, smirking.
 
“Uh—oh, I was just sending— it’s part of the field report!” she insisted, voice cracking as she sat up ramrod straight.
 
Hawks only grinned. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid.”
 
Ochako buried her face in her gloves.
 
Hawks had been stationed here as the HPSC’s field liaison, coordinating with Eastern European hero agencies, handling international red tape, and — as he’d jokingly put it — “babysitting” the joint task force while observing how Uraraka’s program worked on the ground.
 
“Tea. Or coffee,” he said, holding both cups out. “Couldn’t decide which you’d want, so I heroically brought both.”
 
“Oh — thank you,” she said, accepting one with both hands. “You really didn’t have to.”
 
“Sure I did,” Hawks said with a shrug, settling down beside her.“If you hadn’t agreed last-minute, Command center’s going to boring without someone to annoy. You know how it is — mysterious top official, zero friends. So, you’re a lifesaver.”

Ochako stifled a laugh. “Hard to believe. You probably have lunch invites from three governments.”

“Funding’s easy,” he shrugged. “Finding someone who’ll take a 2 a.m. call and hop on a plane? That’s rare.”

“Well,” she said with a small smile, “maybe I was just easy to convince.”

“Or easy to guilt-trip,” Hawks grinned.

“…Also possible,” she laughed.

They fell into a quiet rhythm, the hum of drones passing overhead. Then, casually:
“How’s it been on your end?”

“Busy,” she said. “Most neighborhoods are stable, but some families still won’t talk to us. They’re scared that opening up means getting labeled as dangerous.”

Hawks tilted his head. “Sounds like it’s weighing on you.”

Ochako sighed. “I guess… I started this wanting to help people smile again. Now it feels bigger. Like I’m trying to patch cracks in something that keeps shifting.”

“That rooftop speech,” Hawks said suddenly, tone lighter but his gaze sharper. “That’s when I knew you’d be good at this. You weren’t just calming people down — you got them.”

She blinked. “You remember that?”

“Of course. Most pros chase numbers. You looked people in the eye. That’s rare.”

Ochako opened her mouth — then closed it again, unexpectedly touched.

Hawks caught the look and waved it off. “Hey, don’t get all teary-eyed. I’m just explaining why you were my first pick for this mission, that’s all.”

He took a sip, then smoothly changed gears.
“Speaking of first picks — Tokoyami was in your class, right?”

Her expression lit up. “Yeah! He was always so focused. Very serious. Kind, too.”

“He interned with me, you know,” Hawks said fondly. “Didn’t plan on taking a student, but he surprised me. Made me want to build something better for the next gen.”

He gave a light, self-deprecating laugh. “And now here I am. HPSC head, talking about quirk education reforms. Ridiculous, right?”

“It’s not ridiculous,” she said, smiling. “You’re helping people.”
“Trying to.” He leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Really, I just want to retire in peace before I go gray.”

Ochako laughed — then caught the flicker of something quieter in his eyes.

“Sometimes,” he added, almost offhand, “it just takes one person. One anchor. Even something dumb, like a toy.”

She smiled. “Like that Endeavor plush on your shelf?”

“Busted,” Hawks grinned. “But hey. Everyone needs something that keeps them grounded.”
He glanced at her. “You’ve got someone like that too, don’t you?”

Ochako froze — then flushed. “I… think so. Yeah.”

Hawks raised a brow. “Think so? Uravity, please. Even Tokoyami could read that aura off you.”

“H-Hawks!”

“Relax. I’m not asking for names,” he said, hands lifted in mock innocence. “Though I do find it suspicious how often you check your phone. Like it owes you money.”

She flushed. “…That’s— just work updates—”

“Mm-hm,” Hawks drawled, unconvinced. Then his grin softened into something more genuine.

“Look. If someone makes you stronger — whoever they are — that’s not something to brush aside.”

Ochako blinked.

Hawks tapped a finger lightly against her cup.
“And when you’re ready, pass that strength on to someone else who needs it. A kid. A family. A community. Because if we’re doing this right…”
He gave a crooked, tired smile.
“Heroes should be bored someday.”

Ochako let out a small laugh — worn-out but real. “Right.”

And for the first time in days, the weight on her shoulders loosened.
Not gone — but gentled.

Maybe it was the mission steadying at last.
Maybe it was Hawks’ unexpectedly human advice.
Or maybe…

Maybe it was simply knowing there was someone waiting for her back home.

⸻

The bell over the café door chimed softly as Izuku stepped inside.

He spotted All Might immediately — seated by the window, smaller now, but still radiating that unmistakable warmth.

“All Might! Sorry I’m late,” Izuku said, brightening.

“No rush, young Midoriya,” All Might chuckled. “I ordered your usual. You tend to forget meals after staff meetings.”

Izuku flushed, rubbing his neck. “Ah—yeah… you’ve got me there.”

“And how is teaching?” All Might asked, stirring his coffee. “Any students attempting your battle poses again?”

Izuku laughed as he sank into the seat. “They tried to recreate Full Cowling using bungee cords. Aizawa-sensei almost quit on the spot.”

All Might barked a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

They chatted easily — UA updates, patrol shifts, the ridiculous hero-trivia game Hizashi kept pestering Izuku about.
It felt comfortable. Familiar. Like slipping into an old hoodie.

But then All Might’s gaze sharpened.

“Hm,” he murmured. “Your smile… it’s not reaching your eyes today. What’s underneath, young Midoriya?”

Izuku stilled.

Then the truth rose up too fast to stop.

“Some things happened and I… I want to be sure I’m worthy of someone.”
He swallowed. “And once I started thinking that, everything spiraled. I wondered if I was ever really a hero at all.”

All Might blinked. Then gave a soft, almost amused exhale.

“Says the boy who’s saved the world several times.” He tilted his head. “All right, explain the logic.”

Izuku slumped, fingers curling around his mug.

“I was quirkless. Everything I became was because of the power you gave me. Without One For All… I’m just me. And I know I tell kids they can be heroes without quirks, but I still… wonder where I stand.”
A beat.
“And… you once said a quirkless kid couldn’t be a hero.”

All Might sighed — long, tired, fond.

“That was the Symbol of Peace talking. The world’s rules talking.”

Then, tapping his own chest:

“But Toshinori Yagi? I always believed it was possible. I was quirkless too, remember? And yet—” he gave Izuku a wry, gentle look, “you don’t see me as any less of a hero, do you?”

Izuku’s head snapped up, eyes huge.
“I—NO—W-WAIT—THAT’S DIFFERENT—! You’re— you’re ALL MIGHT—!!”

Toshinori chuckled. “See? You forgive me for being human. So why not yourself?”

Izuku wilted instantly. “…Oh.”

A soft smile tugged at All Might’s mouth.

“I scolded you for throwing yourself away because I spent years doing the same. I could burn myself out for me—but for you? My heart can’t take that.”
He waved a hand. “Live smarter than I did, okay?”

Izuku’s chest loosened — slowly, steadily — like a knot finally releasing.

“And losing One For All?” All Might added. “If you ask me—not a tragedy. That quirk devoured every host it touched. Nana… the others… they all paid too much.”

Izuku was silent, letting the weight of it settle.

All Might broke the tension with a dramatic groan.
“And I wasn’t any better! No breaks, no retirement plan — just SMASH until collapse!”

Izuku winced. “Please... that is kind of horrible, actually—!”

All Might laughed. “Oh, a little horrible. But it takes a special kind of lunatic to wield that quirk. You and I share that.”

Izuku scratched his cheek. “I mean, when you put it like that… I suppose you’re right.”

“And that,” All Might said with a knowing smile, “is why I chose you.”

Izuku gave a small, flustered smile. “I guess I lucked out, then.”

They both laughed softly.

Then All Might leaned forward, eyes glinting.

“Now. Earlier you said you wanted to be ‘worthy of someone.’ Care to elaborate?”

Izuku combusted on impact. “I—UH—TH-THERE’S—WELL—IT’S—”

The words dissolved into incoherent air.

“All right, plain Language, my boy,” All Might said, amused. “Hero talk off.”

“…There’s this girl. And she makes me want… more.”

“Oho! The sweetness of youth! Who’s the lucky lady?”

Izuku whispered, “I—I think I’m the lucky one…”

All Might grinned. “Right. Then what’s stopping you?”

Izuku took a shaky breath. “I’m still learning how to be… just me. Not a symbol. Not someone who has to save everyone. Just… a person.”

A pause.

“…She was the first person I ever saved with One For All.”

All Might raised a brow. “Ah. Becoming obvious, isn’t it? So — dating yet?”

Midoriya nearly choked on his drink.
“W-well, technically I wouldn’t say we’re dating per se, but objectively speaking—based on our recent interactions and her general behavioral patterns—it seems she doesn’t harbor any negative emotions toward—”

“Plain language, young Midoriya,” All Might interrupted, smiling.

Midoriya froze, cheeks blazing. After a beat, he exhaled.

“…I guess I mean… I want something more with her. And maybe she feels the same.”

All Might leaned back, pleased. “Then stop analyzing and take the step. Even heroes need courage off the battlefield.”

Their cups clinked.

“You’ve already proven you can save the world,” All Might said. “Now learn to live in it.”

Izuku’s smile warmed — soft, real, steady.

“Yes, sir.”

⸻

Izuku was jogging along the quiet riverbank path, hoodie damp with sweat, earbuds in. The cold morning air bit at his cheeks, sharp and refreshing. He slowed at a red pedestrian light, catching his breath. Out of habit, he glanced at his fitness app.

Then another notification slid down, and he nearly fumbled his phone.

Ochako 🍵:
quick update! my team’s side actually went smoother than we thought
so looks like I might be coming home earlier than scheduled lol

He blinked.
Read it again.
And again.

Earlier?
Earlier.

Before he could even breathe, another message popped up — a bouncing “Wheee~” emoji sticker, cheerful and bright, like she was waving at him from the screen.

Izuku swallowed hard.

Too good. This is too good.
She was coming back.
Sooner.
Back to Japan. Back to—

His chest warmed so sharply he had to slow down. Suddenly, he needed her voice. Needed to hear it to believe it. Needed the real warmth, not just the blinking chat bubble.

He drifted off the running path, stepping beneath the shade of a camphor tree in a quieter corner of the park. His heartbeat wasn’t even from the jog anymore.

He didn’t think.

He hit call.

Once.
Twice—

Click.

“Hey.”

Her voice wrapped around him like sunlight breaking through cold morning air.

Izuku exhaled — a shy, uneven mix of relief and joy. “S-sorry—are you busy? I just—your message made me really happy and I wanted to—um—hear you. I didn’t interrupt anything, right?”

“You’re not interrupting,” she said gently. He heard soft footsteps, maybe moving to a quieter spot. “I’ve got a few minutes before we head back out.”

He nodded instinctively, heart doing somersaults. “Right! Yes. Okay.”

A tiny amused puff of laughter colored her voice.

“Looks like I’ll be back sooner. Ten days from now, if nothing changes.”

Izuku lit up so visibly he almost glowed.

“That’s amazing! Seriously—your hard work’s paying off. That’s so you.”

She hummed a modest, pleased little sound. “Yeah… I guess I’m kinda proud.”

“You should be! And you’re coming back so soon — your family must be excited, right?”

“Mmhm.”

“And, um—everyone misses you. It’s really quiet without you around.”

“Everyone, huh…?” Her tone curled upward. “What about you?”

Izuku choked on air.

“Eh!? I—uh—me? I mean—obviously! Me too!!” he blurted. “Definitely me!! Especially me!!”

He was dying.
But he owned it. He even heard himself saying it twice.

His blush deepened — she never used to tease him like this, not in the early days.
It made his thoughts scatter in all directions.

But at the same time, it was strangely exhilarating — almost like a guilty pleasure, a quiet unexpected rush, like discovering a sweetness he didn’t even know he craved.

Her laugh shimmered through the line. “I’m glad.”

He swallowed. Heart still racing. “When do you land?”

“Nine a.m. Haneda.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

The words burst out before he could stop them — fast, eager, like they’d been waiting ten days ahead of him.

There was a pause. Then:

“Really?” Her shy smile was audible. “That’s like… VIP treatment, almost?”

“Y-you are VIP!” he stammered. “I mean, to me. I’ll leave early. I’ll check the weather. I’ll double-check your terminal. Maybe print a sign—!”

“Hehe… I’ll leave it to you, then.”

He grinned, flushed and glowing. “…Okay. I’ll be there.”

Another pause, this one softer.

“…I’ll try not to cry when I see you,” she whispered.

His breath caught.

“Me too,” he said, voice breaking into a sheepish laugh. “Try, I mean.”

Neither said much after that. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty.

“See you soon?” she murmured again, a playful lilt in her voice.

“Yeah,” he said. “Soon.”

The call ended. Izuku stood there, phone still pressed to his ear like it could anchor him to the moment.

Ten days.

But this time…
he wasn’t just waiting.
He was getting ready.
To see her smile again.
To hold her luggage with both hands.
To walk beside her.
To be there.
For her.

Chapter Text

The airport smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant, the air clean, too bright. Wheels rattled over tile. Voices layered over one another in half a dozen languages. Somewhere nearby, a departure announcement chimed—pleasant, indifferent.

Izuku sat on a metal bench near the arrival gate, posture a little too straight, hands folded together in his lap as if discipline alone could keep his nerves in check.

Which was… ridiculous. Probably. He told himself that.

It had only been two and a half months.

They’d talked the whole time—messages every day, calls whenever schedules lined up. He knew what her voice sounded like through bad reception, knew the rhythm of her laughter when the signal lagged, knew the way she said his name when she was tired.

But seeing her in person again?

That was different.

His heart thudded hard against his ribs, fast enough that he could feel it in his throat. And it wasn’t just because he missed her.

In his head, the scene played on loop.

Ochako stepping through the arrival doors, travel-worn but smiling anyway. Her hair a little messy from the flight. That split second where she scanned the crowd—and then saw him. The way her expression would soften, brighten, like it always did when she noticed him first.

Maybe she’d wave. Maybe she’d laugh and hurry over, luggage thumping awkwardly along behind her. Maybe—if he was very lucky—she’d hug him before either of them had time to think.

The thought alone made his ears burn.

Calm down, Izuku, he told himself. You’re going to pass out before she even lands.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed in his pocket—nothing important, just a notification—but it reminded him of why his heart was racing this hard.

The message he’d sent her the other day.

One day after a long phone call. Late. Too late. His guard down, his thoughts running faster than his common sense.

“There’s something I want to tell you when you’re back.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Way to go, Izuku. Very smooth.

First, there’d been that moment—him standing in the middle of the street, breath still ragged from running, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

I want more with you.

He still didn’t know how he’d survived that.

And now he was about to do something even scarier. Something that somehow surpassed both the near-confession and the impulsive text combined.

For this, he’d even bought flowers.

The bouquet sat on his lap, wrapped neatly in pale paper, his fingers gripping the stems a little too tightly. His whole body vibrated with nervous energy, like he was barely holding himself together.

He remembered standing in front of the flower shop, completely frozen.

Is this too much?
Is this normal?
Do people still do this?

He’d pulled out his phone immediately, researching—of course he did.

What flowers do you give someone you like?
Flower meanings confession
Is this too forward???

He’d scrolled with the same intensity he used to reserve for quirk analysis. Read meanings. Cross-referenced articles. Accidentally opened a wedding-flower guide and nearly died on the spot.

Eventually, he’d chosen something simple—a small bouquet of white daisies mixed with baby’s breath, wrapped in pale paper. He’d picked that combination because the meanings kept coming up in his searches: honesty, sincerity, speaking from the heart. Thinking about it now made his face heat up all over again.

Please, he thought helplessly. Why did I do this to myself.

Now, sitting here, he imagined handing them to her—and the thought short-circuited him completely, pulse spiking as if he’d already said the words out loud.

Okay, he thought, just say it.

Will you be my—

Nope.

His mind blanked out entirely.

My g-g-g-g—

He couldn’t even finish it in his head.

Gosh, this was mortifying.

He tried again.

Will you please… go—gogogog out w—

Gah. No. Absolutely not.

He physically cringed, curling slightly over the bouquet. He sounded pathetic even to himself.

Under his breath, he started muttering.

“Okay, okay, but—what if it causes her trouble?” he whispered, eyes darting around. “If she says no, I won’t die, right? People get rejected all the time, that’s statistically normal—”

A businessman a seat away glanced over, startled by the thread of muttered words slipping out under Izuku’s breath.

Izuku lowered his voice even further.

“And what if the media finds out?” he continued, spiraling. “What if they make a headline? Top Hero Confesses—no, no, that’s terrible. And her parents—oh no, what if her parents don’t like me? What if they think I’m reckless? Or awkward? Or too intense? Or—”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“This is doomed,” he muttered. “This is absolutely doomed.”

He stopped.

Forced himself to breathe.

And then—quietly—he remembered her smile. The way she teased him gently when he overthought things. The way she always replied quickly, even when she was busy. The warmth in her voice when she said, You’re amazing, Deku-kun.

His shoulders eased, just a little.

You won’t die, he told himself firmly. It won’t be the end of the world.

And besides—he’d already figured out the truth, even if it scared him.

Not having her beside him?

That would be the end of the world.

If it didn’t work out… then he’d just have to become better. Kinder. Braver. Someone worthy of standing next to her.

And if, somehow, by some unfortunate turns of events, he ended up completely perished emotionally—

…well. He’d deal with that when it happened.

He swallowed, straightened, and rehearsed the words again in his head—for the thirtieth time.

Still couldn’t finish the sentence.

Still couldn’t make the words line up.

But he held the bouquet a little steadier.

And then—

“Attention all passengers: Flight UA-107 returning from Eastern Europe has reported an in-flight emergency…”

The announcement cut through the terminal.

And Izuku froze.

For a fraction of a second, the world didn’t move—no footsteps, no rolling luggage, no distant chatter. Then everything rushed back at once, too loud, too bright, too fast.

UA-107.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

She’s on that plane.

The thought didn’t arrive gently. It crashed into him, absolute and undeniable, the way instinct does before logic ever has a chance.

His fingers curled around the bouquet of flowers, knuckles whitening. He had been checking the arrival board again—too early, he knew, but he’d told himself it was fine, that waiting was normal, that this jittery energy was just excitement.

Now it turned into something else.

The monitors above the terminal flickered, information updating. A few travelers slowed, confused. A low murmur spread.

Izuku’s mind was already racing ahead of the announcement.

Eastern Europe to Japan. Long-haul. High altitude. International airspace—or worse, still over foreign territory. If something had gone wrong up there, it wasn’t a simple engine issue. Airlines didn’t use that wording lightly.

In-flight emergency.

His breath came faster.

Images stacked in his head without permission—pressure loss, sudden turbulence, panic spiraling through a sealed metal tube thirty thousand feet in the air.

And then the other possibilities.

A passenger whose Quirk had destabilized at altitude. A flyer-type ability gone erratic under thin air. Pressure manipulation, sound amplification, something resonating wrong with the aircraft’s structure. Or an attempted hijacking—an ability user miscalculating, losing control. The kind of situation where one wrong move turned rescue into catastrophe.

Izuku was already moving.

He didn’t remember deciding to run—only the sudden resistance of bodies, the scrape of a suitcase wheel against his shin, and the sharp bark of a voice as he veered toward a restricted corridor near the windows.

“Sir—!”

A hand shot out in front of him. Then another. Airport security stepped into his path, palms raised, firm but not aggressive. A uniformed staff member followed close behind, his expression already set into something practiced and tight.

Izuku stopped short, breath hitching.

His chest heaved. “Let me go through, please.”

The words tore out of him, louder than he meant, raw and jagged. Heads turned. Someone nearby gasped softly.

The staff member immediately lowered his voice, as if instinctively matching the gravity burning in Izuku’s eyes.

“Sir, please step back.”

Izuku shook his head hard, curls bouncing. “That flight—UA-107—I’m a hero. I can help.”

The man hesitated. “Sir… we know who you are.” His voice dropped another notch. “Everyone knows you, Mr. Deku—but still, it doesn’t change the situation, I’m sorry.”

“I can reach them,” Izuku pressed, hands clenching at his sides as he fought the tremor running through his arms, as he restrained himself from activating his armor. “I know I can.”

The man’s jaw tightened, a flicker of strain breaking through his professional calm. “Flight UA-107 is currently outside Japanese hero jurisdiction.”

“What?” Izuku took a half step forward before catching himself, muscles trembling with the effort to stop. “Someone I know is on that plane. I can get there. Just let me—”

“We’ve been instructed not to allow any independent hero deployment,” the man said carefully, each word measured, as though precision alone might keep the situation from cracking. “This is an international airspace incident.”

Izuku’s thoughts were already racing, stacking calculations on instinct—distance, altitude, wind shear. If he launched at an angle, conserved momentum, adjusted output on ascent—

“I understand your concern,” the man cut in, voice softer now, but no less firm. “But unauthorized intervention could be interpreted as a cross-border hero action.”

Izuku swallowed. “If something happens—”

“And the responsibility,” the man continued, eyes holding his steadily, “would be solely on Japan.”

The words landed like a physical blow.

Izuku stood there, shaking—not with fear, but with restraint. Every instinct in him screamed to move, to do something, to break through procedure the way he used to, back when consequences were abstract and the only thing that mattered was saving the person in front of him.

But he wasn’t that boy anymore.

As a professional hero. As an instructor.

Izuku knew exactly what high-altitude pressure did to an aircraft’s skin—the tolerances, the limits, the point where “just one more impact” turned into structural failure. He knew what a shockwave could do inside a sealed cabin: not a dramatic explosion, but a violent shift in pressure that ripped the breath out of lungs and turned a narrow aisle into a tumbling hazard.

And he knew what air traffic control would see. An unidentified, fast-moving object approaching a commercial aircraft. A potential hostile, something that would force interception protocols long before he ever got close enough to help.

He knew that even trying could kill everyone onboard.

It wasn’t a question of can I.

It was a question of should I even dare.

This wasn’t about strength—it was about the world not letting him reach out.

At that thought, a particular piece of memory surfaced—his vigilante days. Rain-soaked streets, cracked pavement, a torn, blackened costume. Never stopping long enough to be caught, Class 1-A chasing him, their voices overlapping with anxiety and concern.

And then there was Ochako.

He’d avoided her most—at least at first. Stayed silent. Kept his distance. Refused to let her touch him—not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much. She was home, and letting her reach him would have ended his resolve.

Back then, he’d pushed the world away himself.

Now, the world was doing it for him—pushing him away from her.

He trembled and sank into a plastic airport chair, hands shaking uselessly in his lap. Worry coiled tight in his chest, spiraling toward panic, but to his devastation, there was nothing he could do.

He pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered, then moved on instinct—international hero news, emergency feeds, anything. The results flooded in instantly. Alerts. Headlines updating faster than he could read.

Then he saw it.

A live stream—tagged with the flight number. The thumbnail was crooked, half lost to motion blur—nothing official, clearly not a news feed. It looked like it had been started by a passenger on that very flight.

The connection quality flickered between red and yellow. Thousands of viewers already.

He tapped.

The screen loaded. Shaky footage. Screaming.

The camera swung wildly, catching the inside of a cabin tilted at a wrong angle. Emergency lights strobed red against harsh white. Oxygen masks swung violently overhead, colliding with seatbacks. The sound came first—metal groaning, a deep, continuous vibration that made his teeth ache.

And then—

“Uraraka-san…!”

Her name tore out of him before he could stop it.

She was there.

Not centered in frame. Just there—braced in the aisle, one hand gripping a seat, boots planted wide as the aircraft lurched again. For a split second her hair floated, gravity failing—then slammed back down as turbulence hit.

She moved. Fast—but controlled.

“O-Okay—everyone!” Ochako’s voice cut through the screaming, steady but loud enough to carry. “Please stay seated! Masks on—deep breaths, okay? Look at me—just look at me!”

A woman near the camera was sobbing. Someone shouted in panic. The feed jolted violently as the plane dipped, and Izuku’s stomach dropped in sick, sympathetic freefall.

Too high, his mind supplied automatically. Cabin pressure’s already unstable.

If this is turbulence alone, it’s under control. If it’s something else—

The camera swung.

The source of the chaos filled the frame.

A man near the rear of the cabin was floating—not controlled flight, not clean. His body jerked in sharp, uneven pulses. The air around him visibly warped, rippling like heat haze. Loose items snapped upward, slamming into the ceiling with bone-rattling force.

A pressure-type Quirk.

His grip tightened on the edge of the chair.

High altitude. Enclosed space. No room for dissipation. If the pressure keeps cycling like that, the cabin won’t fail all at once—it’ll tear.

Ochako was already moving.

She didn’t rush him. She advanced slowly, palms open, feet barely touching the floor as gravity fluctuated around her—carefully, deliberately.

“Hey,” she said—not to the passengers, but to him. Her voice dropped, gentle and human. “It’s okay. I’m a hero. You’re not alone.”

The man laughed—high, cracked, wrong.

“You think you can hold this?” he snapped, pressure surging outward in a violent wave.

The cabin screamed.

She staggered—but didn’t fall.

“I know you’re scared,” she said, teeth clenched now. “But you have to breathe with me, okay? Just—slow down—”

She’s managing her output, Izuku realized faintly. Keeping it low so she doesn’t destabilize the cabin.

The plane lurched again—harder this time.

The man lashed out.

A compressed shockwave detonated between them.

Ochako was thrown sideways, slamming shoulder-first into a row of seats. The camera shook violently.

Izuku’s mind went completely blank.

He stared at the screen, unable to breathe or think. All calculations vanished, leaving behind a single, raw thought.

Why am I just sitting here?

Why was he still in this chair—safe, useless—while she was the one taking the hit?

She pushed herself up immediately.

Blood streaked down her arm from a shallow cut, soaking into the sleeve of her suit.

She was smiling anyway.

“I’m okay,” she said quickly to the passengers.

The man screamed again, pressure spiking—

Then—

“Hero on board!”

A new voice cut in, sharp and commanding.

The camera snapped sideways.

A woman in reinforced gear had unbuckled herself, magnetic boots locking hard into the cabin floor as she slammed one hand down—anchor-type. The pressure wave hit her and stopped.

Good. Someone’s here. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. On a long-haul international flight, off-duty heroes weren’t uncommon. Most stayed seated unless the situation crossed a clear danger threshold.

Ochako adjusted instantly—no hesitation, no pride. She fell back into formation as if they’d trained together, redirecting her Quirk, easing pressure instead of countering it.

“On my count!” she shouted over the chaos. “Three—two—now!”

Together, they forced the man down, binding him with reinforced restraints, pressure dampeners snapping into place.

The cabin went quiet.

Not calm—but breathing.

Only after the restraints locked did Ochako turn back to the passengers.

She wiped the blood from her arm with shaking fingers.

“Okay,” she said softly to them, smiling through exhaustion. “It’s okay now. You did great. Just a little longer, alright?”

Izuku collapsed forward in his chair, forehead dropping into his hands as he cried—quiet now, wrecked, with just enough relief to keep himself together.

The live chat exploded—hearts, crying emojis, her name racing past faster than he could read.

But Izuku didn’t see any of it.

The plane landed safely.

The news hit fast—push notifications stacking on his screen, headlines blurring together. Analysts were already weighing in, voices tight and serious.

Catastrophic-class disaster narrowly averted.
A razor-thin margin.
One miscalculation away from mass casualties.

Izuku slid past the articles without really reading them. His thumb moved, but his eyes were fixed ahead—locked on the arrivals exit.

He stood there, unmoving, heart still beating too fast, too loud.

Then the doors opened.

Ochako stepped through with the other passengers.

She looked worn in a way he hadn’t quite prepared for. Light abrasions marked her cheek and jaw, hastily cleaned but still visible. One arm was bandaged, the white already faintly stained, and darker smudges lingered on her suit where blood hadn’t quite come out. She was smiling—but it was the kind that came from habit, from holding herself together for just a little too long.

She was still working.

She paused to speak with passengers who lingered—thanking them, reassuring them, accepting shaky bows and tearful gratitude. She listened, nodded, unfailingly gentle and patient despite everything weighing on her. She made sure they were steady before finally letting them go.

Only when the last of them drifted away did she finally still.

Just for a moment.

That was when Izuku moved.

“Uraraka-san!”

He didn’t realize he’d started running until he nearly tripped. The bouquet—carefully wrapped, chosen with so much thought—slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor behind him.

Ochako turned, surprise flickering across her face. “Deku-kun—”

Izuku reached her and, without thinking, pulled her into a brief, careful embrace—gentle, instinctive, like his body had moved before his mind could catch up.

Then he drew back. His hands slid to her arms instead, steadying her, thumbs warm and reassuring against the fabric of her jacket.

The bandage. The faint stain seeping through the white. The torn edge of fabric. The dark smear dried along her sleeve.

“Are you hurt?” The words came out too fast. “Where—how bad—does it hurt when you move? Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Any ringing—”

“O-okay, okay,” she said quickly, almost by reflex, trying to soothe him first. “I’m fine. Mostly scrapes. I managed to lessen the impact—I learned how back when I trained with Gunhead.”

He didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. He just exhaled once, sharp and controlled—like he was forcing air back into his lungs.

“No,” he said, voice tight. “Clinic. Now.”

Her brows lifted. “Deku-kun—”

“Please.” It came out quieter, but somehow harder. “Just—let me.”

For a beat, she looked like she might argue—then she saw his hands, trembling at his sides, and the fight left her expression.

“…Okay,” she said softly. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Izuku nodded once—and reached for her hand.

His thumb brushed lightly against her knuckles, a quiet check-in, as if confirming she was still there, still solid.

He walked beside her, half a step closer than necessary, positioning himself so the flow of people passed him first. Every few seconds, his gaze flicked to her posture—the way she carried her weight, the steadiness in her stride, the small signs he’d been bracing himself to see.

Bright storefronts slid past. Advertisements glowed. Wheels rattled over tile. Voices overlapped in laughter and reunion.

Izuku noticed none of it.

When they arrived at the airport clinic, the nurse took one look at Ochako’s arm and motioned her in. Izuku stood half a step behind, answering questions before Ochako could—then catching himself, swallowing, forcing his voice back down.

“Pain level?” the nurse asked.

“Two?” Ochako offered.

Izuku flinched. “It was bleeding.”

“The cut was superficial,” the nurse said calmly, cleaning and rewrapping the gauze. “Scrapes, mild bruising. No signs of concussion. She did well.”

She did well. The words should have soothed him.

Instead they made his chest ache.

Ochako thanked the nurse, bowed, and flexed her fingers once as if checking herself. “See? It’s not as bad as it seemed.”

Izuku nodded—once, slow. His gaze moved over her with that familiar focus, taking in what wasn’t there: no sway, no hesitation, no hidden tremor.

Only then did his shoulders drop, a fraction.

Only then did his breath start to behave.

They stepped back out into the arrivals hall.

And the second the clinic door shut behind them, the dam inside him cracked.

Izuku turned like his body had decided without him. He pulled her in—careful, adjusting his hold so he wouldn’t touch the bandage—and pressed his forehead briefly against her shoulder as if the world might tilt otherwise.

“I saw the live stream,” he said, voice rough. “I was— I was worried sick.”

His voice broke.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he said, tears slipping free despite himself. “You did amazing. You did everything right, but—I hate that I couldn’t do anything. I hate that I just had to watch, had to seeing you get hurt—”

None of it sounded coherent, even to him. His thoughts tangled, logic collapsing under emotion.

Ochako stiffened for half a second—then relaxed.

She let out a small, tired laugh and gently patted his back.

“Hey,” she said gently. “I’m really okay. I promise. I’ve handled things like this before.”

His head snapped up.

“But it’s not okay,” he said, his voice breaking despite himself. “You were hurt. That’s— that’s never okay. And inside a plane, with that kind of pressure… if it had shifted even a little more—”

His words faltered, choking off.

“Everyone in the plane could—and you could have—” He couldn’t finish it.

Ochako didn’t say anything.

She just reached up and rested a hand on his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, grounding him.

“I know, but… it didn’t happen,” she said, voice low and kind. “Everyone’s safe now. And I’m right here.”

She just stayed there, arms around him, one hand coming up to rest gently against the back of his head. Her fingers threaded into his curls, steady and warm, grounding him where he stood, shaking against her.

“…I’m sorry… for being like this,” he whispered, voice breaking.

“…I don’t know what I’d do—” he choked, the words falling apart as they left him.

“…I thought I’d lose you—“

His voice fractured completely, sobs muffled against her shoulder.

“…just when I finally… learned how to love.”

Ochako went still—just for a heartbeat.

“…to…?” she repeated softly, uncertain, like she was testing the words.

Izuku pulled back before he even realized he was doing it, hands still gripping the fabric of her jacket as if letting go might undo him entirely. His face was a mess—eyes red and glassy, tears still spilling unchecked, breath uneven, nose flushed from crying.

“I love you,” he blurted out—too fast, too loud, like the words had been waiting and finally broke free.

“I mean—I know this isn’t the best time, or the best place, and I didn’t plan to— I just—”

He swallowed hard, eyes shining.

“I really do.”

There. He’d said it.

Messy. Unplanned. Impossible to take back.

The words he’d swallowed for years—the feeling he’d kept circling without ever naming, unconsciously convincing himself it could stay undefined if he never said it out loud.

But once it surfaced, it refused to be contained.

It came out clumsy and raw, tangled up with ugly crying and a voice that kept breaking at all the wrong moments.

So much for a cool confession.

He’d actually prepared for this moment—watched shoujo manga adaptations, binge-watched Korean romance dramas, tried to research how these moments were supposed to go, because of course he did. There were supposed to be composed smiles. Meaningful pauses. Cool poises.

This looked nothing like those.

Once the words were out, though, they wouldn’t stop.

“I—I’ve had this stupid crush on you since you saved me on the U.A. entrance exam day. I tripped like an idiot and you— you stopped me from falling like it was nothing.”

His voice dissolved as he laughed weakly through tears.

“And then it just kept getting worse,” he continued, breath hitching. “You giving a new meaning to my nickname Deku, making me decide to use it as my hero name. Giving me points when no one else would. Stopping Blackwhip when I lost control. Your speech on the rooftop—”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“It’s… it’s like everything shifted,” he said, voice unsteady. “Like a Copernican Revolution—my whole way of seeing things tilted and reset, all at once. What you said—what you’ve done—it became what I keep circling back to. How I think. How I move forward. How I decide what comes next.”

He swallowed hard.

“I wanted to reach out to you at the Sports Festival and couldn’t. I wanted to say something so many times and didn’t. And then—then at the cliff, when you cried—I finally did, and I still didn’t understand what it meant.”

He laughed again, broken and breathless.

“People say I’m oblivious. Super dense. Tunnel-visioned. And yeah—I am. I really am.”

He looked up at her then, eyes shining, completely undone.

“But now that I’ve noticed… I can’t unsee it. It’s my tunnel vision now.”

His hands trembled as they loosened their grip, hovering uncertainly between them.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” he rushed on, voice shaking. “I know there are people more confident than me, not awkward like this—cooler, more naturally heroic, less broken—people who wouldn’t drag you into darkness just by standing next to you.”

His throat closed.

“But even so… I still wanted to tell you—”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, clumsy and unfiltered, carried on a breath that shook as it left him.

“I love you. I think… I always have.”

By the end of it, he was a complete wreck—crying openly, words slurring together, body trembling so badly he could barely stay upright. There was nothing composed about it. Nothing heroic.

What kind of super cool hero does something like this—clinging to someone in the middle of an airport, shoulders shaking, completely undone?

This was just Midoriya Izuku, standing in an airport arrivals terminal, crying his heart out in front of the girl he loved—and feeling, more than anything else, how terrifyingly human he was.

He kept holding her anyway.

Her tears soaked into the collar of his shirt, warm and real, and that was when it hit him—she wasn’t just comforting him. She was crying too.

Ochako held him back, arms wrapped around him with a gentleness so deep it almost hurt. Not rushed nor startled. Just… there. Steady and full, like she was making space for everything he couldn’t hold on his own.

After a moment, she spoke softly, right against his shoulder.

“I want to tell you something.”

Izuku stiffened, just a little.

“W-what is it…?” he asked, voice trembling.

She pulled back enough to look at him.

Up close, he could see it—the sheen in her eyes wasn’t only from what had happened on the plane, nor from the long hours of holding herself together.

It came from something deeper, something she’d seemingly carried quietly for a long time, now rising to the surface at last. The steadiness she wore so well was still there, but beneath it was a vulnerability she wasn’t pushing down anymore, a feeling finally allowed to show itself instead of being kept carefully contained.

“Me too.”

She breathed in once, steadying herself.

“I’ve always loved you.”

The world seemed to drop out from under him.

Izuku froze completely, like every system in his body had shut down at once.

“You…what?”

The sound barely made it past his lips.

She nodded. Tears kept spilling despite her smile, and there was a faint, shy hesitation in the way she held his gaze—as if she’d finally stepped past a line she’d been standing behind for a very long time.

“I hid it,” she said softly. “I was scared it would distract us from becoming heroes. Or… ruin what we already had.”

Only then did it start to register.

Not as a sudden confession, but as something long sustained—quietly carried, deliberately unspoken. Something that hadn’t rushed forward or demanded notice, but had stayed with her all this time, shaped into restraint, folded into patience, softened into a smile that asked for nothing in return.

Izuku’s breath caught as the weight of it finally reached him.

“That’s—” His breath hitched. “That can’t be…”

Ochako shook her head, gentle but firm. “It’s true. Really. I promise.”

Something inside him gave way. Tears welled up in his eyes again, blurring everything.

“If it’s true…”

He let out a small, breathless laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe the words even as he said them.

“Then… it’s a miracle,” he said softly, voice rough at the edges. “And it is the most miraculous miracle ever.”

He clearly didn’t know how to explain it yet—only that the feeling was too big, too bright to put into proper sentences.

He glanced at her, eyes still damp, smile a little crooked.

“This,” he said quietly. “You. Us.”

He laughed, then cried harder, overwhelmed by it all.

Around them, the airport kept moving—rolling suitcases, distant announcements, people passing by in their own worlds—but for Izuku, everything had shifted.

Once, he believed his worth had to be earned—measured in points, victories, visible results.
At the entrance exam, she tried to give him her points, not because he had won, but because he had saved. In that moment, she let him see that doing the right thing mattered even when no one was counting.

Once, he believed heroes existed only to give, never to need.
When he ran himself hollow in the dark, she stood before the crowd and said his name. She forced the world—and him—to see that heroes are human first, and that being human means having limits worth protecting.

Once, he carried everything alone, convinced his pain was something to hide.
Seeing her grief, her anger, her compassion, he learned that heroism wasn’t endless self-sacrifice—it was staying, sharing the weight, and allowing care to move both ways.

And once, he believed even his nickname proved he was useless.
But she smiled and said she liked the name Deku, and the word stopped being something that stung every time it was spoken. It became something he could carry forward—not as an insult, but as proof he had always been trying his best.

He used to think loving someone, or being loved, was impossible—something meant for other people, other lives.
Standing here with her now, he realized that belief had quietly dissolved.

Before, his world had revolved around survival, guilt, and proving his usefulness.
Now—

Now, the center had shifted—not because she became his world, but because through her, he finally understood he had always deserved one.

It’s like a Copernican Revolution.

The axis of his self-worth—his choices, his courage, his ability to love—tilted and resettled there in the middle of an arrivals terminal: exhausted, finally understood, painfully human and real.

The airport sceneries blurred around them. Announcements echoed overhead. Footsteps passed. Luggage wheels rattled across the floor. Somewhere nearby, people laughed, cried, hurried on toward the next place.

But none of it reached them.

The surrounding sound and motion fading into background noise. her eyes shining, still teary. His own vision blurred in response, emotion rising faster than he could organize it. They stood there, awkward and too close, the world rushing past in streaks of motion and sound, until everything narrowed to the small space between them—and the reflection of each other in their eyes.

And in the small, still space between them, it settled at last.

Not her as his center—but himself, standing there, worthy of love, and finally able to accept it.