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Ochaco’s phone buzzes at 2:13 a.m. like it’s trying to wake her gently, like it doesn’t want to be the bearer of something sharp.
She blinks, half-asleep, and rolls toward the screen.
Mina: are you okay??
Kirishima: You good?? Call me.
Tsuyu: Uraraka-chan, please read.
And then, the one that makes her stomach tilt like her quirk has gone off by itself—
Unknown number: lol ur “hero” act is finally over
Ochaco sits up so fast her sheets tangle around her legs. She rereads it, waiting for her brain to interpret it differently. Waiting for the words to turn into something harmless.
They don’t.
Her thumb hovers over Mina’s message, then Kirishima’s, then Tsuyu’s, but she can’t answer any of them yet. Not until she knows what they know. Not until she understands what the world has decided happened while she was asleep.
She opens the hero news feed first, because that’s where the truth is supposed to live.
Her name is everywhere.
Not in the way it used to be—bright and hopeful and bundled with photos of her smiling at kids, floating debris away from damaged streets, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with classmates like a promise.
Now it’s in headlines with sharp edges.
A training video clip spliced out of context. A freeze-frame of her face at the wrong angle. A comment thread stacked with assumptions, people speaking about her like she’s a character in a show they can rewrite whenever they get bored.
Ochaco reads until her eyes burn.
Someone says she’s reckless.
Someone says she’s fake.
Someone says she’s always been hungry for attention.
The cruelest ones are the ones that pretend they’re concerned.
I used to like her but…
I’m just saying, heroes should be held accountable.
If this is who she is when people aren’t watching—
Her chest tightens. She scrolls anyway, like if she keeps going, she’ll eventually reach the part where somebody corrects it. Where someone says, Actually, no—this isn’t true.
But the truth is quieter than the lie. The lie is already running.
By morning, it’s in the hallways.
She showers, dresses, and walks to class like she’s underwater. People don’t stop her. No one confronts her. That would require courage, and most of them don’t have it.
They just… watch.
She’s always been good at reading a room. It used to be a strength. Now it feels like punishment.
A few students look away quickly, guilty. A few look at her too long, like they’re trying to see if she looks like the person they’ve decided she is. Some whisper and then pretend they aren’t.
When she gets to her seat, her notebook is already open, but her hands won’t stop shaking.
“Hey,” Mina whispers when the teacher turns to write on the board. Her voice is careful. “Chaco… tell me it’s not—”
Ochaco swallows. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Mina’s shoulders sag with relief, but it doesn’t fix anything. Because “not what it looks like” isn’t a defense to people who don’t want explanations. It’s just another line they can twist.
“I know you,” Mina says, fierce and trembling at the same time. “I know you do.”
Ochaco nods, and it feels like she’s borrowing Mina’s certainty for a second. Just long enough to breathe.
But later, when class ends, she catches someone’s phone screen in the reflection of a window.
They’re watching the clip again.
Replaying it like it’s entertainment.
Her stomach turns. She walks faster.
By lunchtime, she’s learned a new kind of exhaustion—the kind that comes from being perceived. From having to exist inside a story other people are telling about you.
She sits alone with her tray untouched, staring at the edge of the table as if she can fold herself into the grain of the wood.
A shadow stops beside her.
She looks up, expecting pity.
It’s Bakugou.
He doesn’t sit. He just stands there, arms crossed, mouth set like a line he’d rather bite through than soften.
For a second, Ochaco forgets to breathe.
Bakugou isn’t part of her usual comfort circle. He’s never been gentle the way Mina is gentle, never reassuring in the way Tsuyu is steady. He’s sharp. Loud. Honest in the way a blade is honest.
And his honesty has always made her feel seen in the worst and best ways.
“What,” she says, because she doesn’t know what else to do.
His eyes flick toward the empty seat across from her.
“Move your bag.”
Ochaco blinks. “What?”
“Move. Your. Bag.”
She does it automatically, fingers numb.
Bakugou sits down like he’s daring the whole cafeteria to say something. His tray thunks onto the table. He doesn’t look around. He doesn’t need to. His presence is a wall.
For a long moment, he eats in silence.
Ochaco stares at him like she might be dreaming. Like if she speaks, she’ll wake up and he won’t be there.
Finally, Bakugou says, “It’s edited.”
Her throat tightens. “What?”
“The clip.” He chews, eyes narrowed. “It’s chopped. Anyone with a brain can see that.”
Ochaco lets out a shaky laugh that doesn’t sound like laughter. “A lot of people don’t have brains, I guess.”
Bakugou’s gaze snaps to hers—hard, bright, almost angry.
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Talking like you deserve it.”
The words land heavy.
Ochaco’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Because she doesn’t think she deserves it—not really. But she’s learned something else: the world doesn’t always care what you deserve.
Bakugou pushes his tray away like he’s done eating. He leans forward slightly, voice lower.
“Who’s behind it?”
Ochaco’s hands twist in her lap. “I don’t know. It started last night. And then—”
“And then everyone decided they’re a judge,” Bakugou finishes, disgusted.
She nods.
Bakugou sits back, jaw flexing. For a second, she thinks he’ll stand up and explode across the room—tell everyone off, burn the whole lie down with sheer force.
Instead, he does something worse for her heart.
He stays.
The rest of the day passes in fragments. Training. Homework. A meeting where a staff member says “public image” too many times. Her classmates too careful around her, like she’s a glass that might shatter and cut them.
By evening, she’s hollow.
She walks back to the dorms alone, hands shoved into her hoodie pockets, trying to make herself smaller. The sky is bruised with sunset, and the air is cold enough to bite at her cheeks.
Footsteps fall into pace beside her.
She doesn’t have to look.
“Bakugou,” she says quietly.
He grunts like it’s a greeting.
They walk in silence. The kind that doesn’t ask anything of her. The kind that doesn’t demand she be charming or brave or okay.
Halfway there, she whispers, “You don’t have to do this.”
Bakugou’s eyes stay forward. “Do what.”
“Be seen with me.”
He snorts, sharp. “Who gives a damn.”
“I do,” she admits, voice breaking. “Because you’ll get dragged into it. People will say you’re—”
“Let them,” he says, and there’s something final in it. “I’ve been called worse by better people.”
Ochaco swallows hard. Her throat feels raw, like she’s been holding back a scream all day and it’s scraping her from the inside.
When they reach her dorm door, she pauses with her key in hand.
Bakugou stops behind her. Not too close. Not far.
She turns, and for once, she doesn’t try to smile.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” she says, barely audible.
Bakugou looks down at her like he’s taking her seriously—like her pain is real enough to weigh.
“Then don’t,” he says. “Not for them.”
Ochaco’s breath catches. “What am I supposed to do?”
Bakugou’s expression tightens, like he’s choosing words he hates.
“Survive it,” he says. “And let it pass. You don’t beg people who already made up their minds.”
Something trembles in her chest—half relief, half grief.
“Okay,” she whispers, though she isn’t sure she can.
Bakugou’s hand lifts, hesitates like it’s unfamiliar territory, then lands briefly—awkwardly—on the top of her head. A quick press, like a promise he doesn’t know how to say.
“Lock your door,” he mutters.
“Okay.”
He turns to leave.
“Bakugou?” she calls.
He pauses without looking back.
“Thank you,” she says, voice small.
He huffs. “Whatever.”
But as he walks away, head down, shoulders tense, Ochaco watches him like he’s the only real thing left in a world that suddenly feels staged.
And she realizes, with a soft shock, that she’s the one he’s walking to.
Even when it would be easier not to.
Rumors are like mold.
Even after you scrub the surface clean, they linger in the walls.
Ochaco learns that in the weeks that follow. The news cycle moves on—because it always does—but the residue stays. People don’t apologize. They just stop talking about it like their silence is supposed to be mercy.
She tries to return to normal. She really does.
She trains harder. Smiles more. Offers help first. She becomes so careful she can feel the carefulness in her bones.
But the world has shifted. Her trust, too.
She boards up emotional windows without meaning to.
Bakugou is the one constant she doesn’t plan.
He keeps walking her back to the dorms like it’s routine. Sometimes Kirishima joins them, loud enough to shake the tension loose. Sometimes Mina drags her into group study sessions and refuses to let her be alone with her thoughts.
But Bakugou—Bakugou is different.
He doesn’t try to distract her.
He doesn’t tell her it’ll be fine.
He just exists next to her in a way that makes the air feel safer.
One night, she’s in the common room alone, staring at nothing, when the door opens.
Bakugou steps in like he owns the place. He carries a paper bag.
Ochaco sits up straighter. “What are you doing here?”
He drops the bag onto the table. “Eating.”
“Here?”
“My room’s loud,” he says, like that’s explanation enough.
Ochaco glances at the bag. It smells like warm bread and something sweet.
Bakugou notices her looking. “You ate?”
She hesitates. “I had lunch.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Her cheeks warm, embarrassed. “Not really.”
Bakugou clicks his tongue like she’s inconvenienced him personally. He opens the bag and slides a wrapped bun toward her without making eye contact.
“Eat.”
Ochaco stares. “You—got this for me?”
“It was extra,” he lies immediately.
She almost laughs. It’s a terrible lie. Bakugou doesn’t accidentally buy “extra” pastries. Bakugou barely buys anything that isn’t functional.
Her fingers curl around the warm wrapping. “Thank you.”
He grunts and sits down across from her, pulling out his own food.
They eat in silence.
And it’s… nice.
Not awkward silence. Not tense silence. Just quiet. Two people existing in the same space without needing to perform.
After a few minutes, Bakugou says, “They still staring?”
Ochaco swallows. “Sometimes.”
“Anyone say anything?”
“Not to my face.”
Bakugou’s eyes sharpen. “Good.”
The protectiveness in that single word makes something inside her ache.
She looks down at her hands. “I hate that you have to—”
Bakugou cuts her off. “I don’t have to do anything.”
He pauses, jaw working like he’s annoyed at his own honesty.
“I want to,” he adds, and the words come out rough, like he’s dragging them out of himself.
Ochaco’s breath catches. “Why?”
Bakugou’s stare is almost furious—like the question is unfair.
“Because you’re not them,” he says. “And you’re not what they said.”
Her throat burns. She blinks fast.
Bakugou looks away first, as if he can’t stand seeing her eyes shine.
That night becomes the first of many.
Bakugou starts showing up more often—never announced, never romantic, never labeled. Just… present. Sometimes he brings food. Sometimes he brings nothing but his own grumpy atmosphere. Sometimes he sits on the floor while she does homework, and she pretends she isn’t comforted by the weight of him nearby.
They build a small world out of quiet things.
Then comes the storm.
It’s literal this time—heavy rain, wind rattling the windows, the power flickering twice before cutting out completely. The dorm falls into darkness, and people groan and shuffle, phones lighting like fireflies.
Ochaco’s chest tightens immediately. The dark makes memories louder. The storm makes her heart race, like she’s back in rubble and smoke and fear.
She sits on the floor of her room, knees hugged to her chest, breathing shallow.
A knock hits her door.
Ochaco startles. “Who is it?”
“Me,” Bakugou says.
She opens it a crack. He stands there in the hallway gloom, holding a small lighter and a thick candle like it’s a weapon.
“Thought you’d be… weird about the dark,” he says, tone brusque.
Ochaco’s throat tightens. “I’m not—”
Bakugou steps past her like he’s heard enough. He sets the candle on her desk, lights it, and the small flame blooms warm and steady.
The room looks softer immediately. Less like a cage.
Bakugou glances at her, eyes narrowed. “You okay?”
Ochaco forces a breath. “Yeah.”
Bakugou’s gaze flicks to her hands—how tight she’s gripping her knees, how white her knuckles are.
“Stop lying,” he mutters.
Ochaco’s laugh comes out shaky. “You really hate lies, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says simply, and then—quieter—“They ruin everything.”
Something in his voice makes her look up.
Bakugou is staring at the candle flame like it’s saying something to him.
Ochaco swallows. “I’m trying.”
Bakugou’s shoulders shift like he’s uncomfortable.
“I know,” he says.
The storm howls outside, rain slamming the glass. The candle flickers but holds.
Bakugou sits down on the floor with his back against her bed, like he’s settled in.
Ochaco stares. “You’re—staying?”
He looks at her like she’s ridiculous. “Duh.”
She lowers herself to the floor slowly, sitting a few feet away. The distance feels careful. Like she’s still learning what she’s allowed to want.
Minutes pass.
Then Bakugou reaches out—not looking at her—and nudges his foot against hers. A small contact. A tether.
Ochaco’s breath catches. She shifts closer, just a little.
The candlelight turns the sharp lines of his face softer. It makes his eyes look less like fire and more like something… human.
“You’re warmer than the candle,” he mutters, almost like he regrets saying it.
Ochaco’s cheeks heat. “You’re literally a human heater.”
Bakugou scoffs. “Shut up.”
But his shoulder leans closer, and Ochaco realizes he built a fire just to keep her warm—without ever calling it that.
Outside, the storm screams.
Inside, the world is small and safe.
And when the power comes back hours later, Bakugou doesn’t move right away.
He stays until her breathing evens out.
Like he’s guarding something precious.
Like he’s decided she is.
By the time the seasons turn, Ochaco doesn’t feel like she’s constantly bracing for impact anymore.
The world still exists. People still talk. Some days, she still catches a glance that lingers too long, like someone is trying to reconcile the person in front of them with the story they once believed.
But the story doesn’t own her now.
Because she has something else—something quiet and solid that doesn’t change depending on public opinion.
Bakugou.
He doesn’t say sweet things. Not really. He shows them instead.
He remembers she hates walking alone at night, so he “happens” to be going the same direction. He notices when she’s eaten too little and shoves snacks at her with a glare like it’s her fault. He checks her bruises after training with hands that are careful in a way he’d deny if accused.
Ochaco starts to realize something: Bakugou pays attention.
Not the way people pay attention to her online—hungry, judgmental, searching for flaws.
Bakugou pays attention like he’s learning her the way you learn a home route. Like he’s memorizing what keeps her safe.
One afternoon, Ochaco sits on her bed, twisting a thin chain in her fingers.
It’s new. Something small she bought on a whim after a mission where she’d felt steady again—felt like herself. It’s plain metal, nothing flashy, with a tiny charm that means something to her.
She’s not sure why she wants it.
Maybe because she’s tired of being defined by things she can’t control. Maybe because she wants one thing that’s hers.
When Bakugou knocks and pushes into her room without waiting for an answer, she yanks the chain back instinctively.
He pauses immediately, eyes narrowing. “What’s that.”
Ochaco blinks. “Nothing.”
Bakugou’s stare is flat. “That’s a lie.”
She sighs, defeated. “It’s just a necklace.”
Bakugou steps closer, gaze locked on her hands. “Why are you hiding it.”
“I’m not hiding it,” she says, then hesitates. “I just—didn’t know if it was… stupid.”
Bakugou scoffs. “If you like it, it’s not stupid.”
Ochaco’s heart stutters at the simplicity of that. At how easily he gives her permission to want things.
She holds it up. “It’s… kind of symbolic.”
Bakugou’s eyes flick up to hers. “Of what.”
Ochaco swallows. This is the part she hates—the vulnerable part, the part where she has to say what she means out loud.
“Of… being known,” she admits softly. “Of someone knowing me for real. Not the version of me people decided I was.”
Bakugou’s expression shifts—so fast she almost misses it. Something gentler behind the sharpness.
He reaches out, hesitates, then takes the chain carefully between his fingers like it’s delicate.
He studies it for a second, then looks at her, eyes intense.
“They don’t know you,” he says.
Ochaco’s throat tightens.
“They never did,” he adds, voice rough. “They saw what they wanted.”
Ochaco’s eyes sting. She tries to laugh it off, but it wobbles. “That’s dramatic.”
Bakugou’s gaze doesn’t move. “I’m not joking.”
The sincerity hits her like gravity returning all at once.
She’s so used to being the one who comforts other people. So used to being told she’s strong, she’s fine, she’ll get through it.
Bakugou isn’t telling her to get through it.
He’s telling her she didn’t deserve it.
And it feels like someone finally set down a weight she’s been carrying in silence.
Late November comes with cold air and clear skies.
They’re outside after evening training, the campus quieter than usual, leaves scattered across walkways like little pieces of gold. Ochaco’s breath fogs in front of her mouth.
Bakugou walks beside her, head slightly down, hands in his pockets.
Ochaco’s fingers find the chain at her neck.
She’s been wearing it every day now.
Bakugou noticed. Of course he noticed. He didn’t comment—of course he didn’t. But sometimes she catches his eyes flicking to it like he’s checking it’s still there.
She stops under a tree stripped nearly bare.
Bakugou takes two steps past her before realizing she’s paused. He turns, brow furrowing. “What.”
Ochaco inhales. Then exhales. Her heart is thudding too loud.
“I don’t need you to save me,” she says, voice soft but steady.
Bakugou’s eyes sharpen like he’s bracing for something.
Ochaco continues anyway. “I think… I used to want that. Not from you specifically, just… from the world. From everyone. Like if they would just understand, then everything would be okay.”
Bakugou watches her without interrupting.
Ochaco’s fingers tighten around the chain. “But I don’t want that anymore.”
His jaw flexes, but he stays silent.
Ochaco steps closer. The cold doesn’t feel so cold when he’s near.
“I want to choose,” she whispers. “And I want you to choose, too.”
Bakugou’s eyes flicker—something raw.
Ochaco swallows. “So… would you run away with me?”
The words hang between them in the cold air.
Bakugou doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t ask what she means.
He answers instantly, like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever decided.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. Certain. “Whenever.”
Ochaco’s breath catches. “You don’t even know where.”
Bakugou steps closer until they’re almost touching. His gaze is fierce, like he’s daring the universe to challenge him.
“Don’t care,” he says. “As long as it’s with you.”
Ochaco’s eyes burn. She laughs shakily, because if she doesn’t, she might cry.
Bakugou’s hand lifts, hesitates, then cups the side of her face with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushes her cheek like he’s wiping away a hurt she didn’t even realize was visible.
“Let them call it whatever they want,” he mutters.
Ochaco leans into his palm.
Because she knows what it is.
It’s not a performance.
It’s not a headline.
It’s not something that has to be explained to people who don’t care to listen.
It’s two people choosing each other in the aftermath. Building warmth with their own hands. Making something private and real when the world tried to make them a story.
Bakugou’s forehead touches hers briefly, like a promise sealed in quiet.
And for the first time in a long time, Ochaco feels like she’s not just surviving.
She’s living.