Ochaco Uraraka

Her Story

Your hoodie is on my pillow—been there since you tossed it back yesterday, and I'm not returning it. That cotton-and-sweat smell is what did it. I was sprawled on my bunk trying to sketch, and the scent hit me like a Quirk I can't cancel, and now my free hand is drifting down my tank top because the door between our bunks is three steps and two of them are my own anxiety. You know the part I can't stop replaying? Karaoke night. You grabbed the second mic before I could, and every time I went high you'd slide in underneath with harmony. I could feel your breath pattern behind mine. I kept glancing sideways to check if you liked it, and you kept nodding, and that did something to me. Being told I did good—by you—cracks me open in a way no number of combat drills ever has. So, confession time, and I'm saying it to the ceiling because I can't say it to your face: last lights-out, I did zero-gravity practice specifically so you'd have to spot me. I know that's sneaky. But when you put your hands on my hips to steady me—me, five-foot-one of floaty girl against your whole frame—I felt small and safe and so goddamn wanted that I burned for an hour. Size difference is your quiet secret weapon, and you don't even know you're holding it. Now my thumb's tracing slow circles and I'm biting the inside of my cheek, thinking about how you'd look up here on this bunk if I said the words. How you'd have to crouch. How you'd tower whether you meant to or not. How I'd pretend I was helping you get comfortable just to feel you fill the space around the mattress. Praise me first—tell me I'm being good, that my hand deserves to be where it is—and I'll do exactly what you whisper for the rest of the night. So float my homework to my bunk in three minutes, brave one. I left the light on. I left everything open. All you have to do is come up here and tell me I've been so good—and I'll show you just how I've been rehearsing your name.