Chapter Text
There’s something kinda weird about how nice the ceiling looks at 5AM.
Still half-dark.
Not enough to see properly. Just enough to make shapes. Shadows doing that soft, blurry thing across the wall, like they’re too sleepy to commit to existing. The sky’s that color that doesn’t have a name. Somewhere between not-blue and almost-purple.
The world’s quiet.
Really quiet.
And Midoriya breathes.
His eyes blink open to nothing. No yelling. No explosions. No reason to be awake except for, well. Being awake.
The blanket’s still wrapped around him. The All Might one. Probably grabbed it in his sleep. It's tucked under his chin like it’s on a mission to smother him in nostalgia.
The air’s cool. His toes are cold. His brain is not.
Because the first thing, yes, the very first thing, that drifts into his thoughts like a sleepy little traitor is—
“Did Uraraka get enough sleep last night?”
...Oh.
That’s.
Okay.
That’s fine.
Totally fine.
Perfectly rational thought to have first thing in the morning. Not weird at all. Nope. Not in the slightest.
He buries his face in the pillow.
Thirty seconds pass.
Thirty whole seconds where his brain tries, and fails, to do a full system check.
Because it lands on point number one, that was his first thought, and point number two, this isn’t the first time.
“Ugh,” he groans, voice all muffled and tragic like he’s ending that very moment.
It’s fine.
He cares about her. Big deal. Everyone cares about Uraraka. That’s, like. Normal. Totally regular friendship behavior. Especially when you’ve saved each other from villain attacks and blood loss and emotional meltdowns on school rooftops.
Totally logical to wonder if she’s okay.
He’s being a good friend.
A great one, even.
He sits up. Blanket flops off like it’s also given up on him.
The second betrayal of the morning, it smells like her .
Vanilla-orange-citrus-and-entirely-what-the-heck.
Because of course it does. She borrowed it. “Ran out of hers.” “Still gotta wash it.” Gave it back with a smile that said, “I know what I did, and I’ll do it again.”
He does not think about it.
He totally, for sure, 100% does not think about it.
Uh-huh.
His shirt is halfway up his side. He tugs it down on autopilot. The stupid one. The funny one. The faded white one with “Shirt” printed on it in big blocky letters because he thought that was funny once.
(It still kind of is. Except Bakugo hates it. Which makes it funnier.)
Ochako laughed so hard she dropped her rice ball.
And back up, there he goes again.
Seriously, mind, please don’t
He glances at the desk.
There’s two bento boxes. One green. One pink.
It’s just convenience. Efficiency. Planning. Meal-prep. Not domestic. Not sweet. Not anything.
She gets mean when she’s hungry.
Like. Mean . Once nearly roundhouse kicked Iida over an onigiri.
The class has never emotionally recovered.
He yawns. Loud. Arms up. Shoulders crack.
Holy whoa that feels good.
His feet hit the tile with a tiny slap-slap. Cold. Smooth. The dorm hums low in the background like it’s too tired to judge him.
Lights still on in the hall. Someone forgot to turn them off.
Probably Kaminari.
Just a bit later, he drifts into the kitchen.
Hands running on muscle memory.
He’s not thinking about her.
Not really.
Nope
Except. He is.
...He absolutely is.
All that is running on his mind.
He starts with the rice.
Short-grain. A little sticky. The kind that clings to itself just enough to stay whole.
Enough for two bentos and breakfast. It’s early, but this way she won’t skip lunch again. Or breakfast. Or both. He’s covering bases.
It’s the kind she likes best.
No big deal.
Just rice.
He rinses it three times. Then again. Just in case.
His fingers move fast. Too practiced.
He’s done this a hundred times now. Maybe more.
Maybe too many.
The hum that slips out isn’t a song. Not really. Just sound. Some tuneless noise to fill the space because if he doesn’t, it’s too quiet.
It’s not necessarily the peaceful kind of quiet, although, he’d probably liken it to that.
It’s the waiting quiet. The kind that creeps in just before she walks through the door. When the dorm still feels like it belongs to the night, but the light’s already shifting like something’s about to change.
The rice cooker clicks on, two pans are already out.
He oils the first one and continues on.
He’s made enough egg rolls to know the exact moment to flip the first layer before it starts to bubble too much.
One roll, two rolls, three rolls.
Each turn feels like muscle memory. Like sparring drills. If sparring involved chopsticks and soy sauce.
The eggs are warm yellow. A little sweet. A little salty.
She likes them just barely brown on the edges.
He remembers. Of course, he remembers. That’s not weird.
The soy sauce and mirin mixture is already set to the side. He prepped it last night. With a timer. Like it was serious. Like it was a mission. Great!
Because she once said the taste was better if the sauce sat longer. Let it soak up all the good stuff.
And. Yeah. Okay. He listens.
Maybe a little too much.
He glances at the bento boxes. Their bento boxes. One that is Green, quite obviously for him, and the other Pink, for her.
She picked it, going all bright and sunny and bubbly, telling him it was the only one cute enough.
He doesn’t think about that, either.
Inside the pink lid is a scribble. Just a tiny little doodle in black pen, messy.
A cartoon Ochako, flying. One hand up, cape billowing, dragging a stick-figure Izuku behind her like she’s late to something important, and he forgot how to walk.
He frowns at it.
Too much.
Definitely too much.
He’s indignant.
She’s going to open it and laugh, and he’s going to explode.
The second pan hisses, chicken on it, thin slices, a bit of garlic, and a splash of sesame oil. The scent hits fast. Makes the kitchen smell like an actual home. Like something worth coming back to. Like something he’d love coming back to.
He hopes it's like that for her too.
He pours in the teriyaki sauce, it bubbles loud. Very sticky. A little sweet. Has that edge of heat that lingers in the air.
The chicken browns fast, sauce thickening. The shine on it looks a little too proud of itself.
He doesn’t know why he’s being careful plating it.
“It’s just lunch and breakfast.”
He puts a little more on her side. Adds extra green onion. She said once it makes it taste fresher. He doesn’t even like green onion. Except, now he does. Crazy. Then the pickled radish, in little pink slices, rabbit-shaped.
He also cut the fruit into stars.
Not because he’s trying to be romantic.
Definitely not.
It’s just. She said stars were her favorite shape. Only once. That was weeks ago, and she said it while yawning.
And the knife was already out.
He’s not thinking about it. Not really. Just. Maybe a little. He wonders if she’ll notice.
The stars. The rabbits. The way he made her egg fluffier than his.
Or if it’ll be one of those quiet things that never gets talked about, like the way she borrows his blanket sometimes. The All Might one. She says it’s warm.
Then she gives it back two days later, smelling like something he doesn't have a name for. Vanilla. Maybe. Orange, too. Something sweet and soft and weirdly distracting. He tries not to smell it. He fails every time. He loves it, though.
He finishes the box. Wipes the counter down even though it’s already clean. He looks around for a bit. There’s still no sound from the hallway.
He doesn’t mind.
The silence isn’t empty.
Not today. Not ever.
It definitely feels like something. Like it’s holding its breath, waiting for her to walk in.
Or was that just him?
He lets the thought stay this time, and he lets it stretch out, because maybe this is one of those things that matters.
The quiet mornings, the bentos, the doodles, the stars. Not the explosions, in no way the glory, and absolutely not the fights.
Just this.
Just her.
Maybe that’s a part of being a hero no one talks about.
The part where it’s okay to want something soft.
Something warm.
Something worth waking up early for.
“Smells like heaven,” says a voice behind him. It’s low and sleep-rough. Still scratchy from dreams and not fully awake yet.
Izuku jumps so hard he nearly flings the spatula across the room. He catches it. Barely.
His heart is already halfway to the moon. His face? Not far behind.
He turns slowly. Like maybe, possibly, potentially, if he moves carefully enough, the universe will give him a second chance at dignity.
Nope.
Because she’s standing there.
Ochako Uraraka.
Leaning against the counter like gravity’s optional. Rubbing one eye with her knuckle. The other still half-lidded and soft.
She’s wearing his hoodie.
And a huge smile too.
“Cute—”
Traitor.
She’s wearing his green hoodie. The one with the fraying sleeves, faded “SMASH” logo in big bold letters in front, fabric so worn it’s probably one more wash away from completely falling apart. It hangs off of her like a blanket. Like it tried to swallow her whole and gave up halfway.
Her legs are bare except for the suggestion of shorts. Emphasis on suggestion.
Uhh…
Hair’s sticking up in every direction. Pillow-flattened on one side, fluffed like a storm cloud on the other.
She looks like she wandered straight out of a dream and into his kitchen.
She looks like she belongs here.
Which, okay, fair, she does .
Just. Not like that .
“I— good morning!” he blurts. Voice crack and all. “I made extra, if you’re— uh—hungry. Which, uhh, you are, right? I mean, we trained hard yesterday and, uh—”
His words trip over each other like someone dumped them out of a drawer too fast.
He’s trying so hard to sound casual. It’s not working.
Ochako just yawns, slow and lazy, like she didn’t just shatter the entire concept of peace by existing.
She wanders past him. Opens the fridge like she’s done it a hundred times. Which she has. Grabs their usual milk.
And drinks straight from the bottle.
Izuku stares. Brain still rebooting.
“You’re not supposed to drink from the bottle,” he says weakly, like maybe this time she’ll listen.
She doesn’t.
She peeks over the rim, smug as anything.
“You always say that,” she says, taking another swig, “and then you never stop me.”
“I—I don’t want to be rude—”
“You like me better when I’m rude.”
She says it with a smile that’s all teeth and sunshine.
He makes a noise. It’s not human. Her smile grows even more, and then she laughs.
She laughs and floats to the table like she’s got wings.
Plops into a chair. Scoots it over without even thinking. Right next to his usual seat.
Not across. Not one space over. Right next to.
Like she always does. Like it’s their thing.
And the worst part?
It is their thing.
And Izuku lets her.
Just like he always does.
He sits beside her, silently begging his pulse to chill out.
He doesn’t say a word when he hands her the pink bento box and her plate.
She lights up like he just gave her the moon.
“Ooooh, bunny radish! You always spoil me.”
“It’s not spoiling,” he mutters. “It’s nutritional planning. You didn’t take your vitamin yesterday and—”
“Uh-huh,” she interrupts, gently poking his cheek with the end of her chopsticks. “Your wife’s gonna be so lucky.”
She is—
He chokes.
Not on food.
Not even on water.
Just air.
Pathetic.
Like his own lungs betrayed him at the first sign of danger.
And she’s just sitting there, grinning like she didn’t just destroy him before breakfast.
Like she doesn’t know.
Like, this is— is this? Normal ?
And maybe it is.
God help him, maybe it is .
It’s been a few minutes. Maybe five. Maybe forever. Hard to tell. He doesn’t care.
The kitchen’s warm. Kind of perfect. Rare, quiet mornings that doesn’t feel like it’s building toward a disaster.
So of course that’s when Kaminari decides to show up.
He stumbles in with hair like he fought a lightning bolt and lost. Shirt half-tucked, socks mismatched. His yawn is so big it looks like his soul’s trying to climb out of his mouth.
Then his eyes land on them.
And the entire room shrinks.
Ochako’s stealing a piece of chicken off Izuku’s plate. Her fingers are quick, casual, practiced. Like she’s been doing this her whole life and never been caught once.
Izuku tries to stop her. Fails miserably. His hands are too slow. Her grin is too fast. And cute.
Their knees knock under the table. Stay there. Like they’re glued together, almost like magnets.
And then Kaminari says it. Low, dramatic, and sounding like he’s condemning them to the deepest pits of hell.
“God, you two are nauseating .”
“Wh-what do you mean?!” he asks, voice cracking like a dry stick in a bonfire.
Kaminari, traitor of the century, just shrugs, and proceeds to deadpan. Takes an apple off the counter and bites into it like he’s delivering judgment from a throne.
“God, you two are practically married, man.”
Izuku short-circuits.
His face doesn’t go red. It goes full-blown emergency beacon.
Blinding. Loud. Someone-call-a-medical-professional red.
Then he leaves.
Just. Leaves.
Disappears into the hallway like a sleep-deprived cryptid.
Izuku stares after him. Still reeling. Still processing. Still probably dying. Most assuredly dying.
Ochako doesn’t move.
Still chewing. Calm. Collected. Like she’s been caught with a hand in the cookie jar, but she’s not even sorry .
Then, after a moment, she glances at him. Real slow.
Her cheeks are pink.
Not just pink. That pink. The kind that says, maybe this is embarrassing. Maybe she did hear it. Maybe she hasn’t stopped hearing it since Kaminari said it.
“I— uhhh— he’s just joking,” she says, voice very small. Very adorable.
“Totally joking,” Izuku agrees, way too fast.
The air thickens. Not awkward in a bad way. Just dense.
Warm, still.
Like a blanket pulled too high. Like something you want to keep under.
They don’t say anything else.
They don’t move, either.
Their knees stay where they are. Pressed together under the table. Quiet. Peaceful.
Ochako’s chopsticks drift toward his plate again.
Izuku doesn’t stop her. He acts surprised anyway. But he was already reaching.
The chicken’s gone before he even finishes pretending.
Later, they stand to clean. Routine. Normal.
Both reach for the same corner of the sink.
Their fingers brush.
It’s just a second. But it’s a big one. Doesn’t even feel like a second.
It’s hot. Sharp. Electric.
He pulls away first. Like he touched a stove top.
She follows, a beat late.
Now they’re both blushing.
Like idiots.
Thank God, Kaminari left.
Thank God no one else was in the kitchen.
This is so ridiculous.