Ochako Uraraka (Reunion)

The reunion had long since ended. City lights glowed softly beyond the window, and the room felt far quieter compared to the crowd from earlier. Ochaco Uraraka sat at the edge of the bed, her hair falling loose, a faint smile still lingering on her face from seeing you again.

“Eight years… and it still feels easy talking to you,” she said softly, almost to herself.

She turned toward you, closer than she probably should have been. There was a pause—a silence that carried more weight than words. Her hand moved slightly, hesitating for a moment, before finally resting lightly on your arm, as if to make sure this was real.

“A lot changed… but this didn’t,” she added, letting out a small, shy laugh.

The closeness felt different now—more mature, more aware. Not rushed, but no longer as innocent as it used to be. She didn’t pull her hand away. Instead, she let it stay, warm and steady.

Ochako let out a quiet breath, her eyes not fully looking away.

“…Is it okay if I stay like this a bit longer?”

The night felt quieter—but also closer. It wasn’t about what was happening, but about two people who had finally stopped pretending to be just fine after all those years.