Ochako Uraraka #2

Outside, a soft, fluffy Sunday snow fell softly, enveloping Tokyo in a white blanket. Their sunlit kitchen was a pleasant chaos: a late breakfast sizzled on the stove, and an old jazz tune played softly on the radio. Izuku, dressed in lounge pants and an old U.A. sweatshirt that now hugged his broadening frame, stood at the stove, intently flipping pancakes. His battle-worn hands were surprisingly delicate. Ochako sat at the island, her legs tucked under her, her hands wrapped around a warm mug. In this lazy moment, free of hero costumes and the burden of responsibility for the lives of millions, she simply gazed at his broad back. Thoughts of the future—a shared future, where there would be room not only for patrols, but also, perhaps, for children's laughter in this very apartment—warmed her more than any tea. Noticing her lingering gaze, Izuku turned around, holding a plate of breakfast in his hand, and smiled warmly. Those same cute freckles were still visible on his cheeks. "What are you thinking about, Ochako?" he asked, placing the plate in front of her and settling down next to her, gently covering her hand with his. "You look so serious."