Chapter Text
The sunlight hitting the pillow was violent. That was the only word for it. It didn’t stream in; it stabbed.
Ochako groaned, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, but the bruised colors blooming behind her eyelids didn’t distract from the jackhammer pounding against her skull.
Her head throbbed in a rhythm that felt suspiciously like her own heartbeat, only sharper and much nastier. Hangover. Definitely a hangover. A spectacularly bad one.
She tried to shift, to roll over and bury her face in the cool side of the pillow, but her body felt leaden. Languid. Sore in places that made her face heat up instantly.
Wait.
She blinked, fighting the blur in her vision. The ceiling was wrong. The paint was a matte charcoal she didn’t own. The sheets tangled around her bare legs were black silk, not her soft pink cotton.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced straight through the alcohol-induced haze. Ochako sat up way too fast. The room immediately spun, her stomach lurched, and she had to grab the headboard to steady herself.
She looked down. Bare skin. No pajama top. Just the dark sheet pulled frantically up to her collarbone as her wide eyes scanned the room.
Clean. Minimalist. Expensive cologne lingering in the air, mixed heavily with the unmistakable, burnt-sugar scent of nitroglycerin.
She froze.
Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, she turned her head to the left.
There was a man beside her. He was lying on his stomach, face smashed into the mattress, breathing in a deep, rhythmic cadence. His back was a broad expanse of pale muscle knotted with faded battle scars, rising and falling with sleep. And that hair. That messy, explosive, ash-blonde hair.
Bakugo.
Ochako slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp, her heart hammering so hard against her ribs she thought it might bruise.
Not again.
The thought spiraled in her mind, frantic and desperate. Not again. We said not again. We swore.
She stared at his back, the memories of the night before crashing into her like a tidal wave. The agency party. The drinks. The "just one more" shot. The car ride that somehow diverted to his apartment instead of hers. The way his hand had felt on her waist, burning through the thin fabric of her dress, guiding her, grounding her.
"Oh god," she whispered, the sound scraping against her dry throat.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand rattling loudly against the dark wood. Ochako flinched like she’d been shot. She scrambled across the mattress to grab it before the noise could wake him, her fingers trembling as she swiped the screen.
Izuku 💚 (06:15 AM): Good morning, Honey! Sorry I missed your call last night. The patrol in Kyushu ran late, barely got a wink of sleep lol. Hope you slept well! I miss you. Let’s FaceTime tonight if I get a break? Love you!
Ochako stared at the green bubbles. The sheer cheerfulness of the text felt like a physical blow to her chest.
Love you.
She squeezed her eyes shut, the nausea returning in full force, and it wasn’t just from the tequila this time.
What the hell was she doing?
She remembered how it had started with Izuku. It had been sweet. Necessary, almost. In the aftermath of the war, when the dust finally settled and the adrenaline faded, they were the only two who really understood the specific shape of each other’s trauma.
She had her trauma and Izuku carried the weight of the entire world. They had clung to each other like driftwood in a hurricane.
It made sense.
Everyone said it made perfect sense. "The Number One Hero and Uravity? Finally!" "The golden couple."
And it was good. For a while, it was perfect. But then peace became routine, and Izuku’s career didn’t just grow; it skyrocketed. He belonged to the world now. He was the Symbol of Peace. He was always gone, always smiling on massive digital billboards, always apologizing via text for missing dates, missing anniversaries, missing her.
She was doing okay on her own. The agency she works for was solid. She was sending money to her parents, buying them the easy life they deserved. On paper, Ochako Uraraka had won at life.
Then Katsuki Bakugo was transferred to her agency for a six-month joint operation.
It was supposed to be temporary. But Izuku wasn’t there, and Katsuki was. He was there in the debriefs. He was there when she was tearing her hair out over paperwork. He was there, loud and brash and unapologetically present, treating her not like a fragile glass doll or the Symbol’s untouchable girlfriend, but like a rival. Like an equal.
The first time had been an accident. Drunk on sake after a brutal but successful bust. They had screamed at each other about field tactics, the screaming turned into heavy, furious breathing, and then… well.
They swore it was a one-time thing. A stress-induced mistake.
And now here she was. Tuesday morning. Naked in his bed. Again.
"You okay?"
The voice was a low, gravelly rasp, rough with sleep. Ochako jumped, nearly dropping her phone onto the floor.
Katsuki didn’t move much. He just turned his head, one crimson eye cracking open to glare at her through his messy bangs. He looked exhausted, a deep pillow crease imprinted on his cheek.
"I… I didn’t mean to wake you," Ochako whispered, clutching the sheet tighter against her chest.
Katsuki grunted, shifting his weight. He rolled onto his side, facing her, and draped a heavy forearm over his eyes to block out the blinding sun. "You didn't. Your brain buzzing did. What time is it?"
"Six," she said, her voice small. "Six-fifteen."
"Too early," he muttered. He reached out blindly with his free hand, finding her hip under the blanket. His palm was warm, heavily calloused, terrifyingly familiar. He gave a gentle squeeze. "Go back to sleep, Round Face. My head feels like it’s been split open with a broadsword."
Ochako looked down at his hand on her hip. It felt so wrong, yet so effortlessly right. That was the worst part of all this. It wasn't just the sex—though the sex was mind-numbing—it was this. The domestic laziness. The way he knew she liked the room freezing cold. The way he kept a spare pink toothbrush in his pristine cabinet, even though they always pretended she didn't need one.
"I can’t," she said, her voice trembling. "Izuku texted."
Katsuki’s hand went perfectly still.
For a moment, the silence in the room was so heavy it was suffocating. Then, slowly, Katsuki withdrew his hand. He didn't pull away angrily; he just pulled back.
"Right," Katsuki said. The lingering sleepiness vanished from his voice, replaced instantly by a dull, flat tone. He finally moved his arm, opening both eyes to stare at her. "What did the Nerd want?"
"Just… saying good morning," Ochako said, picking up her phone and gripping it like a lifeline. "He’s still in Kyushu."
"’Course he is." Katsuki sat up, letting the sheet fall to his waist, completely unbothered by his own lack of modesty. He ran a hand through his spiked hair, wincing as the movement jarred his skull. "Look, Ochako—"
"I have to go," she blurted out. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, desperate to escape the gravitational pull of the conversation. "I have a meeting at nine. And my head is killing me. I need to go home and change and—"
"Stop."
Katsuki grabbed her wrist. Not hard, just enough to halt her frantic, fleeing movements.
"Katsuki, please," she pleaded, refusing to look at him. "Don't."
"Don't what?" he asked, his voice rough. "Don't acknowledge that you’re hyperventilating? Breathe, for fuck’s sake." He let go of her wrist, leaned over to his nightstand, and yanked open the drawer. He rattled around for a second before tossing a bottle of ibuprofen toward her. It landed softly on the mattress beside her leg.
"Take two," he commanded. He swung his own legs out of bed and stood up, walking toward the en-suite bathroom. "I’ll get water."
Ochako sat there, staring at the plastic bottle. Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Why did he have to be like this? If he was just an arrogant jerk, if he was just using her for a quick fix, this would be so much easier to walk away from. But he wasn't. He was Bakugo. He was attentive in his own aggressive, abrasive way. He noticed the little things that Izuku was simply too busy saving the world to see.
Katsuki came back a moment later with a glass of tap water. He shoved it into her hand, then sat back down on the edge of the bed. He kept his back to her, resting his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low.
"Thanks," she whispered. She popped the pills and downed the water, the cool liquid soothing the sandpaper in her throat.
"We suck at this," Katsuki said into the quiet room.
Ochako lowered the glass. "What?"
"Stopping," he clarified. He turned his head just enough to look at her over his shoulder. "We said last week was the last time. We said the time before that was the last time. We’re liars, Uraraka."
"I know," she whispered. The guilt felt like thick sludge in her stomach. "I love him, Katsuki. I do. He’s… he’s Izuku."
"I know exactly who he is," Katsuki snapped, a flash of his old, fiery irritation sparking in his eyes. "I grew up with him, remember? I know he’s a saint. I know he’s the best damn hero out there. I know he treats you like a queen when he actually remembers to be in the same city as you."
"He tries," Ochako defended weakly, her grip tightening on the glass. "He has an impossible amount of pressure."
"And what about you?" Katsuki turned his body fully toward her now. "You don't have pressure? You don't have bills and media vultures breathing down your neck? Who checks on you, Ochako?”
"He checks on me." she argued, waving the phone at him. "He just texted me."
"He texted a version of you that doesn't exist anymore," Katsuki shot back, his voice dropping to a low, intense rumble.
The truth hung in the air between them, sharp and jagged as broken glass.
Ochako looked away, biting her lip hard enough to taste copper. "It’s not like that.”
"Then what is it?" Katsuki asked. He shifted closer, just an inch, but she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "Why are you here, Cheeks? Why do you keep coming back? Is it just the sex? Because I can stop. If you look me in the eye and tell me to stop, I’ll stop. I’ll transfer out of the agency tomorrow.”
Ochako looked at him. His red eyes were intense, searching, completely stripped of their usual mockery. He was giving her an out. A real, permanent one.
She thought about Izuku. His bright, blinding smile. The way they held hands for the flashing cameras. The comforting safety of that relationship. It was a beautiful story for the press. The High School Sweethearts. The Heroes of the War.
Then she looked at Katsuki. Rough edges. A notoriously bad temper. The guy who bought her favorite spicy hangover snacks without having to ask. The guy who challenged her in the field. The guy who was here, on a random Tuesday morning, seeing her with messy hair and smudged mascara and wanting her anyway.
"I don't want you to transfer," she admitted, the words barely audible.
Katsuki exhaled a long, heavy breath through his nose. He reached out, his knuckles brushing lightly against her cheek as he tucked a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jaw for a second too long.
"Then stop acting like you’re a prisoner here," he muttered, dropping his hand. "Drink your water. I’ll make coffee. You look like shit."
Ochako let out a watery, incredulous laugh. "You really know how to talk to a girl, Bakugo."
"I’m just being honest," he grunted, standing up again. He walked toward the bedroom door, idly scratching his chest. "Shower’s free if you want it. I left a clean shirt on the counter. Try not to slip and die."
He paused at the door, his hand resting on the frame. He didn't look back.
"And text him back," Katsuki added, his voice suddenly tight. "Tell him you’re fine. Tell him whatever you need to tell him. Just... don't leave without eating something."
Ochako watched his broad shoulders disappear down the hall. A moment later, she heard the familiar clatter of pans in the kitchen.
She looked down at her phone again. The screen had gone dark. She tapped it, illuminating Izuku’s message one more time.
Love you.
"I love you too," she whispered to the empty room, but the words felt hollow, dissolving instantly into the scent of burnt sugar and expensive cologne. She typed out a reply, her thumbs moving on autopilot.
Good morning, Deku-kun! Don't worry about the call. Just stay safe out there. I’m proud of you.
She hit send. Then she tossed the phone onto the tangled black sheets, stood up, and walked toward the shower to wash the smell of Katsuki off her skin, knowing damn well it was already way too late to wash him out of her head.