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Ochaco Uraraka could tie a bow one-handed.

It was a skill you picked up when you’d spent years hovering behind brides in cramped bathrooms and bridal suites, shoulder-to-shoulder with frantic friends and curling irons and spilled champagne. When your fingers had learned the shapes of ribbon and lace the way other people learned phone passwords. When you could keep your voice light—bright, even—while someone else’s hands shook in yours.

“Okay,” she said, smiling at the girl in front of her as she tightened the sash at the small of her back. “Breathe for me, Hana. In through your nose… out through your mouth.”

Hana—today’s bride, today’s center of the universe—laughed a little, watery and disbelieving. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“You’re not,” Ochaco promised, and she meant it. She always meant it. “You’re going to walk down that aisle and you’re going to look at him and you’re going to remember this whole day is yours. Not the zipper. Not the schedule. Not Auntie Natsumi asking where the gluten-free option is. You.”

Across the suite, Mina Ashido—maids of honor, chaos incarnate—waved a sheet of paper like it was a white flag. “We have a situation.”

Ochaco didn’t even turn fully; she just lifted one hand and held out her palm. Mina slapped the paper into it. Ochaco scanned the words in half a second.

“Auntie Natsumi,” she said out loud, tone still sweet, “is going to be thrilled when she finds out the risotto is gluten-free and she can have two servings. Which you are going to tell her. With confidence.”

Mina blinked. “Wait—it is?”

Ochaco’s smile widened by a fraction. “It is now.”

Mina stared, then started laughing like she’d been released from some invisible chokehold. “Oh my god. Ochaco, you’re a wizard.”

Ochaco tucked the paper into her pocket like it belonged there. “Not a wizard. Just prepared.”

She always was. She kept a small emergency kit in her tote that lived in her car: safety pins, fashion tape, a mini sewing kit, stain remover pens, blister bandages, bobby pins, hair ties, an extra pair of nude flats in three sizes, and a tiny bottle of painkillers she swore were responsible for at least six successful receptions.

It wasn’t even about the weddings anymore. It was about the feeling—when everyone else’s panic turned into relief and they looked at her like she’d hung the moon.

You did that enough times and it got under your skin.

It made you feel… necessary.

Ochaco smoothed the skirt of her own dress—lavender chiffon today, delicate and floaty, the kind of color that never belonged to anyone for long. It was pretty. It always was. Bridesmaid dresses weren’t the tragic disasters people joked about anymore. They were intentionally flattering, intentionally photogenic, intentionally forgettable.

She caught her reflection in the mirror by accident.

A soft face, round cheeks, curled hair pinned back with tiny pearl clips Mina had insisted on. The kind of look that read “supporting character” no matter how nice the dress was.

Behind her, Hana’s eyes were shiny with tears again. Ochaco stepped closer without thinking, cupping Hana’s hands between her own. “Hey,” she murmured. “You’re okay. You’re more than okay.”

Hana swallowed hard. “I’m just… what if something goes wrong?”

Ochaco leaned in like she was telling her a secret. “Then I fix it.”

Hana’s mouth twitched. “What if you can’t?”

Ochaco’s answer came too easily. “Then we breathe. Then we laugh. Then we remember it’s still your day.”

Hana exhaled, shoulders loosening.

That was Ochaco’s magic trick, really. Not the emergency kit. Not the ribbon bow. The way she could turn a room back into steadiness, even when her own heart sometimes felt like a loose thread.

“Five minutes,” Mina called, checking her phone. “Places, people!”

The bridal suite erupted into movement. Someone squealed, someone tripped, someone asked where the veil was, someone else shouted “ON YOUR HEAD!” and laughed until they cried. Ochaco shepherded Hana toward the door, fixed the veil with two quick pins, and kissed her cheek.

“You’re going to be incredible,” she said.

Hana squeezed her hand hard. “You always take care of everyone. Who takes care of you?”

Ochaco’s smile held. “I’m good,” she said automatically, like it was a reflex.

Hana looked like she didn’t believe her. But the coordinator knocked, the music started, and the moment was swept away by the tide of the schedule.

Ochaco stepped into line with the other bridesmaids, bouquet in hand, posture perfect.

The doors opened. Light spilled in. People stood. A wave of faces turned toward the aisle.

Ochaco walked.

She smiled.

She didn’t look too closely at the front where Hana’s soon-to-be husband waited with his hands clasped, eyes bright. She didn’t let herself imagine what it would feel like to be the one at the center of all that attention.

She’d done this too many times to indulge in that kind of daydream anymore.

Twenty-seven times.

That number haunted her in a way she didn’t admit out loud. It wasn’t even the dresses. It was the repetition. The role. The pattern of her life where she was always the helper, the planner, the person who made other people’s happiness possible.

She told herself it was fine.

She told herself she liked it.

She told herself it wasn’t lonely.

But sometimes, late at night, she stood in front of her closet and looked at the row of garment bags like they were trophies from a sport she didn’t remember signing up for. There were so many colors. So many fabrics. So many versions of her, all posed beside someone else’s joy.

And somewhere in the back, tucked behind everything, there was one dress she’d bought years ago on a whim—white, simple, not even expensive. She’d seen it on a rack and thought, Maybe. Someday.

It still had the tag.

She didn’t know why she kept it.

Maybe because throwing it away felt like admitting something.

The reception was a blur of toasts and laughter and dancing. Ochaco moved like she always did: orbiting the bride, checking in on the caterers, rescuing a toddler who had stolen a centerpiece flower, smoothing over an argument between two older relatives with a gentle voice and a redirected conversation.

She had a gift for that—making problems feel smaller.

When the DJ switched songs and the dance floor filled, Mina grabbed Ochaco’s wrist and yanked her forward. “Nope. You’ve been working the whole day. You’re dancing.”

“Mina,” Ochaco protested, laughing as she stumbled, “I’m fine—”

“No. Dancing. Now.”

Ochaco let herself be pulled into the crowd. The music thumped through her ribs. She spun with Mina and Kirishima and a few of the other friends from work—hero agencies, support staff, people who lived in a world where schedules mattered and feelings got shoved aside because there was always another crisis.

For a few minutes, she forgot to be prepared.

She forgot to count time.

She forgot to be the girl behind the curtain.

And then her phone buzzed.

She didn’t check it right away. She tried to ignore it, because she could feel Mina watching her like a hawk. But it buzzed again, insistently, and Ochaco’s stomach dropped with that familiar instinct: something needs me.

She slipped off the dance floor and found a quiet corner near the hallway. The message wasn’t an emergency, not really.

It was from work.

A calendar invite. Tomorrow. 8 a.m.

Midoriya Meeting — Q4 Outreach / Charity Gala Planning

Her chest did something weird—tightened, then lifted. Izuku’s name had that effect on her, no matter how much she tried to act normal about it.

Izuku Midoriya had been her boss for almost two years. Everyone loved him. He was smart, earnest, the kind of hero-agency director who remembered everyone’s birthdays and genuinely listened when they spoke. He wore his heart on his sleeve in a way that made the whole office feel warmer.

It also made Ochaco feel like she was constantly hovering at the edge of something.

Izuku trusted her. He relied on her. He said her name with gratitude so often it sometimes felt like a compliment and sometimes felt like a bruise.

Ochaco stared at the invite until the screen dimmed.

Tomorrow, she thought. The gala.

The gala was a big deal—fundraising for post-incident rebuilding, community outreach, sponsorships. It was Izuku’s baby, and Ochaco had been the one helping build it from scratch.

She should feel proud.

She did, a little.

But she also felt tired, in a bone-deep way that didn’t go away even when she slept.

“Hey,” a voice said softly behind her.

Ochaco turned.

Hana stood there in her white dress, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with that post-ceremony glow. “I saw you slip away.”

“Oh,” Ochaco said quickly, shoving her phone into her clutch. “Just work stuff. Nothing important.”

Hana’s eyebrows lifted. “Work is important.”

“Not today,” Ochaco corrected automatically, forcing a smile. “Today is about you.”

Hana studied her. Then she reached out and gently adjusted the little pearl clip in Ochaco’s hair. “You’re allowed to have days that are about you too.”

Ochaco’s throat tightened. “I do,” she lied, because it was easier.

Hana’s expression softened with the kind of compassion that felt almost too sharp to look at. “If you say so.”

Ochaco wanted to change the subject, so she did what she always did—turned the focus back. “How are you feeling? Are you eating? I can get you water—”

Hana laughed, a true laugh. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Trying to fix things that aren’t broken,” Hana said gently. “I’m happy. I’m married. The day is beautiful. You don’t need to manage me anymore.”

Ochaco blinked, caught off guard. “I’m just… helping.”

“I know.” Hana squeezed her hand. “And I’m grateful. But… Ochaco, twenty-seven times. That’s a lot. Do you ever get tired?”

Ochaco opened her mouth. Closed it.

Because yes.

But saying yes felt dangerous, like it would unravel something she’d spent years stitching back together.

“I’m okay,” she said instead, softer.

Hana looked like she wanted to argue, but someone called her name and she got pulled away, waving as she vanished back into the crowd.

Ochaco stood in the hallway for a moment longer, listening to the muffled music and laughter like it belonged to a different world.

Then she took a breath and went back in.

By the time the reception ended, Ochaco’s feet hurt and her cheeks ached from smiling. She helped pack up centerpieces, returned borrowed items, made sure the gifts were secure, and hugged Hana goodbye with warmth she genuinely meant.

When she finally got to her car, the city night was cold enough to bite.

She sat behind the steering wheel with her hands resting in her lap and stared straight ahead.

For a moment, she didn’t turn the key.

She didn’t reach for her phone.

She just… sat.

Her mind drifted, like it always did when she was exhausted, to Izuku.

To the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

To the way he said “Uraraka” like it mattered.

To the way he’d once thanked her after a late night at the office, voice quiet, and said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Ochaco had laughed then, because it sounded like too much. Because it sounded like something she wanted to believe.

But he’d been talking about work. About the schedule. About the gala.

Not about her.

Never about her.

She swallowed hard, then started the car.

The next morning, she was in the office by 7:10.

She liked arriving early. It made the world feel calmer. It gave her time to lay everything out the way she wanted: color-coded binders, printed schedules, backup copies in the shared drive. She made coffee, set out pastries she’d grabbed on the way, and adjusted the chairs in the conference room until they looked symmetrical.

A small, quiet ritual.

At 7:58, Izuku walked in, hair slightly messy, tie half-done, arms full of folders.

“Ochaco!” he said, bright as the sun despite the hour. “You’re early—again.”

She smiled. “Someone has to be.”

Izuku laughed, set his folders down, and finally fixed his tie with an absent-minded tug. “Thank you for being here. Seriously. I—this gala stuff is… bigger than I expected.”

“You’re doing great,” Ochaco said automatically, sliding a folder toward him. “I made a run sheet for the vendors and a separate one for the hero appearances. Also, the sponsor list is updated.”

Izuku’s eyes widened as he flipped through it. “You did all of this?”

Ochaco shrugged like it was nothing. “It’s fine.”

Izuku looked up, expression softening into something tender. “It’s not nothing, Ochaco. You always—” He paused, like he was searching for the right words. “You always make things work. I’m really lucky.”

Ochaco’s chest did that thing again.

She forced her smile to stay steady. “It’s my job.”

Izuku opened his mouth to argue, then someone knocked.

Ochaco turned.

Tsuyu Asui stepped into the conference room.

And the air changed.

Tsuyu looked… different than she usually did when she dropped by. She was polished in a way that felt new: hair sleek, outfit carefully chosen, lipstick subtle but intentional. Calm as always, but there was an energy behind her eyes, like she’d already decided something and was simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

“Hi,” Tsuyu said, voice even. “Sorry. Am I interrupting?”

Izuku’s face lit up in a way Ochaco felt in her ribs. “Tsuyu! No—no, come in. I didn’t know you were coming.”

Tsuyu’s gaze flicked to Ochaco, and something unreadable passed across her expression. “I wanted to see you,” she told Izuku. “And I wanted to talk about the gala.”

Ochaco blinked. “The gala?”

Tsuyu nodded once. “I’m volunteering. If you’ll have me.”

Izuku looked delighted. “Of course! That’s amazing. We could use more hands.”

Tsuyu stepped closer to the table, leaning slightly toward Izuku as she spoke. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “About being around more. About… what I want.”

Ochaco’s hands tightened around her pen.

Izuku’s smile softened. “Yeah?”

Tsuyu’s eyes didn’t leave his. “Yeah.”

The moment hung there—quiet, heavy, intimate.

Ochaco felt like she was intruding on something without meaning to.

So she did what she always did.

She made herself useful.

“I can add you to the volunteer schedule,” Ochaco said, voice bright. “What days are you free?”

Tsuyu finally looked at her.

Her gaze was steady. Not cruel. Not warm, either. Just… certain.

“All of them,” Tsuyu said. “I’ll make time.”

Ochaco nodded like she understood. Like her stomach wasn’t sinking.

Izuku glanced between them, oblivious as ever, and laughed lightly. “Look at us,” he said, cheerful. “The dream team.”

Ochaco smiled.

Because that was the role she knew how to play.

Later, as she walked back to her desk, Mina intercepted her with a grin too sharp to be innocent.

“Okay,” Mina whispered, eyes sparkling. “Tell me you saw that.”

Ochaco frowned. “Saw what?”

Mina leaned in closer like she was about to deliver the juiciest secret in the world. “Tsuyu. Midoriya. The vibe. The vibe, Ochaco.”

Ochaco’s laugh came out too high. “Mina, don’t be weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” Mina insisted. “I’m being observant. And I am telling you—your sister is making moves.”

Ochaco’s smile threatened to crack.

“My sister is just volunteering,” she said carefully, choosing each word like it mattered.

Mina stared at her for a beat, then her expression softened. “Oh,” she said quietly, like she’d just realized something. “Ochaco…”

Ochaco lifted her shoulders in a shrug that was meant to end the conversation. “It’s fine.”

Mina didn’t look convinced, but she let it go—for now.

Ochaco sat at her desk and stared at her computer screen without really seeing it.

The office buzzed around her. Phones rang. People talked. The world kept moving.

And Ochaco tried to convince herself she wasn’t about to become a bridesmaid again in a wedding she’d never asked for.

That afternoon, there was a new email in the shared inbox.

From: K. Bakugou
Subject: Interview Request — “Bridesmaid” Feature

Ochaco blinked at it.

She clicked it open, expecting some generic press request.

Instead, the message was short—blunt, almost rude, like the sender didn’t know how to sound polite and couldn’t be bothered learning.

I’m writing a piece. Someone said you’ve been a bridesmaid 27 times.
That’s insane.
I want to talk. Tomorrow. 6 p.m. Coffee shop on 8th.
Don’t bail.

Ochaco stared at the screen.

Her first instinct was to delete it.

Her second instinct—stronger—was irritation. Who did this guy think he was, demanding her time like she owed him a story?

She hovered over the reply button.

Then she paused.

Because her chest didn’t feel irritated.

It felt… curious.

Like someone had finally looked at her life and said, That’s a lot.

Like someone had finally seen the pattern and called it what it was.

Ochaco swallowed hard, then typed a single sentence.

Fine. But I’m not “insane.”

She hit send before she could change her mind.

Outside her office window, the city blurred in late-day sunlight.

And for the first time in a long time, Ochaco felt like something was about to shift—even if she wasn’t sure whether it would hurt.

The coffee shop on 8th was the kind of place that pretended not to care how long you stayed.

Exposed brick. Mismatched chairs. A chalkboard menu written in looping handwriting that changed just enough each week to feel intentional. It smelled like burnt espresso and vanilla syrup, and the low hum of conversation wrapped around Ochaco the moment she stepped inside.

She almost turned around.

Not because she was late—she wasn’t. She was never late—but because walking in felt like walking toward something unfamiliar. Not a wedding. Not work. Not a role she knew how to play.

A man sat alone near the back, boots hooked around the legs of his chair, elbows spread wide on the small round table like he owned it. His coffee sat untouched, steam curling lazily into the air. He wasn’t hard to spot.

Bakugou Katsuki looked exactly like someone who would write an article titled That’s Insane and not apologize for it.

Sharp jaw. Broad shoulders. Scowl like it was his resting state. His blond hair stuck up in a way that suggested he either didn’t own a comb or had thrown it away on principle. He wore a black jacket despite the mild weather, sleeves shoved up to his forearms like he didn’t care if it wrinkled.

Ochaco clocked all of this in a single glance.

Then she walked toward him, spine straight, chin up, the same way she walked down aisles and into meetings where she had to be the steady one.

Bakugou noticed her about three steps away.

His red eyes flicked up. Narrowed. Assessed.

“You’re late,” he said.

Ochaco stopped short. “I’m exactly on time.”

He checked his watch like he might argue, then snorted. “Huh.”

She slid into the chair across from him without waiting for permission. “You’re Bakugou,” she said. Not a question.

“And you’re the twenty-seven-time bridesmaid,” he shot back.

Her smile froze.

“Wow,” she said, voice polite in the way that meant dangerous. “You really know how to make a first impression.”

Bakugou leaned back, chair creaking. “Didn’t come here to impress you.”

“No,” Ochaco agreed. “You came here to write about me like I’m a spectacle.”

He tilted his head, studying her more closely now. “If the shoe fits.”

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“That’s why I asked you here.”

Ochaco stared at him for a beat, then let out a slow breath. She reminded herself she’d agreed to this. She reminded herself that she could leave at any time.

She reminded herself that she wasn’t obligated to be nice.

“Fine,” she said, setting her bag at her feet. “Ask your questions.”

Bakugou raised a brow. “You don’t even want coffee?”

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.”

He pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open, pen already in hand. “Twenty-seven,” he said. “That’s not normal.”

Ochaco bristled. “Normal is overrated.”

Bakugou’s pen paused mid-scratch. “Is that your defense?”

“It’s my truth.”

He watched her for a second longer, then wrote something down. “How old were you the first time?”

The question caught her off guard.

“Nineteen,” she said after a moment. “My cousin.”

“And you’ve just… kept saying yes.”

Ochaco shrugged. “People ask. I help.”

“Why?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

Because it makes me feel wanted, she almost said.

Because it’s easier than admitting I want something too.

Because when I’m useful, I don’t get left behind.

Instead, she said, “Because I’m good at it.”

Bakugou’s eyes flicked up again, sharp. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re getting.”

He huffed, clearly unimpressed, but wrote it down anyway. “Do you even like weddings?”

Ochaco smiled, softer now. “I like seeing people happy.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

She met his gaze. Held it.

“…Sometimes,” she admitted.

Bakugou leaned forward, elbows on the table now, voice lowering. “What about when it’s your sister?”

Ochaco’s stomach dropped.

“Who told you about my sister?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t look smug. Just matter-of-fact. “People talk. You don’t exactly hide.”

“I don’t broadcast it either.”

“Don’t have to,” he said. “Your face does all the work.”

Her cheeks warmed, irritation flaring. “You don’t get to analyze me like this.”

“I do if you’re the subject of my article.”

“I’m not an object.”

Bakugou’s gaze sharpened. “Didn’t say you were.”

“Then stop treating me like one.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and crackling. Around them, the coffee shop buzzed on—cups clinking, someone laughing too loud, the espresso machine hissing like it had opinions.

Bakugou finally leaned back again, expression unreadable. “You’re defensive.”

“I’m cautious.”

“Same thing.”

“No,” Ochaco said firmly. “It’s not.”

Something in her tone must have landed, because Bakugou didn’t argue. He flipped the page in his notebook instead.

“Tell me about Midoriya.”

Her heart stuttered.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because he’s in the story.”

“I thought this was about me.”

“It is,” Bakugou said. “And you orbit him like a damn moon.”

Ochaco swallowed. “He’s my boss.”

“And?”

“And he’s kind. And good. And—” She stopped herself, jaw tightening. “And none of that is relevant.”

Bakugou’s pen scratched across the page. “You love him.”

Her breath caught.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Ochaco stood so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor. A few heads turned.

“This interview is over,” she said, grabbing her bag.

Bakugou looked up at her, eyes flaring. “Sit down.”

“No.”

“Uraraka—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t get to say my name like you know me.”

For a moment, it looked like he might argue.

Then—unexpectedly—his expression shifted. Not softer. Not gentler. But… honest.

“Fine,” he said. “Go. But don’t pretend I’m wrong.”

Ochaco’s chest ached. She turned and walked toward the door, heart pounding in her ears.

She made it three steps outside before his voice followed her.

“You ever notice how no one asks what you want?”

She froze.

Bakugou didn’t chase her. He didn’t touch her.

He just let the words hang in the air like a challenge.

Ochaco walked away.

But they followed her all the way home.

The next day at work, she was sharper than usual.

Not rude. Not cold. Just… precise. Efficient to the point of being untouchable.

She buried herself in gala logistics—calls, emails, spreadsheets. She corrected a vendor’s invoice without blinking. She rescheduled a hero appearance in under five minutes.

No one noticed the way her hands shook when she paused.

No one except Mina.

“You good?” Mina asked, leaning against the edge of Ochaco’s desk.

Ochaco nodded automatically. “Yeah.”

Mina squinted. “That was the least convincing ‘yeah’ I’ve ever heard.”

Ochaco forced a smile. “Just tired.”

Mina crossed her arms. “You meet with the reporter?”

Ochaco’s fingers stilled over her keyboard. “…Yes.”

“And?”

“He’s obnoxious.”

Mina grinned. “Hot?”

“No.”

Mina’s grin widened. “Definitely hot.”

Ochaco groaned. “He’s rude. And invasive. And thinks he knows everything.”

Mina hummed. “Sounds like someone got under your skin.”

Ochaco opened her mouth to argue, then stopped.

Because the truth was—he had.

Not because he was cruel. But because he’d said the thing no one else ever dared to.

What do you want?

“I don’t have time for this,” Ochaco said, turning back to her screen.

Mina watched her for a moment longer, then softened. “Okay,” she said quietly. “But… you know you don’t have to keep carrying everything alone, right?”

Ochaco didn’t answer.

That afternoon, Izuku stopped by her desk with his usual bright smile.

“Hey, Ochaco! Do you have a minute?”

“Always,” she said.

He looked pleased, then slightly nervous. “Tsuyu and I were talking—”

Her stomach dropped.

“—and she had some really great ideas for the gala,” Izuku continued. “I thought maybe the three of us could meet later this week?”

“Oh,” Ochaco said. “Sure.”

Izuku hesitated, then added, “She’s been… really helpful. I didn’t realize how much she’d want to be involved.”

Ochaco nodded, smile tight. “She’s always been like that.”

“Yeah,” Izuku said fondly. “I guess I just… I’m glad she’s here.”

Something in his tone hurt more than it should have.

Ochaco swallowed it down. “Me too.”

Izuku beamed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Ochaco.”

There it was again.

The compliment that felt like a cage.

“You’d figure it out,” she said gently.

Izuku laughed. “I don’t know about that.”

She watched him walk away, shoulders light, unaware of the quiet storm he’d left behind.

That night, Ochaco lay awake staring at her ceiling.

Bakugou’s words replayed over and over, unwanted and relentless.

You ever notice how no one asks what you want?

She rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow to her chest.

She thought about Tsuyu’s calm certainty. Izuku’s easy warmth. Mina’s concerned eyes.

She thought about twenty-seven dresses.

She thought about the unopened white one in the back of her closet.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Unknown Number.

She hesitated, then answered.

“What?” she said, not bothering to sound polite.

Bakugou’s voice came through the line, rough and unapologetic. “You walked out.”

“You deserved it.”

“Probably.”

She frowned. “…Why are you calling me?”

“Because I’m not done.”

“I am.”

He scoffed softly. “You’re lying to yourself.”

Her chest tightened. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” Bakugou agreed. “But I know people. And I know what it looks like when someone’s been putting themselves last for so long they forgot there was another option.”

Silence stretched between them, heavier than before.

“You want your story?” Ochaco asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Then stop treating me like a punchline.”

Bakugou didn’t hesitate. “Deal.”

She exhaled, shaky. “And you don’t get to write about my sister.”

“Fine.”

“And Izuku—”

“Only what you give me.”

She closed her eyes. “…Okay.”

“Coffee again,” he said. “Tomorrow. Same place.”

Ochaco hesitated.

Then—against her better judgment—she said, “Okay.”

The line went dead.

Ochaco stared at her phone for a long moment, heart racing.

Something was shifting.

She didn’t know yet if it would break her open—

or finally let her breathe.

The second coffee didn’t feel like an interview.

Ochaco noticed that immediately.

Bakugou didn’t open his notebook when she sat down this time. He didn’t comment on the time or her order or the fact that she looked tired in a way that sleep wouldn’t fix. He just watched her for a moment—really watched her—like he was recalibrating.

“You didn’t run,” he said.

“I almost did,” Ochaco replied, wrapping her hands around the warm cup like it was grounding her. “Don’t make me regret staying.”

Bakugou huffed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She eyed him. “That’s a lie.”

“Okay,” he admitted. “I might dream of it a little.”

Despite herself, she laughed—short, surprised, the sound slipping out before she could stop it. Bakugou’s eyes flicked up, sharp and intent, like he’d just scored something important without meaning to.

“See,” he said. “You’re human.”

“I’ve always been human.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered. “You act like you’re built to handle everything.”

Ochaco’s smile faded, but she didn’t snap this time. “That’s because people expect me to.”

Bakugou leaned back in his chair, studying her like a puzzle that refused to stay solved. “And what do you expect from yourself?”

The question settled heavy between them.

Ochaco stared down at her coffee. The foam had already begun to collapse, leaving a thin ring around the edge of the cup. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’ve never really… asked.”

Bakugou nodded once, like that answer mattered. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

“For who?”

“For you,” he said simply.

She looked up, startled by the certainty in his tone. “Why do you care?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached for his cup, finally taking a sip like he’d forgotten it existed. “Because people who don’t ask eventually break,” he said. “And I don’t like watching that.”

Ochaco’s chest tightened in a way she didn’t have a name for.

They talked for over an hour.

Not about dresses or numbers or headlines. About her childhood, about how she’d learned early that being helpful made people stay. About how weddings felt safer than wanting something messy and uncertain. About how love, from the outside, always looked easier than it felt from the inside.

Bakugou listened.

Really listened.

He interrupted sometimes—argued, challenged, scoffed—but he never dismissed her. And when she stopped short of a thought, unsure if she was allowed to finish it, he waited. Let the silence do its work.

When they finally stood to leave, Ochaco felt wrung out and lighter all at once.

“This article,” she said hesitantly, hand on the strap of her bag. “It’s not going to make me look pathetic, right?”

Bakugou snorted. “If that’s what you’re worried about, you’re not paying attention.”

She frowned. “Then what is it going to make me look like?”

He met her eyes, something uncharacteristically careful in his gaze. “Someone who’s been carrying more than her share.”

Ochaco swallowed.

At work, the atmosphere shifted in small, almost imperceptible ways.

Tsuyu was there more often now.

Not just popping in—staying. Sitting in on meetings. Offering suggestions. Walking alongside Izuku through the office with an ease that made it look like she’d always belonged there.

Ochaco told herself she was imagining it.

She told herself it was normal.

She told herself Tsuyu had every right to be involved.

But it still hurt.

Tsuyu had always been the calmer sister, the one who didn’t overextend or overthink. Where Ochaco bent, Tsuyu stood firm. Where Ochaco filled silences, Tsuyu let them breathe.

It was no surprise Izuku gravitated toward her.

They made sense in a way Ochaco and Izuku never had.

Still, watching it happen felt like swallowing something sharp.

“Uraraka,” Tsuyu said one afternoon, voice even as she approached Ochaco’s desk. “Do you have a moment?”

“Of course,” Ochaco replied, reflexive.

Tsuyu glanced around, then lowered her voice slightly. “I wanted to thank you. For… everything. You’ve been doing so much work for the gala.”

Ochaco smiled. “It’s nothing.”

Tsuyu tilted her head. “It’s not nothing. You always say that.”

Ochaco’s fingers tightened on her pen. “It’s just how I am.”

Tsuyu studied her for a long moment, eyes thoughtful. “That’s what worries me.”

Ochaco blinked. “What?”

Before Tsuyu could answer, Izuku appeared at her side, bright as ever. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

Tsuyu’s expression softened immediately. “Hey.”

Izuku smiled at her in a way that felt—intimate. Easy. “I wanted to show you the updated layout for the venue. Ochaco’s been working on it nonstop.”

Tsuyu glanced at Ochaco, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know.”

Ochaco laughed lightly. “I don’t mind.”

Izuku nodded, relieved. “See? She’s amazing.”

There it was again.

Amazing.

Reliable.

Indispensable.

But never chosen.

Ochaco watched Tsuyu and Izuku walk away together, their conversation flowing naturally, and felt something inside her finally settle into a painful truth.

If she didn’t step back, she was going to lose herself completely.

That evening, Bakugou texted her.

Bakugou: You free?

She stared at the message longer than necessary.

Ochaco: I think so.

Bakugou: Good. I need you to see something.

That should have been a red flag.

Instead, she found herself standing outside his apartment an hour later, heart pounding for reasons she refused to analyze.

He let her in without ceremony.

The place was… surprisingly neat. Minimal. No frills. It felt lived-in but guarded, like he didn’t let much in unless it had earned the right.

Bakugou handed her a printed draft.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“The article,” he said. “Or the beginning of it.”

Her stomach flipped. “Already?”

“I don’t write slow.”

She scanned the first few lines—and froze.

It wasn’t sensational.

It wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t even really about weddings.

It was about a woman who learned early that love was something you earned by being useful. About how society praised selflessness without ever asking who paid the cost. About how being “the strong one” could become a quiet kind of cage.

Ochaco’s hands trembled.

“This is…,” she started, then stopped.

Bakugou watched her carefully. “Too much?”

“No,” she whispered. “It’s… accurate.”

“That okay?”

She nodded, throat tight. “It feels like you saw me.”

Bakugou looked away first. “Don’t get used to it.”

She laughed weakly, blinking back tears. “You’re kind of an asshole.”

“World-class.”

They stood there in the quiet, something unspoken stretching between them. Not romance—not yet—but recognition. The rare kind that made you feel less alone just by existing in the same space.

Bakugou cleared his throat. “There’s more I need to ask you. Stuff about the wedding.”

Ochaco stiffened. “My sister’s?”

“Yeah.”

She hesitated. Then nodded. “Okay.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened. “You don’t have to be okay all the time, you know.”

She met his gaze. “I know.”

She wasn’t sure she believed it yet.

The night of Tsuyu’s engagement dinner arrived faster than Ochaco expected.

She stood in her apartment, staring at her reflection in the mirror. The dress she’d chosen was simple—soft green, elegant, unobtrusive. Something that wouldn’t draw attention.

She told herself that was the goal.

At the restaurant, laughter filled the air. Izuku glowed. Tsuyu was calm and radiant, a small ring catching the light every time she lifted her hand.

Ochaco noticed it immediately.

The ring.

Not flashy. Thoughtful. Perfectly Tsuyu.

Her chest tightened.

When Izuku announced the engagement, the table erupted in cheers. Ochaco clapped, smiled, hugged Tsuyu tightly.

“I’m happy for you,” she said, and meant it—even as something inside her broke cleanly in two.

Later, as conversations overlapped and wine glasses refilled, Ochaco slipped outside for air.

The city hummed around her, lights blurred with unshed tears.

She pressed a hand to her chest, breathing through the ache.

Her phone buzzed.

Bakugou: You alive?

She huffed a laugh.

Ochaco: Barely.

Bakugou: Want me to come get you?

Her heart stuttered.

Ochaco: I can’t. It’s my sister.

A pause.

Bakugou: Doesn’t mean you don’t matter.

She stared at the screen, tears finally spilling.

For the first time that night, someone wasn’t asking her to be strong.

She typed back slowly.

Ochaco: Stay on the phone with me?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Bakugou: Yeah.

She leaned against the wall, city noise fading as his steady presence filled the space.

Inside, her sister celebrated a future Ochaco had once imagined for herself.

Outside, for the first time, Ochaco allowed herself to feel the loss—and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to go through it alone.

A few hours later, Ochaco didn’t remember deciding to leave the restaurant.

She only remembered the way the room had started to feel too small—too full of laughter that scraped against something raw inside her—and the relief of cool night air hitting her face as the door shut behind her.

Her phone buzzed immediately.

Bakugou: Outside. Don’t move.

She looked up just as a familiar car pulled to the curb. Bakugou leaned across the passenger seat and shoved the door open with his foot, engine still running, music thumping low and insistent through the speakers.

“Get in,” he said.

Ochaco hesitated for half a second—then did.

The door slammed. The city swallowed them.

They drove without talking at first, neon lights streaking across the windshield, the radio crackling before Bakugou turned it up. Piano keys spilled into the car, bold and strange and electric, the beat pulsing like it knew exactly what kind of night this was.

Ochaco huffed a laugh despite herself. “Is this—?”

“Yeah,” Bakugou said. “Don’t start.”

She leaned her head back against the seat, eyes closing as the song swelled. It felt reckless. Dramatic. Like stepping into a moment you knew would leave a mark.

They pulled up outside a bar that glowed red and gold against the dark—vintage sign flickering, laughter spilling out onto the sidewalk. Inside, it was loud and warm and alive. People packed the floor, bodies moving together in messy, joyous chaos. No one here knew her. No one cared about dresses or rings or expectations.

Bakugou ordered drinks without asking, slid one toward her like he’d already decided she’d trust him.

She did.

The music shook the walls. Someone shouted the lyrics, off-key and unashamed. Ochaco found herself laughing—really laughing—for the first time all night.

Bakugou watched her like it mattered.

“Dance,” he said, not asking.

She shook her head. “I don’t—”

He took her hand.

That was it. That was all it took.

They disappeared into the crowd, the world narrowing to movement and sound and the feel of his hand steady at her back. Ochaco let herself be loud, let herself be uncareful. The song hit its chorus and the room erupted, and she felt—just for a moment—like she wasn’t the girl who held everything together.

She was just a girl in a bar, laughing too hard, heart racing, alive.

When the song faded, they didn’t pull apart.

They stood there, breathing the same air.

Bakugou’s voice was rough when he spoke. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I am now.”

They left sometime after midnight, the city quieter, edges softened. Back at his place, they kicked off shoes, collapsed onto the couch, laughter dissolving into something slower.

Softer.

Bakugou brushed a strand of hair from her face with surprising gentleness. “You don’t have to explain anything,” he said. “You don’t owe me a story.”

Ochaco swallowed. “I know.”

They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to.

When they finally disappeared into the bedroom, the world narrowed again—not to noise this time, but to closeness. Warmth. The kind of quiet that felt earned.

Ochaco fell asleep with her forehead against his shoulder, thinking—foolishly—that maybe this was what it felt like to be chosen.

Morning light was unforgiving.

Ochaco woke first, blinking against the brightness, disoriented by unfamiliar walls and the steady weight of Bakugou’s arm across her waist. For a moment, she let herself stay there, listening to his breathing, cataloging the way the night still hummed under her skin.

Then her phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

She carefully slipped out from under his arm and padded into the living room, grabbing her phone off the coffee table.

Mina’s name lit up her screen.

Mina: OCHACO
Mina: PLEASE tell me you haven’t opened your phone yet
Mina: I’m calling you right now

Her stomach dropped.

“Ochaco?” Mina’s voice came through tight, worried. “Did you see it?”

“See what?” Ochaco asked, heart pounding.

There was a pause. Then—quietly—“The article.”

Ochaco opened her browser with shaking fingers.

The headline hit her like a slap.

Not thoughtful. Not compassionate.

Snarky. Flashy. Cruel in that polished, public way that made humiliation feel official.

Photos—old ones, cropped without context. A list. Twenty-seven dresses reduced to a punchline. Jokes wrapped in commentary, her kindness twisted into something pathetic. The ending framed her like a warning instead of a person.

Her chest went cold.

“Ochaco,” Mina said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

She couldn’t breathe.

She scrolled, numb, until she saw his byline.

Bakugou Katsuki.

Her vision blurred.

She didn’t hear him wake up. Didn’t hear him step into the doorway.

“Ochaco,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

She turned slowly.

The look on her face made him freeze.

“You published it,” she said.

Bakugou frowned, confused. “What? No—I showed you the draft—”

“Not that one,” she whispered. “You published this.”

He crossed the room in two strides, grabbed his phone, scrolled—and swore viciously.

“That’s not—” He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s an earlier version. It wasn’t supposed to go live. I didn’t authorize—”

She shook her head, backing away. “You let them see me like that.”

“No,” he said urgently. “Ochaco, listen to me—”

“You promised,” she said, voice cracking. “You said you wouldn’t treat me like a punchline.”

“I didn’t,” he insisted. “I swear to you—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she cut in. “It’s out there. Everyone’s going to read it. My sister. Izuku. The whole office.”

She grabbed her bag, hands shaking.

“Wait,” Bakugou said, reaching for her. “Don’t leave like this.”

She stepped back before he could touch her.

“I can’t be here,” she said. “I can’t even look at you right now.”

“Ochaco—”

“I have a dress fitting,” she added hollowly. “For Tsuyu.”

That landed like a final blow.

She walked out before he could say anything else.

The bridal shop smelled like fabric and perfume and quiet excitement.

Tsuyu stood on the pedestal in a half-zipped gown, calm as ever, while the seamstress pinned and adjusted. Ochaco sat on the couch with her hands folded in her lap, nodding at the right moments, smiling when expected.

Her phone buzzed nonstop in her bag.

She didn’t check it.

She didn’t look at Bakugou’s name lighting up the screen.

She focused on the dress.

On Tsuyu’s reflection.

On being useful.

But for the first time, it felt different.

Like something essential had cracked.

And no amount of perfect tailoring could stitch it back together.

Ochaco found out about the dress on a Tuesday afternoon.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. No yelling. No shattered glass. Just Tsuyu’s voice—calm, measured, unaware of the way every word landed like a blade.

They were at their mother’s house, standing in the spare bedroom that had slowly turned into a shrine of stored memories. Boxes labeled in careful handwriting. Old photo albums. A garment bag hanging in the corner, pale fabric just visible through the plastic.

Or what used to be pale fabric.

Tsuyu stood by the bed, arms crossed, watching Ochaco’s face with quiet expectation. “I meant to tell you earlier,” she said. “But things have been busy.”

Ochaco frowned, already uneasy. “Tell me what?”

Tsuyu gestured toward the bed.

The dress was spread out—pieces of it, really. Lace panels separated. The skirt shortened, reshaped. Sleeves removed entirely. What had once been their mother’s wedding dress—kept pristine for decades, promised in half-joking conversations to Ochaco since she was a teenager—had been completely altered.

Cut up.

Reclaimed.

“Oh,” Ochaco breathed.

She stepped closer, fingers hovering just above the fabric, not touching. Like she was afraid it might disappear if she did. “What… what happened?”

Tsuyu tilted her head. “I had it tailored.”

Ochaco laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “Tailored?”

“I needed material,” Tsuyu said evenly. “Vintage lace is expensive, and this was just sitting here.”

Ochaco’s chest felt hollow. “Mom said—”

“She said maybe,” Tsuyu interrupted. “And she said it years ago. You never actually planned anything.”

Ochaco turned to look at her. Really look.

“You knew,” she said quietly.

Tsuyu’s eyes didn’t waver. “Knew what?”

“That I wanted this,” Ochaco said. “The dress. The venue. The whole—” Her voice cracked despite her effort. “You knew.”

Tsuyu exhaled, almost impatient. “Ochaco, you’re not getting married.”

The words hung there.

Cold. Final.

“I mean,” Tsuyu continued, softer but no less dismissive, “not anytime soon. And Izuku and I needed to move forward. It didn’t make sense to wait for a hypothetical.”

Ochaco’s hands curled into fists. “You didn’t even ask.”

“There was no point,” Tsuyu replied. “You always say yes to everything anyway.”

That—that was the thing that broke her.

Ochaco stared at her sister, heart pounding so loudly she could hear it in her ears. “You didn’t think I’d mind.”

Tsuyu hesitated. Just for a second.

Then she said, “I thought you’d understand.”

Ochaco laughed again, this time shaky. “You took Mom’s dress.”

“Yes.”

“You booked my venue,” Ochaco pressed, the words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “The one I showed you pictures of when I was sixteen. The one I said I’d want someday.”

Tsuyu shrugged. “It was available.”

Something inside Ochaco snapped cleanly in two.

She backed away, nodding slowly. “Right,” she whispered. “Of course.”

She didn’t yell.

She didn’t cry.

She just turned and walked out of the house, leaving the door open behind her.

The rehearsal dinner was supposed to be intimate.

Warm lighting. Long tables. Soft music. Izuku’s parents beaming. Tsuyu’s calm smile practiced and perfect. Everyone talking about centerpieces and seating charts like the future was already settled.

Ochaco sat near the end of the table, hands folded tightly in her lap, every muscle in her body buzzing.

She hadn’t planned to say anything.

She’d told herself she would get through one more night. Smile. Toast. Disappear quietly afterward.

But then Tsuyu stood.

She tapped her glass lightly. “I just want to thank everyone,” she said. “Especially Ochaco. She’s been incredible—helping with everything, as always.”

Eyes turned toward her.

Ochaco felt heat rush to her face.

Tsuyu continued, voice calm and sincere. “I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

That familiar phrase.

That familiar cage.

Something in Ochaco rose up—hot, sharp, unstoppable.

She stood.

The chair scraped loudly against the floor.

Tsuyu faltered. “Ochaco?”

Ochaco smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “For everything.”

The room went quiet.

Izuku looked confused. Concerned. “Ochaco…?”

She took a breath.

“I helped because I love you,” she said, looking straight at him now. “I always have.”

A collective inhale swept the table.

Tsuyu’s expression froze.

“I told myself it didn’t matter,” Ochaco continued, voice shaking but strong. “That being useful was enough. That watching you choose someone else was fine.”

Izuku stood abruptly. “Wait—”

“But it’s not fine,” she said. “Not when the truth keeps getting buried so other people can stay comfortable.”

Tsuyu finally spoke, sharp now. “Ochaco, stop. This isn’t the time—”

“Oh, it is,” Ochaco snapped, turning to her. “You let him believe you just happened into this life. That you didn’t take things that were never yours to take.”

Tsuyu’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not fair.”

“You cut up Mom’s wedding dress,” Ochaco said clearly. “The one she promised me. You took my venue. You took my silence and called it permission.”

Gasps rippled through the room.

Izuku looked between them, stunned. “Tsuyu… is that true?”

Tsuyu hesitated.

Just long enough.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” she said finally. “Ochaco never—”

“Because I never fight,” Ochaco finished bitterly. “Because I always step aside.”

She turned back to Izuku, tears finally spilling. “And you,” she said softly. “You never saw it. Because I never made you.”

Izuku’s face went pale.

“Ochaco,” he whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She laughed through tears. “Because I didn’t think you’d choose me.”

Silence crashed down around them.

Izuku’s hands trembled. “You… you’re in love with me?”

She nodded once. “Yes.”

The word felt like relief and ruin all at once.

Izuku closed his eyes.

When he opened them, his voice was hoarse. “I think… I think I always knew. I just didn’t want to look too closely.”

Tsuyu stared at him. “Izuku.”

He turned to her, something fractured in his expression. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie,” Tsuyu insisted. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”

Izuku shook his head slowly. “That’s still a lie.”

Ochaco grabbed her bag, heart pounding. She couldn’t stay for the fallout. Couldn’t watch the future she’d held together finally collapse.

“I’m done,” she said quietly. “I won’t make myself small anymore.”

She walked out of the rehearsal dinner with her head high, tears blurring the world but her steps steady.

Outside, the night air hit her like freedom.

And for the first time, Ochaco Uraraka didn’t turn back

Ochaco barely made it to the sidewalk before she heard footsteps behind her.

“Ochaco—wait!”

Izuku’s voice cracked in a way she’d never heard before.

She stopped, hands shaking, breath coming too fast. She told herself it was only fair—after everything, he deserved words, deserved closure. She turned just as he reached her, chest heaving, eyes wild with something like panic.

“I didn’t know,” he said immediately. “I swear I didn’t. If I had—”

“Izuku,” she said softly. “Please don’t.”

“I need to say this,” he insisted, stepping closer. “I think I’ve been lying to myself. About us. About you. You were always there, and I—”

Before she could stop him, before she could finish the thought forming in her chest, Izuku leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t rough.

It wasn’t wrong in the way people warned you about.

It was gentle. Familiar. Careful.

And that’s how she knew.

Ochaco pulled back, breath catching, hands pressing lightly against his chest.

“No,” she whispered.

Izuku froze. “Ochaco?”

Her eyes burned. “I loved you,” she admitted. “For a long time. And part of me thought this was what I wanted. That if you just saw me—”

“Then let me choose you,” he said desperately.

She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “You are choosing me now because everything else fell apart.”

Izuku went still.

“And that hurts,” she continued, voice trembling but firm. “But that’s not even the reason.”

“Then what is?” he asked quietly.

Ochaco swallowed.

“Because when you kissed me,” she said, “I was thinking about someone else.”

Understanding dawned slowly, painfully.

“…Bakugou,” Izuku said.

She nodded.

“I don’t know when it happened,” Ochaco admitted. “But he sees me when I’m not useful. When I’m messy. When I’m angry. And he didn’t fall in love with the version of me that fixes everything—he fell in love with me.”

Izuku closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t be your almost anymore.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then he stepped back, grief written openly across his face.

“I hope,” he said quietly, “he knows how lucky he is.”

Ochaco hesitated, then said honestly, “I don’t think he does.”

And that scared her.

She turned and ran.

The wedding was already in full swing when she arrived.

Who's? She wouldn't know.

Music thundered through the venue. Lights spilled out into the night. Laughter echoed across the lawn. Ochaco didn’t stop to think about how she must look—dress wrinkled, hair falling loose, eyes red. She pushed through the doors like she belonged there, heart pounding.

People stared.

She didn’t care.

She scanned the room wildly until she saw him near the bar, jaw tight, shoulders tense, nursing a drink like it had personally offended him.

Bakugou Katsuki looked miserable.

Relief hit her so hard she almost laughed.

She crossed the room quickly, ignoring whispers, ignoring the way heads turned. When she reached him, she didn’t slow down—just grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him toward her.

“Hey—what the hell—” Bakugou started.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out.

He stopped.

“For running,” she continued, words tumbling over each other. “For assuming the worst. For not listening. I was scared and hurt and I didn’t know how to stay.”

Bakugou stared at her like she’d just detonated something in his chest. “You think I didn’t come after you because I didn’t want to?” he snapped. “I was trying to fix it. The article. Everything. I swear to you, that wasn’t the version I approved.”

“I know,” she said quickly. “I know that now. Izuku told me. Mina told me. And I should’ve trusted you.”

His jaw flexed. “Then why are you here?”

Ochaco’s hands tightened in his jacket. “Because I kissed him.”

Bakugou went rigid.

“And I pulled away,” she added immediately, voice shaking. “Because it wasn’t right. Because all I could think about was you. Because I don’t want the safe love or the familiar love—I want the one that scares me a little. The one where I don’t disappear.”

The music swelled behind them. Someone shouted a toast. Glasses clinked.

Bakugou stared at her like he was trying to decide whether to yell or kiss her.

“You’re an idiot,” he said finally, voice rough.

She let out a watery laugh. “I know.”

He stepped closer, forehead nearly touching hers. “You ever do that again—run without letting me explain—I’ll lose my mind.”

She nodded. “Fair.”

Bakugou exhaled, slow and shaky, then pulled her into him—hard, real, undeniable. Ochaco clung to him like she’d been waiting for permission her whole life.

“I choose you,” she whispered into his shoulder.

Bakugou’s voice was low against her ear. “Good. Because I already chose you. You just took a while to notice.”

Somewhere behind them, the band hit a chorus.

Ochaco didn’t hear it.

For the first time, she wasn’t standing on the sidelines of someone else’s happiness.

She was right in the middle of her own.

Ochaco woke up before the sun.

Not because she was nervous—though there was that—but because her room was already full of soft noise. Breathing. Fabric rustling. Someone whisper-laughing over spilled coffee. The low, steady hum of a morning that had been waiting a long time to arrive.

She sat up slowly, silk sheets sliding down her arms, and for a moment she just felt it.

This day was hers.

Not borrowed. Not held together for someone else. Not a role she stepped into because she was good at disappearing.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Bakugou: You awake?

She smiled immediately.

Ochaco: Yes.

Three dots. Gone. Back again.

Bakugou: Good. Because if you back out now I’m crashing this whole thing.

She laughed quietly, pressing the phone to her chest.

Ochaco: You won’t.

Bakugou: Damn right.

A knock sounded at the door before she could reply.

“Ochaco?” Mina’s voice. “You decent or are we about to see something we can’t unsee?”

“I’m decent,” Ochaco called, still smiling.

The door opened—and suddenly the room filled completely.

Twenty-seven women.

Twenty-seven voices, overlapping and laughing and gasping and crying all at once.

For a second, Ochaco just stared.

Hana was there, glowing, the very first bride she’d ever stood beside. The college roommate who’d cried into her shoulder before saying vows. Cousins. Friends. Coworkers. Women whose dresses she’d zipped, whose hands she’d held, whose weddings she’d saved in quiet, invisible ways.

All of them wearing soft white and cream and blush—each dress different, each woman unmistakably herself.

Twenty-seven bridesmaids.

“Oh,” Ochaco breathed.

Hana stepped forward first, eyes already shiny. “You didn’t think we’d miss this, did you?”

Mina grinned from behind her. “You’ve literally carried half of us down the aisle emotionally. It was kind of a given.”

Ochaco pressed a hand to her mouth, overwhelmed. “I—I didn’t ask for this.”

Hana smiled gently. “Exactly.”

Someone handed her a bouquet—simple, elegant, perfect. Someone else adjusted her veil. Fingers brushed her arms, grounding her in the moment.

For once, she wasn’t fixing anything.

She was being held.

Bakugou stood at the end of the aisle, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight.

Kirishima leaned over. “You okay, man?”

Bakugou didn’t look away. “I’ve fought villains with less nerve damage than this.”

Kirishima laughed. “You’re doing great.”

“I better be,” Bakugou muttered. “She chose me.”

The music shifted.

A hush fell over the space.

Bakugou’s chest tightened as the doors opened.

Ochaco stepped into the light.

Not in chiffon. Not in pastel. Not blending into the background.

White.

Clean lines. Soft fabric that moved when she did, like it was made for her and no one else. Her hair framed her face simply, her smile real and unguarded.

And behind her—

Twenty-seven bridesmaids.

Bakugou’s breath left him in a rush.

She walked toward him without hesitation, eyes locked on his, like she’d never walked toward anything so surely in her life.

When she reached him, he took her hands immediately, like he was afraid she might vanish.

“You look,” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. “You look unreal.”

Ochaco laughed softly. “You clean up okay yourself.”

He huffed. “High praise.”

The ceremony blurred in the best way.

Words about choice. About partnership. About not being the same—but choosing each other anyway. When it came time for vows, Bakugou didn’t fumble. He didn’t shout. He didn’t joke.

He spoke like a man who knew exactly what he was saying.

“You spent years making sure everyone else felt loved,” he said, voice rough but steady. “So this is me saying—you don’t have to earn it anymore. I choose you. Every day. Even when you’re mad. Even when you run. Especially then.”

Ochaco’s eyes overflowed.

When it was her turn, she didn’t look at the crowd. She didn’t look at the dresses behind her.

She looked only at him.

“I thought love meant being useful,” she said softly. “I thought if I held everything together, maybe I’d deserve to stay. But you didn’t fall in love with the girl who fixes things. You fell in love with the girl who breaks sometimes.”

Bakugou squeezed her hands.

“And you stayed,” she finished. “So I choose you. Not because you need me—but because I want you.”

When they kissed, it wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t careful.

It was certain.

The room erupted.

Cheers. Tears. Laughter.

Twenty-seven bridesmaids rushed forward, surrounding her in joy instead of obligation, lifting her into the air like she’d done for them so many times before.

Later—much later—when the night softened into dancing and warm lights and music that felt like memory, Ochaco stood at the edge of the floor, watching her friends laugh.

Bakugou slid in beside her, arm wrapping around her waist.

“You happy?” he asked quietly.

She leaned into him, finally, completely. “I am.”

He kissed her temple. “Good.”

Ochaco looked at the dresses—white this time, all of them—and smiled.

Twenty-seven times she’d stood beside someone else’s forever.

This time, they stood beside hers.

And she didn’t disappear at all.