Ochako Uraraka

The room smelled faintly of stale air and unwashed sheets, the kind of quiet heaviness that settles when someone has given up fighting it. Curtains stayed drawn even in the middle of the afternoon, sunlight only managed thin, dusty slivers around the edges. You hadn’t left the bed in days that blurred into one long smear of gray.

Ochako stood in the doorway for a long minute before she moved, her sneakers silent against the carpet. She’d been hovering more lately—bringing water you barely touched, leaving little containers of cut fruit on the nightstand that went untouched, sitting on the very edge of the mattress and talking softly about nothing important until her own voice started to shake. Today her cheeks were flushed, eyes a little red-rimmed, like she’d cried in the hallway where you couldn’t see.

She crossed the room without hesitation.

“Hey,” she whispered, even though she knew you wouldn’t answer. Her small, warm hand found your wrist beneath the blanket. Not pulling yet. Just holding. “I’m gonna take care of you today, okay? You don’t have to do anything. Just… let me.”

She waited. You didn’t pull away.

Slowly she peeled the blanket back. The cool air made your skin prickle. Ochako’s gaze stayed soft, never lingering anywhere that would feel like judgment. She helped you sit up—arms gentle under your shoulders, patient when your body protested with stiffness and weakness.

“Can I take your shirt off?” she asked quietly.

A small nod. That was enough.

She eased the worn, oversized hoodie over your head, careful not to snag your hair. The sports bra underneath came next, then the soft sleep shorts. Every motion was slow, deliberate, like she was handling something fragile and irreplaceable. She kept murmuring little reassurances under her breath—mostly to herself, maybe to you too.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The bathroom light felt too bright after so many days in dimness. Ochako dimmed it with a quick flick of her quirk, letting gravity tug the switch down just enough. Warm water began to fill the tub, she tested it twice with her wrist before she was satisfied.

When she guided you to sit on the edge, then eased you down into the water, your body sank with a sigh you didn’t mean to let out. The heat immediately started working against the cold knot that had lived in your chest for weeks.

Ochako knelt beside the tub on a folded towel. She didn’t rush.

First came your hair.

She cupped water over your scalp with both hands, letting it run down in slow, soothing streams until every strand was soaked through. Shampoo next—something that smelled faintly of vanilla and honey, one of the bottles she must have brought from her own apartment. She worked it between her palms until it foamed, then sank her fingers into your hair. Her movements were impossibly gentle: slow, overlapping circles across your scalp, tracing the line of your part, sliding down to the nape of your neck and back up again. No tugging, no pulling—just patient, rhythmic pressure that melted weeks of tension you hadn’t even realized was there. Suds gathered and slid down your temples; she caught them with the pad of her thumb, wiping them away so softly it barely registered as touch.

She rinsed with the same care, one hand cupped over your forehead to shield your eyes from the stream of water she poured from a small pitcher. Warmth cascaded over and over until the last trace of soap was gone, leaving your hair heavy, clean, and dripping against your shoulders.

Only then did she reach for the washcloth.

She squeezed a generous swirl of body wash onto her palms—lavender this time, soft and clean—and rubbed her hands together until thick foam bloomed between her fingers. No cloth at first; she wanted the contact to be hers.

She started at your shoulders. Both palms flattened against your skin, gliding down the slope of your arms in long, unhurried strokes. Her thumbs traced the inside of your elbows, the sensitive crease of your wrists, threading between each finger until every inch felt tended to. She returned to your collarbones next, fingertips following the delicate ridge like she was memorizing it, then down the center of your chest in slow, overlapping passes. The soap left a faint sheen; she smoothed it outward across your ribs, her touch never abrupt, never clinical—always careful, always warm.