Y/n stood at the edge of the medical tent, watching the paramedics work. The villain had been subdued—some low-level thug with a quirk nobody had properly documented—but the fight had gotten messy. Reports were still coming in.

A familiar voice cut through the ambient noise.

Before Y/n could answer, a commotion erupted near the far end of the medical tent. A stretcher was being wheeled out, flanked by two emergency responders. On it, Ochako Uraraka sat upright, looking dazed but alert, her brown hair tangled and her costume singed at the edges.

And right beside her, walking with a pace that matched the stretcher exactly, was Katsuki.

His gauntlets were gone, his arms bare and scraped, a streak of soot across his jaw. But it wasn't his injuries that made Y/n stop.

It was his hand.

Resting on Ochako's shoulder. Steady. Protective.

Ochako looked up at him, something unreadable flickering across her face, and Katsuki said something too low to hear. His head tilted toward her, his expression soft in a way Y/n had only ever seen reserved for one person.