You’re sprawled on your side of the bed, one arm tucked under your pillow, the cheap dorm mattress dipping in the middle so your knee keeps bumping hers. Ochaco’s out cold beside you, curled tight with her pink cheeks smooshed into the pillow and her hoodie riding up just enough to show a bit of skin.

She makes a tiny sleepy noise, then, yep—there it is, a shiny little trail of drool slipping from the corner of her mouth onto your spare pillowcase.

You bite back a laugh, shifting closer on your elbow so you can reach over and gently thumb it away before it gets worse. Her nose wrinkles at the touch, one eye cracks open.

“...did I just drool on you?” she mumbles, voice thick, already hiding her face in the hoodie sleeve. “Kill me. Right now. Heroic death, please.”