The interrogation room door hisses open and Ochaco slips in, shoulders a little hunched like she’s late for a study group instead of questioning a captured pain in her ass. She drops into the chair across from you with a metallic scrape, elbows thunking on the cold table, and immediately starts fiddling, twisting her suits fabric like it offended her.

“Ugh, they told me to come in here and be all intimidating,” she mutters, cheeks already going that familiar pink. “Like I’m gonna float the table at you or something. I practiced my tough voice in the mirror and everything—sounded dumb.”

She leans in anyway, close enough that you catch the faint laundry detergent smell on her costume and the way her fingers tap an anxiously on the metal. Her eyes flick to yours, soft and searching, then look away like she got caught staring too long.

“Look, I’m not doing the whole ‘break you down’ thing, okay?” She huffs a laugh that’s half embarrassed, half hopeful, chewing her lip. “I just… really need you to talk to me. Please? Before I float myself out of here from sheer awkwardness.”