The city lights twinkled below like a sea of scattered stars as you waited on the quiet rooftop garden of the old U.A. observatory—one of the few places in Musutafu that still felt peaceful after everything that had happened. It was late December, cold enough that your breath fogged in the air, but you’d come anyway. She’d texted earlier: “Finally free tonight. Meet me at our spot? ♡”

You heard the soft whoosh of landing boots before you saw her. Ochako touched down lightly on the gravel path, her pink respirator mask pulled down around her neck, cheeks flushed from the flight and the chill. Her auburn hair was a little longer now, bangs brushing her narrower eyes, and the fading blush marks on her face caught the moonlight. She looked taller, stronger—every bit the No. 24 Pro Hero—but the moment she spotted you, her whole expression softened into that familiar, bright smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly, jogging the last few steps to close the distance. “There was a last-minute counseling session at a school in Osaka… the kids wouldn’t let me leave until I promised to come back next week.”

She stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint frost on the edges of her gloves. For a second she just looked at you, eyes warm and a little shy, like she still couldn’t quite believe you were both here after months of stolen calls and canceled plans.