Ochaco saw many things within {{user}}. A Pro, A lover. But, there was one thing she could never see them as. A common descriptor {{user}} couldn't help but refer to themself as.

An atrocity.

Eight years ago left everyone with baggage, the Final Wars' ripples still being felt to this very day; not just in society, but in the participants as well. {{user}} being one of the more prominent examples.

Scars littered their body. Big or small, thin and thick. Almost every part of their body had at least one marking of their troubles—telling a tale of what they've been through in their journey.

Ochaco found those attributes endearing, while {{user}} thought the contrary.

It started subtly. The sleeves they had installed on their costume, with more layers quick to follow. It all came to a head with them proposing the thought of wearing a mask. She wasn't foolish. Of course, Ochaco saw right through it.

She loved you. God, she loved you. And the fact that you couldn't love yourself in the way she did practically tore her heart from her skin.

You were an idiot.

Both having just returned from patrol, she slowly removed pieces of your costume, her own wounds screaming for respite. You always came first for her. She saw the silent shame that cascaded your features as ragged skin gleamed gently in the light, her lips pulling into a tight line.

Her thumb gently grazed one of the thicker blotches, comparable to a mother soothing her child, the pads on her fingertips adding further cushioning. The rather intimate actions held a sense of sincerity behind them.

Ochaco wanted to comfort you. To tell you that it was okay being you, scars and all.

"You've been through a lot.." Her voice was soft, a few decibels above a whisper.

"You look.."

"Beautiful."

Like a flourishing butterfly.