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The rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the agency dorms like shrapnel in a war that refused to end. It was 2:17 AM—well past the point where any of them should still be awake, but sleep felt like a distant luxury after the villain raid. The air in the common room hung thick with the scent of damp hero gear, ozone from residual quirks, and the faint, sharp tang of alcohol someone had dragged out from the back of the kitchen cabinets.
Shoto Todoroki sat on the floor with his back against the base of the oversized sectional sofa, legs stretched out in front of him. He stared blankly at the rain-streaked glass. He rarely drank. The burn of liquor always felt too unpredictable, too much like the uncontrolled fire his father had forced into his veins as a child. Tonight, though, after pulling civilians from collapsing structures and watching the secondary explosion light up the sky like a second sun, the bottle of whiskey had seemed like the only thing capable of dulling the copper taste of adrenaline still lingering in his throat. He’d taken only small, measured sips, but even that was unusual for him. The warmth spreading through his left side felt foreign, loosening muscles he hadn’t realized were locked tight.
Across the room, Katsuki Bakugo sprawled in an armchair like he owned it, one leg hooked over the armrest, a glass of something much stronger dangling from his fingers. His crimson eyes were fixed on the ceiling, jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped. The explosion hero looked every bit the top-tier pro he was, scars from old battles visible on his forearms, ash-blond hair still slightly singed at the tips, but the exhaustion carved deep lines around his mouth. Bakugo had always been a rage incarnate, a force of nature that burned brighter the more the world tried to break him. Tonight, that fire was banked low, simmering under layers of frustration at a mission that had gone “well enough” but not perfectly.
Near the kitchen counter, Mina Ashido leaned heavily on her elbows, pink skin flushed deeper than usual from the sake she was nursing. Her hair was tied back messily, and her fingers trembled just slightly against the ceramic mug she’d switched to after her second glass. The former queen of the class still carried that vibrant energy, but years of pro work had tempered it into something more resilient—and more weary. “We’re getting too old for this shit,” she muttered, voice lighter than the mood deserved.
Beside her, Eijiro Kirishima sat on a barstool, his red hair spiked even after the long night, though it lacked its usual sharpness. The sturdy hero had a half-empty beer in hand, his broad shoulders slumped. Kirishima had always been the rock, unbreakable, optimistic, the one who hardened up and charged forward when others faltered. Tonight, he even looked cracked. “Man, when that warehouse collapsed… I thought my hardening wasn’t gonna cut it for a second there.”
Denki Kaminari was sprawled on the opposite end of the sectional, legs dangling over the arm, idly twirling a small spark between his fingers. The electric hero’s usual goofy grin was absent, replaced by a tired, lopsided smirk. “Yeah, and I almost short-circuited the whole comms system trying to jam that villain’s tech. Not my finest moment.” He reached for the bottle on the coffee table and topped off his drink with a little too much enthusiasm.
Kyoka Jiro sat cross-legged on the floor near the windows, earjacks plugged loosely into her phone as soft, melancholic music played low. She was the quiet observer, always listening—both literally and figuratively. Her dark eyes flicked between her friends with a mixture of concern and shared fatigue.
And then there was Momo Yaoyorozu.
She sat a careful few feet from Shoto on the floor, knees pulled tightly to her chest beneath an oversized agency hoodie that dwarfed her elegant frame. Her long, dark hair, usually so meticulously styled, fell in damp, tangled waves over her shoulders. A glass of sake rested in her lap, barely touched until the silence had stretched too thin. Momo had always been the creation hero, the one with the plan, the solution, the perfect answer born from a brilliant mind. Raised in privilege and expectation, she carried the weight of perfection like armor. Tonight, that armor was fracturing.
The group had been trading war stories and half-hearted jokes for the better part of an hour, the alcohol acting as both balm and blade. Shoto listened more than he spoke, his quiet nature amplified by the rare buzz in his system. He wasn’t drunk—not really—but the whiskey had softened the edges of his usual stoicism, making the world feel a little less sharp, a little more dangerous.
“You okay over there, Todoroki?” Kirishima asked, voice warm but probing. He’d always been good at checking in, never pushing too hard but never letting a friend suffer alone.
Shoto gave a small nod. “Fine.” His voice was lower than usual, roughened by the drink and the night. He took another small sip, grimacing slightly at the taste. “I don’t usually… do this.”
Mina let out a soft laugh. “We noticed. Mr. Iced Coffee only. Kinda nice to see you loosening up, though. You carried that perimeter like a beast.”
Bakugo grunted in what might have been an agreement. “Half-and-half didn’t blow up the wrong building, at least.”
The conversation drifted—memories of UA days, the war that had forged them, the slow climb to pro status. Shoto’s gaze kept drifting to Momo. She hadn’t spoken much, just small contributions here and there, her usual melodic voice frayed at the edges. He remembered her at UA: poised, intelligent, creating massive shields or intricate tools with nothing but her quirk and sheer will. She had grown into an even more formidable woman—strategic leader, mentor to younger heroes, the one everyone turned to when plans needed to be flawless. But Shoto saw the cost. The way her shoulders carried invisible burdens. The way her dark eyes, so sharp in battle, dulled with self-doubt afterward.
One by one, the others began to peel off. Bakugo was first, shoving out of his chair with a muttered curse about “useless extras needing sleep.” Kirishima clapped him on the shoulder and followed, ever the loyal friend. Mina hugged Momo quickly, whispering something that made her lips twitch in a ghost of a smile, then headed off with Jiro. Denki lingered longest, making a few more weak jokes before yawning dramatically and stumbling toward the rooms.
The common room emptied until only Shoto and Momo remained.
The silence settled like a heavy blanket, broken only by the relentless rain. Shoto shifted slightly, his left side radiating gentle warmth that contrasted the cool draft from the windows. He wasn’t used to this—the alcohol made his thoughts slower, heavier, more insistent. He glanced at Momo again. She was staring at that small, jagged crack in the floorboards as if it represented every miscalculation tonight.
“You’re doing it again,” Shoto said softly after several long minutes. The words felt weighted, like they carried more than their surface meaning.
Momo didn’t look up immediately, but her fingers tightened around her glass. “Doing what, Todoroki?”
“Overanalyzing. Carrying the weight alone.” He paused, choosing his words carefully even as the whiskey encouraged otherwise. “The mission ended. Casualties were minimized. Your calculations saved lives.”
“Minimized isn’t zero,” she replied, voice thin and frayed. She finally lifted her sake and took a longer drink than before, cheeks flushing a soft pink. The alcohol was hitting her harder than she let on. Momo rarely indulged either, preferring control in all things. “I spent twenty minutes on those molecular densities for the braces. Two seconds faster and maybe—”
“If you’d been two seconds faster, the blast radius would have taken you,” Shoto interrupted gently, echoing Bakugo’s earlier bluntness but without the bite. He set his own glass down, the clink loud in the quiet room. “I saw the explosion from the perimeter. You timed it perfectly with what you had.”
Momo turned her head then, dark eyes meeting his. There was raw vulnerability there—something she never showed the public, the press, or even most of their friends. “Sometimes I look at my hands and see only the failures, Shoto. All the things I couldn’t create in time. I’m supposed to be the one with solutions. But every alarm… I’m terrified my mind will go blank. That I’ll let everyone down.”
The use of his given name from her lips sent a quiet jolt through him. Shoto had spent years watching her—first as classmates, then comrades, now respected pros. He admired her intellect, her grace under pressure, the quiet strength that hid his deep insecurities. His own childhood had left him emotionally reserved, a man of few words and carefully measured feelings. Love, or anything resembling it, had always seemed like a complication he couldn’t afford. Until her.
The tension between them had been building for years: stolen glances during joint missions, late-night strategy sessions where their hands brushed over maps, the way his fire instinctively warmed her when she pushed her creation quirk too far. Neither had ever crossed the line. Heroes couldn’t afford distractions. But tonight, with the rain isolating them and alcohol loosening tongues, the line felt dangerously close.
Shoto moved a fraction closer, his knee nearly touching hers. “You’ve never been allowed to fail, have you?” he asked, voice low. The whiskey made his usual monotone richer, more intimate.
Momo let out a weak, self-deprecating laugh, pulling her sleeves over her hands. “None of us have. Failure means death. That’s the bargain we all signed.” She refilled her glass with slightly unsteady hands, the bottle clinking against the rim. “You don’t drink often. I’m surprised you’re still here.”
“I don’t,” he admitted, a rare, faint smile ghosting his lips. “It feels… uncontrolled. Like my father’s training all over again. But tonight I needed something to quiet the noise.” His eyes traced her profile—the elegant curve of her neck, the way damp strands of hair clung to her skin. “Every silent comms channel tonight… I wasn’t just thinking about the mission.”
Momo’s breath caught. She set the glass down carefully, turning more fully toward him. The space between them felt charged, like the air before a storm. “Todoroki?”
“I was thinking about you,” he said slowly, the confession dragged out by hesitation and the weight of years. The alcohol helped the words come, but they still emerged carefully, deliberately. “I’ve thought about you during every mission since graduation. The rankings, the public duty… they don’t scare me the way losing you does. The idea of arriving too late, of seeing you in the rubble because I held back—”
“Shoto, stop.” Her voice was a whisper, but it trembled with something deeper than fear—longing, perhaps, mixed with anguish. She leaned forward slightly, the hoodie slipping off one shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone. The tension coiled tighter, electric and unbearable. Their faces were inches apart now, breaths mingling with the faint scent of whiskey and sake. Shoto’s hand finally closed the distance, fingers brushing her cheek with a gentleness that belied the storm inside him. Her skin was warm, flushed from drink and emotion.
For a heartbeat, they hovered there—eyes locked, hearts pounding in sync with the rain. Then Momo closed the gap.
Her lips met his in a kiss that started hesitant, almost questioning, as if she were still afraid this might shatter everything. But the moment he responded, tilting his head to deepen it, the dam broke. It was slow at first, soft presses filled with years of unspoken yearning. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer as if afraid he’d vanish. Shoto’s right hand cupped the back of her neck, cool and steady, while his left rested at her waist, radiating that familiar, comforting warmth. The contrast made her shiver against him.
The kiss grew more urgent, laced with desperation and romance that had been buried too long. Tongues brushed tentatively, tasting the shared alcohol and the salt of unshed tears. It wasn’t perfect—messy from drink and exhaustion—but it was raw and real. Every brush of lips carried the weight of stolen glances, near-misses on battlefields, and quiet nights wondering “what if.” Shoto poured into it everything he’d held back: the quiet admiration, the protective ache, the love he’d never named aloud until tonight.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, foreheads still pressed together, the tension remained thick as ever. Shoto’s head spun—dizzy from the kiss, the whiskey, and the overwhelming rush of finally touching her.
“Momo…” he murmured, voice hoarse, pulling back just enough to search her eyes. Her hands stayed gripping his shirt, knuckles white.
She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, body trembling. “Shoto… it’s too hard to be brave every day,” she whispered brokenly, voice cracking with fresh tears. “If I let myself believe this, and then something happens to you if I lose you because I was distracted by how much I’ve wanted this…”
His arms wrapped around her then, right side cool and steady, left radiating gentle warmth. He rested his chin on her head, breathing her in, the scent of her hair, the faint sake on her breath, the way she fit against him like she was made to be there. “You don’t have to be brave tonight. Just stay. Breathe with me.”
They remained like that for a long time—slow, tentative, tangled in each other on the common room floor. Soft kisses were exchanged in the quiet moments between words: gentle presses to her temple, her knuckles brushing his jaw, whispered confessions of “I’ve loved you for so long” and “I was scared too.” The rain continued its assault outside, mirroring the storm inside them both, but for these stolen hours, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
---
Shoto woke to pale gray morning light filtering through the windows, the rain reduced to a soft patter. His neck ached from the awkward position on the floor, and a dull headache throbbed behind his eyes—a reminder of the whiskey he so rarely touched. The common room was empty except for the scattered glasses and bottles. Momo was gone.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face, the memory of the kiss and her warmth flooding back with vivid intensity. The hoodie she’d been wearing was draped over his shoulders now, a silent gesture he hadn’t noticed in the night. His chest tightened with a mix of warmth and lingering angst. Had she regretted it? The alcohol, the vulnerability—had it been too much?
He looked at his phone on the coffee table. A message from Momo, sent just twenty minutes ago:
*Early patrol shift. Couldn’t sleep after… everything. Meet me tonight? Rooftop garden at the agency, 8 PM. We should talk. Properly. — Momo*
Shoto stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering. A small, rare smile touched his lips despite the uncertainty. This wasn’t over, it had only just begun. He typed back simply:
*I’ll be there.*
Outside, the city stirred under clearing skies. Whatever came next—clarity, regret, or something deeper—they would face it together.