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Momo Yaoyorozu liked winter training for the same reason she liked early mornings.
The world was quieter before it remembered it could be loud.
The training field behind U.A. was edged with snow, not deep enough to swallow boots but enough to soften the lines of everything, fences, benches, the base of the viewing platform. The air bit at her lungs in clean, measured breaths. When she exhaled, it fogged and vanished.
Aizawa-sensei stood wrapped in his capture weapon like it was part of his anatomy, eyes half-lidded, voice flat in a way that made the class listen anyway.
“Cold affects reaction time,” he said. “If you can’t adapt, you’ll freeze. Figuratively and literally.”
Kaminari muttered something about frostbite being “so not heroic,” and Kirishima told him to stop whining with the sincerity of someone who would absolutely whine if his hands went numb.
Momo rolled her shoulders, flexed her fingers inside her gloves, and tried to focus on what was in front of her instead of the familiar habit of auditing herself from above.
Am I moving efficiently?
Did I respond too slowly?
Is my breathing too shallow?
Do I look confident?
She hated that last one most. It was the most useless metric and the one she worried about the most.
“Yaoyorozu,” Aizawa said, eyes shifting to her. “You’re up first.”
She swallowed, nodded once, and stepped forward.
The drill was simple in concept and cruel in execution: rapid scenario changes, shifting obstacles, sensory disadvantages. They were working on transition, how quickly their bodies and minds could adjust between one problem and the next.
Momo set her feet, felt the cold ground through her soles, and created a collapsible staff from her forearm. The metal came out warm, a strange contrast against the air.
“Begin,” Aizawa said.
A barrage of foam projectiles came first, low threat, high volume. She moved, staff snapping up, deflecting, repositioning, forcing herself not to overcommit. Then a weighted barrier dropped from above, a simulated ceiling collapse; she created a wedge, levered it, turned the problem into an angle instead of a wall.
Aizawa watched. Everyone watched.
She didn’t let herself look at anyone.
She created a shield, too wide.
Corrected it, too late. She felt the micro mistakes like needles.
A sharp shout cut across the field.
“Left-”
Todoroki’s voice. Calm, clear, not panicked. It hit her like a tap on the shoulder.
She pivoted just in time. Another foam projectile smacked the shield where her cheek had been an instant ago.
She exhaled slowly, steadied, and finished the drill without letting her hands shake.
“Good,” Aizawa said after a beat.
“Better recovery than last time.”
The praise should have warmed her.
Instead, her mind snagged on the fact that Todoroki had noticed her angle before she had.
She stepped back into the line, cheeks stinging with cold and something else that was less logical.
Uraraka leaned toward her, voice a whisper. “You did great.”
Momo smiled, grateful. “Thank you.”
Uraraka’s gaze flicked past her, quick and knowing. “Todoroki helped.”
Momo pretended she didn’t understand what that look meant. “He called out a correction.”
“That’s still helping,” Uraraka said, and wiggled her eyebrows like she was trying to lighten a room that hadn’t been heavy in the first place.
Momo glanced away. “We’re teammates.”
“Mm-hmm,” Uraraka said, like she was filing the words away as evidence.
Momo focused on the next drill.
By the time Aizawa called the session, the field looked like it had been rearranged by a polite storm. Snow was scuffed into gray slush where they’d run. Their breath hung thicker. Gloves came off. People complained. People laughed.
“Inside,” Aizawa said. “You have ten minutes. Then debrief in the common room.”
A collective groan rose like a single organism. Even Iida’s posture wavered.
Momo walked with the group toward the dorm building, feeling the cold cling to her hairline and lashes. She rubbed her hands together, then stopped when she realized she was doing it too fast, as if speed might change temperature.
She was halfway up the steps when she heard him behind her.
“Yaoyorozu.”
She turned.
Todoroki Shoto stood a few feet away, scarf loose around his neck, hair dusted with snow that melted on one side and stubbornly stayed on the other. His expression was neutral as always, which meant it could contain almost anything.
“Yes?” she asked, trying for normal.
“You handled the barrier well,” he said.
Momo blinked. Praise from Todoroki was… not uncommon. But it always felt unusual anyway, because he didn’t give it away like a courtesy. When he spoke, he meant it.
“Thank you,” she said. “Your call-out helped.”
He nodded once, accepting the fact without turning it into a conversation about himself. “You adjusted quickly.”
It was a small thing. A small exchange.
Her chest still felt tight, as if she’d swallowed something warm too quickly.
“I was… lucky,” she said before she could stop herself, and immediately regretted it.
Todoroki’s gaze sharpened, not harshly, just with attention. “It wasn’t luck.”
Momo forced a breath. “It sometimes feels like it. Everyone else seems to move so naturally.”
“Natural is practice,” he said.
There it was again: his bluntness, clean and unsentimental. She found it comforting in a way she didn’t fully understand.
He looked at her for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.
Then he said, quieter, “You tend to discount yourself.”
Momo’s throat tightened. “That’s not-”
“It is,” Todoroki replied, not unkind. Just certain. “You create solutions under pressure. You stabilize the room around you. That’s not something everyone can do.”
Her fingers curled inside her gloves.
She didn’t know what to do with compliments that weren’t framed as encouragement. Those were easy to accept because they were meant to help. Compliments that sounded like observation, like truth, made her feel exposed.
“Thank you,” she said again, because it was the only safe word she had.
Todoroki’s eyes softened, barely.
“You’re welcome.”
He stepped to the side as others filed past them, not drawing attention. Not forcing her into a spotlight.
Momo followed the flow into the building, mind too loud for the quiet she’d wanted.
The common room was already transforming by the time she reached it.
Someone, probably Ashido, because it always felt like her handiwork, had pulled out strings of lights and draped them along the shelves. Kirishima had set up a table with snacks. Yaoyorozu noted with absent professional appreciation that the arrangement was balanced: savory, sweet, hot drinks near the couch, cold drinks away from electronics.
There was laughter, a sense of ease settling over the room like a blanket.
Training became gathering in the way U.A. always did: without warning, with the assumption that they all deserved softness if they could claim it.
Momo helped instinctively, because she always did. She created extra mugs when it looked like they might run out. She fashioned a small tray. She adjusted a light strand that was sagging.
“You’re doing it again,” Jiro said, smirking from the arm of the couch.
Momo paused. “Doing what?”
“Fixing everything,” Jiro said. “Relax. You’re allowed.”
Momo’s cheeks warmed. “I’m not-”
Jiro pointed with her chin. “You are.”
Momo glanced around, realized she’d been hovering like a hostess at an event she hadn’t planned. She set the tray down gently and forced herself to sit.
Uraraka plopped beside her, legs tucked up like she was determined to become a portable blanket. “Hot chocolate later?”
Momo smiled. “Yes.”
Across the room, Todoroki stood near the window, gaze on the snow outside.
He wasn’t isolated in a dramatic way; he just looked like someone who was comfortable being quiet in a room full of noise.
Momo found herself watching him without meaning to.
His shoulders were relaxed. His hands weren’t clenched. He looked… peaceful.
That was rare.
Her mind, traitorous as always, tried to turn it into a problem to solve.
Why do I notice him more lately?
Is it because he’s calm? Because he’s kind? Because he never asks me to be anything but what I am?
She pulled her gaze away as if it might burn her.
“Hey,” Ashido called, bouncing into the room with the energy of a small, benevolent storm. “We have a new tradition!”
Everyone braced.
“Aizawa-sensei approved a holiday debrief,” she announced, dramatically.
“But like… fun.”
“That’s an oxymoron,” Jiro muttered.
Ashido ignored her. “Also! I found mistletoe.”
Half the room erupted.
“NO,” Kaminari yelled, laughing already.
“YES,” Ashido yelled back, and held up a little sprig tied with red ribbon like a victory flag.
Momo blinked. “Where did you get that?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ashido said, with the exact tone that meant one should absolutely worry about it. “It’s going up. Rules of nature. Also, my rules.”
Sero applauded. Iida began to protest, realized it was futile, and settled for looking offended on principle.
Ashido clambered onto a chair.
Momo’s first instinct was to offer a
sturdier platform. She stopped herself.
‘Relax. You’re allowed.’
Ashido tied the mistletoe to the top of the doorway between the common room and the hall.
“There!” she declared. “Now it’s festive.”
Momo stared at it, something small and foolish fluttering inside her.
She wasn’t worried about the mistletoe.
It was just a plant. A joke. A tradition imported into a dorm full of teenagers.
But she was worried about what she might do if she found herself under it with the wrong person.
Or the right one.
She pressed her hands to her knees, grounding herself.
Time passed in small, warm increments.
They ate. They argued about movies.
Bakugo threatened to “burn the mistletoe” and got physically blocked by Kirishima and Sero with the kind of teamwork that should have earned a medal.
Momo laughed more than she expected.
She noticed Todoroki didn’t speak often, but when he did, people listened. Not because they feared him. Because his words mattered.
At some point, Uraraka got pulled into a game near the couch. Momo drifted toward the kitchen counter, refilling mugs, trying to keep her hands busy so her mind wouldn’t be.
She was rinsing a spoon when she felt someone beside her.
Todoroki.
He didn’t crowd her. He never did.
“Do you want help?” he asked.
Momo shook her head. “It’s fine.”
“You’re not obligated,” he said.
Her lips curved. “I know.”
He watched her for a moment. “Then why are you doing it?”
Momo’s fingers paused.
Because if I’m useful, I don’t have to wonder if I’m wanted.
The thought arrived uninvited, sharp enough to make her chest ache.
Momo forced her voice steady. “Habit.”
Todoroki’s gaze dropped briefly to her hands, then lifted to her face. “You don’t need a habit to justify being here.”
Momo swallowed.
It was absurd, the way a sentence could unravel her. She wasn’t fragile. She wasn’t weak. She was capable, composed, brilliant, those were the labels everyone attached to her.
But sometimes the labels felt like a cage.
And Todoroki… Todoroki spoke to the parts of her that existed without titles.
“I know,” she said softly, and it was both a reply and an admission that she didn’t always feel it.
Todoroki nodded like he understood anyway.
A shout from the couch drew everyone’s attention, Kaminari had accidentally tugged the mistletoe ribbon while flailing, and it swung wildly.
Ashido shrieked. “NO TOUCHING THE DECORATIONS!”
Kaminari lifted his hands in surrender, laughing.
Momo exhaled, half amused, half relieved at the interruption.
Then Todoroki said, quietly, “Walk with me.”
It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t phrased like a request either. It sounded like a simple statement of intent.
Momo’s heart beat once, hard.
“Where?” she asked.
“Hallway,” he replied. “It’s loud in here.”
Momo nodded, and followed him without thinking too much about what it meant.
They stepped through the doorway.
And the mistletoe hung directly above them.
Momo stopped so suddenly Todoroki almost stepped into her.
He looked up at her face first, then followed her gaze upward.
His eyes widened slightly.
“Oh,” he said.
Momo’s cheeks warmed. Her first instinct was to step back, avoid it, pretend they hadn’t noticed, escape the moment before it could exist.
But her feet didn’t move.
Because she didn’t want to.
The hallway behind them was dimmer.
The sound from the common room was muffled. Snow tapped faintly at the window at the end of the corridor. The mistletoe hovered like a punctuation mark.
Todoroki looked at her, expression steady.
He didn’t smirk. He didn’t tease. He didn’t use the tradition as leverage.
He simply waited.
Momo’s fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve.
“I’m aware this is-” she began, then stopped, because she didn’t know what word to use.
Silly. Romantic. Pressured. Convenient.
Todoroki tilted his head slightly. “It’s mistletoe.”
“Yes,” she said, feeling ridiculous.
He paused. “It doesn’t force anything.”
Her chest loosened by a fraction.
“Do you want it to?” he asked.
The question was so simple she almost didn’t understand it.
Not do you want to kiss.
Not do you like me.
Just: do you want this moment.
Momo stared at him.
In the common room, she was always thinking three steps ahead. In training, she was always calculating. In leadership, she was always planning.
Here, under the mistletoe, the world offered her something that didn’t need strategy. Honesty.
She took a slow breath.
“Yes,” she said.
Todoroki’s gaze softened. He stepped closer, careful not to invade. He lifted one hand, not to her face, not to claim, but to hover near her shoulder as if asking without words if contact was welcome.
Momo leaned into him, closing the distance herself.
His hand settled gently at her upper arm, warm through fabric.
And then he kissed her.
It was not dramatic. It was not hungry. It was quiet, like him.
But it was real.
His lips were warm; the cold air made it
sharper, like the contrast was the point.
Momo’s fingers curled into the front of his sweater. She felt him pause as if checking again, are you still here? do you still want this?
She kissed him back, and felt him relax.
When they broke apart, neither of them moved away.
Momo’s breath shook slightly.
Todoroki’s eyes stayed on hers, as if he was anchoring her.
“I wanted to do that,” he said quietly.
Momo’s throat tightened. “For how long?”
Todoroki looked away for the briefest moment, almost embarrassed. “Longer than I want to admit.”
A surprised laugh escaped her, soft, real.
“Oh?” she murmured.
He met her gaze again. “I think about you a lot.”
Momo’s smile faltered, not from sadness, but from the sheer weight of being seen.
“I’m… not always good at being-” she began.
Todoroki interrupted gently. “You don’t have to be anything else.”
Momo swallowed hard.
She hadn’t realized how badly she wanted someone to say that.
From the doorway behind them came a muffled noise.
Someone had noticed they weren’t in the room anymore.
Momo’s body tensed automatically, fear of scrutiny, fear of rumors, fear of being a spectacle.
Todoroki’s hand shifted slightly, fingers brushing hers, subtle reassurance.
The door opened.
Momo noticed it only because of the shift in air, the faint creak of hinges that hadn’t been oiled properly. She glanced up instinctively and froze.
Bakugo Katsuki stood in the doorway.
He took in the scene in a single glance: the distance between them, or lack of it.
Their hands. The way Todoroki’s posture had softened in a way it rarely did. The way Momo’s shoulders were no longer drawn tight with formality.
Bakugo didn’t react.
No scoff. No sneer. No explosive comment.
His eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary, not surprised, exactly, but assessing. Acknowledging.
Then he turned.
The door closed behind him with the same quiet click it had opened with.
Momo exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“…He’s not going to say anything,” she murmured.
Todoroki nodded. “No.”
“How can you be so sure?”
A pause.
“He already did,” Todoroki replied.
Momo considered that, then smiled, something warm and private settling in her chest.
They didn’t let go of each other.
And nothing else needed to be said
Momo’s shoulders loosened.
She looked back up at the mistletoe.
“We should-”
“Do you want to go back in?” Todoroki asked, and she realized what he was doing.
He was giving her the choice.
Always the choice.
Momo’s heart softened.
“Yes,” she said. “But… together.”
Todoroki nodded. “Together.”
Inside, the common room buzzed the moment they re-entered.
Ashido’s eyes widened first. She glanced at their faces, then up at the mistletoe in the hall, then back again.
Her grin turned feral.
“OH,” Ashido said, delighted. “OOOH.”
Jiro leaned back on the couch, watching like someone who had already predicted this and was now just enjoying confirmation.
Kaminari’s jaw dropped. “No way.”
Kirishima’s face lit up. “Bro, that’s awesome!”
Yaoyorozu’s cheeks heated again. She forced herself not to hide behind her hair like a child.
Todoroki remained calm. He simply stood beside her, posture steady, not leaving her alone in the attention.
Uraraka popped up from the couch, eyes shining. She didn’t squeal. She didn’t shout. She simply smiled at Momo in a way that felt like a warm blanket.
Momo smiled back, grateful.
Ashido clapped her hands once. “Okay!
That’s one couple confirmed. Next victim- I mean, volunteer!”
Momo exhaled, amused despite herself.
The room moved on faster than she expected. Teenagers had short attention spans, even for romance. The laughter returned to its normal volume. Someone put a movie on. Bakugo threatened to leave and did not, in fact, leave.
Momo sat on the edge of the couch,
Todoroki beside her, shoulders nearly touching.
She wasn’t holding his hand. Not yet.
But when she shifted slightly, his fingers brushed hers again, light, quiet, deliberate. It was enough.
Later, when the gathering began to fade into yawns and stretched limbs, Momo stepped into the hallway again, partly to breathe, partly because she needed to confirm that it had happened, that she hadn’t invented it out of winter air and wishful thinking.
She stood beneath the mistletoe, looking up at the little sprig like it could answer questions.
Footsteps approached.
Todoroki joined her, silent as always.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Momo nodded. “Yes. I just…”
She hesitated.
Just what?
Just needed to make sure this was real.
Just needed to see if it would still feel like mine when no one was watching.
Todoroki waited, patient.
Momo turned to him. “I’m not always good at… receiving things.”
His eyes softened. “What things?”
“Affection,” she admitted. “Attention. Comfort.” She exhaled. “I’m used to earning everything.”
Todoroki’s gaze held hers with a steadiness that made her feel less like she was teetering on a ledge.
“You don’t have to earn this,” he said.
Momo’s throat tightened again, dangerously.
She nodded slowly. “I want to believe that.”
“You will,” Todoroki said, like it was not hope but certainty. “Because I’m going to keep showing you.”
Momo’s breath hitched. “That sounds like a lot of work.”
Todoroki’s lips curved, faint. “I’m not afraid of work.”
Momo laughed softly, and the sound surprised her with how easy it was.
She stepped closer and kissed him again, brief, warm, intentional.
When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against his chest for a moment, the way she hadn’t allowed herself to do with anyone in a long time.
Todoroki’s hand came up, gentle, resting at the back of her head, not pressing, just holding.
Momo closed her eyes.
Winter still waited outside. Training still existed. Expectations still sat on her shoulders like a familiar weight.
But for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like she had to carry
everything alone.
“Goodnight,” she whispered.
“Goodnight,” Todoroki replied.
And when they walked back into the
warmth of the dorms, they did it at the same pace, aligned, unhurried, together.
The first thing Momo noticed was how different the quiet felt now.
Not lighter. Not heavier. Just… changed.
The library on the third floor of the dorms was nearly empty, the way it often was in the early evening when most of the class had migrated toward the common room or their bedrooms.
Lamps cast warm pools of light over long tables. Snow tapped faintly against the windows, less insistently than it had during training a few days ago.
Momo sat with a book open in front of her, quill resting neatly along the margin, notes already precise and carefully spaced. She’d been reading the same paragraph for several minutes without turning the page.
Across from her, Todoroki Shoto was doing something similar, text open, eyes scanning, posture relaxed in a way she’d only recently begun to notice.
They hadn’t planned to study together.
It had just… happened.
She’d entered the library intending to review alone. He’d arrived moments later, paused when he saw her, then quietly asked if she minded company.
She hadn’t. She still didn’t.
What caught her off guard was the ease of it.
No awkwardness. No overthinking glances. No immediate need to define anything.
Just shared space.
Momo adjusted her grip on her pen and finally turned the page.
“Are you actually reading that,” Todoroki asked calmly, “or just holding it open?”
She froze for half a second, then sighed, smiling despite herself. “You noticed.”
“I did,” he replied.
“That’s… mildly embarrassing.”
He shook his head. “You tend to notice everything else. It’s allowed to happen to you too.”
Momo glanced at him, heart doing that quiet, unfamiliar thing again.
“I suppose that’s fair,” she said.
They returned to silence, not empty silence, but companionable. The kind that didn’t demand to be filled.
After a few minutes, Momo felt it: a subtle awareness at the edge of her senses. His hand resting on the table. Close. Not touching. Close enough that if she shifted her fingers even slightly-
She stopped herself.
Not because she didn’t want to.
Because she wasn’t sure yet what she was allowed to want.
Todoroki looked up from his book, gaze flicking briefly to her hand, then to her face.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he said.
Momo blinked. “Am I that obvious?”
He tilted his head. “Only because I do
the same thing.”
That surprised her into a soft laugh. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“I didn’t either,” he admitted. “Until recently.”
The implication sat gently between them.
Momo took a breath, then made a decision that felt small and monumental all at once.
She slid her hand forward.
Their fingers brushed.
She expected the contact to feel electric, dramatic, something that demanded attention. Instead, it was warm. Steady. Grounding.
Todoroki didn’t flinch. He didn’t rush. He simply turned his hand palm-up, silently offering.
Momo placed her fingers into his.
Her chest loosened in a way she hadn’t realized it was tight.
They didn’t look at each other right away. They didn’t need to.
Several minutes passed like that, studying, breathing, existing in the same quiet orbit.
Eventually, Momo spoke, voice soft.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. The other night.”
“Which part?” Todoroki asked.
“That I don’t have to earn this.”
He nodded slowly. “And?”
“I’m still unlearning the instinct to prove myself,” she admitted. “But… I like that you don’t ask me to.”
Todoroki’s thumb shifted, just slightly, against the back of her hand.
“I like that you let yourself stop,” he replied.
Momo swallowed. “I don’t always.”
“I know,” he said. No judgment. Just understanding. She looked up at him then, really looked. At the calm steadiness of his expression. At the way he never seemed to push, never seemed to retreat. At how safe it felt to sit in silence beside him and know he was choosing to be there.
“This is new for me,” she said quietly.
“For me too,” Todoroki replied.
That made her smile. They packed up not long after, movements unhurried. When they stood, neither let go right away. They walked down the hallway together, hands still linked, footsteps naturally in sync.
At the doorway to her floor, Momo hesitated.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked, suddenly unsure if it was too much to hope.
Todoroki nodded without hesitation.
“Yes.”
She smiled, relieved.
Before she turned away, he leaned in, just enough to brush a gentle kiss against her temple. Brief. Respectful. Entirely intentional.