Chapter Text
The Pro Hero Convention in New York was packed with power suits, capes, and media vultures disguised as fans. But Momo Yaoyorozu wasn’t flustered. At thirty, she was poised, polished, and calm under pressure. Her heels clicked confidently on the hotel marble as she made her way through the rotating doors, wheeling a sleek black suitcase behind her.
At 5’7”, Momo had an hourglass figure that made designers weep with gratitude, but her presence was more than her silhouette. She carried herself like a queen who didn’t need a throne—composed, intelligent, and quietly commanding.
She scanned the lobby—and froze.
There, leaning against a marble pillar like a bad decision dressed in black, was Katsuki Bakugo.
Over six feet tall, built like a myth, and radiating quiet menace in a tailored bomber jacket and combat boots, he was impossible to miss. His blonde hair—once chaotic and spiky—was now tousled in a way that looked unintentionally perfect. His jawline had only sharpened with age, dusted with stubble, and his crimson eyes locked on her with a flicker of something unreadable.
“You’re late,” he grunted.
“I’m early,” she replied, arching an elegant brow.
“Still late by my standards.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still too damn composed.”
She smirked. “We can’t all stomp around in combat boots and explosions.”
“Wouldn’t be New York without a bit of fire.”
Their relationship hadn’t always been like this.
Back at U.A., they were barely more than classmates. Respectful, maybe, but distant. She found him insufferable; he thought she was too polite to survive the real world.
But things changed after graduation. Mission assignments pulled them together, again and again, until coffee after patrol became a habit. Until he started showing up to her training sessions. Until her contact photo on his phone stopped being “Yaoyorozu” and quietly became “Momo.”
They both dated other people over the years, of course.
And every time, it stung.
She once saw him at a press event with a pro-hero influencer—tall, flawless, clinging to his arm like she was welded there. Momo smiled through the pain, but she’d gripped her champagne flute so hard the stem snapped in her hand.
He saw her once at a charity gala, laughing too long at some tech CEO’s joke. Her hand on his shoulder. Bakugo didn’t say a word—but he sparred like a demon for days after.
They never talked about it. But something was always there.
Lingering glances that lasted a breath too long. Jokes that curled into something softer. The way he always walked on the street side of the sidewalk. The way she always saved him a seat, even when he said he wouldn’t show up.
And then came the turning point.
Three years ago.
She was training harder than ever, preparing to overhaul her offensive strategy. Bakugo, somehow, had volunteered to help. Their sessions started at 7 a.m., brutal and relentless. Momo was always graceful, always composed—but she pushed herself to the limit around him. He made her sharper.
One morning, after a particularly intense sparring drill, she went for a high strike.
He dodged, swept low, and their bodies collided—his arm wrapped around her waist, hers braced against his chest.
They froze.
His hand was warm on her side. Her palm was pressed against his heartbeat.
Their faces were inches apart. Breath mingling. Eyes locked.
For a moment, the room went silent.
Then—
“You blinked first,” she murmured, trying to break the tension.
His lips twitched. “You’re full of shit.”
They separated quickly. Too quickly. Like if they stayed too close, they might say things they couldn't take back.
But the tension stayed. Lived under their skin.
Shortly after that, her engagement to Todoroki ended.
It was mutual. Kind. Quiet.
But it still hurt.
They’d grown apart. Different goals. Different paths. Momo hadn’t cried—not really—but she felt hollow. The silence in her apartment was heavier than usual.
So when Bakugo knocked on her door one night, she almost didn’t open it.
He stood there in sweatpants and a hoodie, looking uncomfortable as hell, holding a paper bag.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice soft.
He held up the bag. “Brought food.”
She blinked. “What kind?”
“Your favorite noodles,” he said. “Plus dessert. That weird matcha thing you like.”
She hesitated.
“There’s a movie in here, too.”
She stared.
He glanced away, ears faintly pink. “Look, I didn’t know what else to do. Thought you might need—something.”
Momo opened the door.
They ate cross-legged on her living room floor. Halfway through the meal, he spilled sauce on his shirt and cursed under his breath. She laughed—really laughed—for the first time in days.
“You’re a menace,” she said.
“Yeah, well,” he replied, licking sauce off his thumb, “menaces bring dessert.”
Later, they watched the movie. A cheesy rom-com she’d mentioned once in passing, and he’d somehow remembered. Halfway through, she curled up beside him, head resting on his shoulder.
She whispered, “Even if it was mutual… it still hurts.”
He was quiet a moment.
Then said, “He’s a damn fool.”
Her chest tightened.
“To let you go,” he added.
It was the kindest thing he’d ever said to her.
And the moment she knew—really knew—she was falling for him.
And now—here they were.
Three years later.
The ballroom was bathed in gold, crystal chandeliers dripping overhead, violins humming in the corners. Bakugo stood near the open bar, pretending to care about the cocktail in his hand.
Then he saw her.
And the world tilted.
Momo stepped into the room like a storm in silk. Her dress was a black satin mermaid cut that shimmered with crimson and bronze beading—his hero costume colors, unmistakably. It hugged her like a second skin, every curve elegant and deliberate.
But it was her hair that stopped him cold.
Gone was the long curtain of black waves.
In its place: a sleek, shoulder-length cut that framed her face like it was designed just for her. Sharp. Bold. Devastating.
She walked toward him.
He forgot how to breathe.
“You…” he said when she reached him. “You cut your hair.”
“I did.”
“And this dress,” he said, blinking. “Are you serious?”
“Something wrong with it?”
“You’re wearin’ my colors.”
She smiled coyly. “Must be muscle memory.”
His throat bobbed. “You look…”
“Say it.”
“I can’t,” he muttered. “You’ll laugh.”
She leaned closer, her voice like silk. “Say it.”
He inhaled. “You look like a goddamn heart attack.”
She laughed, warm and real.
“You hate galas,” she teased.
“I hate most things,” he said. “But you’re here.”
Her smile softened. “You’re still a menace.”
“Yeah, well. Menaces bring dessert.”
She stared at him, eyes shining. “Bakugo…”
He held out his hand.
“Dance with me.”
“You hate dancing.”
“I’ll make an exception.”
She took his hand.