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The gala shimmered around them with the glittering bravado only pro-hero society could muster - floor-length gowns stitched with quirks of heat-resistant threads and kinetic shimmer, suits pressed sharper than villainy’s edge. Somewhere behind them, Kaminari was dramatically retelling his latest encounter with a rogue support drone, Jirou nursing a glass of soda with a raised brow at his flair for exaggeration. But Shouto wasn’t listening. His attention was pinned to the way Momo’s shoulders tilted toward the man currently engaging her in conversation - an overenthusiastic Second Year Hero Course student from a school that wasn't U.A. whose idea of small talk appeared to involve a lot of leaning in and far too much smiling.
Shouto recognized the look on her face; it wasn’t discomfort exactly, but it wasn’t ease either. Her smile was courteous. Her hands, clasped in front of her, were still. Too still. He didn’t process the motion until he was beside her, drawn not by possessiveness but something tighter - protective instinct sewn from years of quiet adoration and a rather unheroic jealousy that sparked hotter than his fire ever dared. He stepped behind her, one hand moving to settle low at the curve of her back, the other sliding around her waist in a gentle but unmistakable claim. His chin came to rest lightly on her shoulder.
“You’ve got strawberry on your cheek,” he murmured, his voice pitched for her ears only, low and frayed slightly at the edges from how rarely he used it in public like this. A lie, yes, but the warmth in her skin spiked delightfully when she tilted her head, giving him a sidelong glance that said she knew exactly what he was doing.
“Do I?” she replied, voice lilting with amusement, a dangerous glint in her dark eyes as she leaned into him just so. Without giving him the courtesy of preparation, he lifted his hand and pressed his thumb softly beneath her cheekbone, brushing it slowly, deliberately, like she was something sacred. The boy attempting flirtation sputtered mid-sentence, nodded awkwardly, and beat a hasty retreat, likely uncertain whether he'd just witnessed something romantic or territorial.
Shouto, however, didn’t notice him leave - didn’t care to. His hand lingered at her waist as she turned in the loose circle of his arms. Her gown shimmered, midnight blue with subtle embroidered roses echoing her family garden, and under the gentle lights, she looked like a wish folded into reality. She reached up, smoothing a hand along his lapel, fingertips brushing the edge of his collar where it curled slightly from how long he'd been in the suit. Her lips curved.
“Jealousy doesn’t quite suit you,” she said softly, though her touch contradicted the words, reverent in a way that made something in his chest ache.
“Neither does smugness,” he countered, eyes narrowing with mock offense as she laughed, a quiet sound, contained but genuine, the kind of laugh that made his breath catch.
She leaned in, fingers curling into his tie, tugging him down, and before he could ask - before he could even think to resist - she pressed her lips to his in a kiss that wasn't hurried or heated but deliberate. She kissed like an epilogue to a slowburn story, unhurried and honest, and entirely uncaring of their audience. Around them, the chatter dulled. Conversations stilled. Someone dropped a fork.
Momo only pulled back when she was satisfied with the dazed look in his heterochromatic eyes. Then, with a coy smile and a whisper meant to embarrass and affirm all at once, she said, “I had to get the strawberry off your mouth too, Candy Cane.”
His flames flared softly at the tips of his ears, glowing against the edges of his face in soft betrayal. Somewhere behind them, Bakugou muttered something too indelicate to repeat, and Uraraka squealed into her champagne. But Shouto didn’t look away. He reached for her hand and laced their fingers together, thumb brushing hers like he could memorize her touch in Morse.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of music and flickering camera flashes. But when reporters asked the next day if Todoroki Shouto had officially confirmed his relationship status, he simply responded with a rare, quiet smirk and walked off, Momo’s fingers still loosely wound around his.