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The sterile chill of the hospital room clung to Shouto’s skin like frost. The overhead lights hummed faintly, casting a cold glare over the white floors and even whiter walls. Time didn’t feel linear here - it dragged, slow and mocking, taunting him with its refusal to move. The ticking of the clock only served to fracture his composure further, each second hammering in the reality that she was still unconscious, still somewhere he couldn’t reach. He’d been through emergency rooms before, both as a patient and as a visitor, but this time felt different. This time it was her.
He paced in rigid lines near her bedside, not daring to go too far but incapable of sitting still. His boots, blood-stained from the recent villain attack, scuffed against the floor in irregular rhythm. His hands, normally still and precise, trembled just slightly as he absently fidgeted with the silver band around his finger - a habit he never broke when Momo was involved. It was engraved subtly with her initials inside, a quiet intimacy he never showed off but always found comfort in. Whenever she came to mind, his fingers found their way to it, like muscle memory etched in affection.
She’d gone into surgery almost six hours ago. He was told it was going to be simple, routine even, but complications had stretched it into a nightmare he hadn’t prepared for. The surgeon had emerged an hour ago with cautious optimism, explaining the anesthesia would wear off soon, and she’d likely be groggy - nothing unexpected. But even optimism felt brittle when you’d watched your wife bleed out in your arms on a war-torn street.
He glanced at her now - pale but peaceful, her hair splayed like ink across the pillow, an oxygen tube pressed gently beneath her nose. Machines blinked and beeped to assure him she was still here. Still breathing. He’d fought monsters, faced death more times than he could count, but watching her lie so still, barely stirring, was the cruelest battle yet.
Shouto moved to her side, dragging the chair closer with one foot, but he didn’t sit. Sitting meant settling. He wasn’t ready to settle into anything until she opened her eyes and said his name. He reached out slowly, unsure, and brushed a knuckle against her hand. It was warm. That helped.
“Come back to me,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You said we’d go get soba tomorrow.”
Suddenly, her fingers twitched.
At first, he thought he imagined it - but no, there it was again. She stirred faintly, her lips parting as she made a faint, confused sound. Her eyelids fluttered open like heavy curtains being dragged upward, revealing those familiar deep onyx eyes, dulled by medication but unmistakably hers.
“Momo?” he leaned in, already gripping her hand properly now.
She blinked up at him, squinting like he was lit from behind by Heaven. Her brow furrowed deeply in thought, lips slightly parted before forming a slow smile.
“Wow...” she breathed, then giggled like a tipsy fairy. “You’re... you’re really hot.”
Shouto blinked. “You’re awake.”
“Like... hot hot. Like voice actor anime villain hot. But also safe hot. Your voice sounds like... like velvet dipped in justice.”
A breath of startled amusement escaped him despite the ache in his chest. “You’re loopy.”
Her grin widened as her gaze roamed lazily across his face. “You look so trustworthy. Are you single? Wanna go out with me? I have good taste in men. I think.”
“You’re married to me, remember?”
Her face froze mid-thought. The silence was thick until her brain finally caught up - and then she gasped with the kind of joy reserved for winning the lottery.
“We’re married?! That’s so awesome! Does that mean we can kiss?!”
Shouto’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, tension unwinding just enough for him to breathe normally again. Seeing her alert - if utterly nonsensical - was the kind of emotional whiplash that made his head spin. She was safe. She was talking. And she was absolutely ridiculous right now. It was surreal, watching the normally elegant and composed Momo Yaoyorozu turn into a flushed, giggly mess of compliments and confusion. She was still under heavy sedation, clearly, but something about the way her eyes twinkled as she looked up at him, like he was made of starlight, nearly made him laugh aloud. Nearly. He didn’t, though - because even in her incoherence, he knew she’d hate hearing she’d been ridiculous later.
Her cheeks puffed slightly, lips pursing in determined thought as if she were preparing for a scientific presentation, but instead of anything remotely relevant, she burst out with a sudden declaration that caught him off guard.
“I love autumn,” she said, voice syrupy and sweet, still breathy from exertion. “Like... the air smells like cozy. And the leaves crunch like potato chips. But the fancy kind. Not the cheap ones. I like those too, but still.”
Shouto blinked at her slowly, utterly captivated. Her free hand drifted up as if she were conducting a symphony made entirely of half-baked thoughts.
“And strawberries,” she added with conviction, eyes wide and serious for a beat. “I love strawberries. And strawberry milk. And strawberry pocky. And strawberry candles. Oh! And gyoza. You know I like gyoza, right? The grilled kind. Not boiled, that’s just... wet sadness.”
The soft wheeze that escaped Shouto could’ve passed for a cough, but he had to turn his head slightly to hide the brief curve of amusement threatening his lips. This woman. This brilliant, brave, dazzling woman who had just survived near death was currently listing comfort foods like it was a love letter to carbs.
“Miso ramen. That’s my favorite ramen, don’t let anyone lie about it. And sushi. All sushi. Even the weird jellyfish kind. But only if you eat it with me, because I trust you not to let me eat poison fish.”
She paused dramatically, eyebrows furrowing in childlike concern. “Do you know about poison fish? They’re sneaky. Like spies. But not cute spies.”
Shouto gently brushed her hair from her forehead, fingers lingering against her skin in a silent gesture of grounding. She leaned into the touch slightly and smiled.
“You’ve told me all of this before,” he murmured. “I’ve memorized it.”
Her eyes glazed slightly, blinking up at him with an expression that looked both awed and utterly confused. “Whoa. That’s like... boyfriend material.”
“You’re my wife.”
Her mouth dropped open again as if it were brand new information, and she broke into a peal of soft, delighted laughter that shook her shoulders and made her IV cords sway slightly.
“Holy crap, that’s awesome,” she whispered. “Wait... can we go on a date? Like, a fancy one? With those candles that smell like baked goods and desserts that cost too much?”
“I’ll take you wherever you want.”
She gasped dramatically, as if that promise was too much kindness for her heart to take. “Can we hold hands the whole time? And feed each other sushi? And sit on the same side of the booth like teenagers in love? Oh! Can you wear that blue shirt I like? It makes your arms look like they solve crime.”
Shouto exhaled slowly, the fight to keep his laughter at bay getting harder by the minute. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, grounding them both as the heart monitor beeped steadily in the background. If she kept this up, he wasn’t sure his heart would survive the sheer overload of affection he felt. She was alive. Loopy. Gloriously unfiltered. But alive.
And he was never letting go.
The giggles faded like a soft breeze, tapering off until Momo’s lips parted in a gentle sigh and her lashes fluttered closed again. Her hand, still wrapped in Shouto’s, relaxed completely, fingers slack and warm as she fell into another layer of sleep. The monitors remained steady, her vitals strong, and though the loopy sparkle in her gaze was gone for the moment, the lightness she’d left behind in the room lingered. It was the kind of temporary peace Shouto clung to like lifeline. He didn’t move - only leaned slightly back in the chair and pressed his thumb into the band of his wedding ring again, grounding himself in the absurdity and relief of the past ten minutes.
After a few more minutes had passed without a stir, he slipped his phone out from the pouch at his side and opened the encrypted messaging app they used for urgent updates. His fingers flew across the screen with quiet efficiency, alerting their agency, the medical responders on the scene, and the handful of heroes close enough to worry that Momo was stable, conscious, and post-op. No details beyond that - he’d tell her team more when she could speak for herself. But the wave of “thank God” texts, thumbs-up emojis, and urgent wishes of “tell her we love her” were enough to soften some of the edge still clinging to his nerves. Even Bakugou responded with a single “about damn time,” which was his version of emotionally expressive.
Thirty minutes passed like a muted tide rolling in, ebbing with quiet beeps and a few nurse check-ins to confirm her sedation was still holding steady. Shouto barely registered them. His attention was fixed on her, eyes tracing the curve of her cheek, memorizing the steady rise and fall of her chest under the thin blanket. His jaw softened each time he saw her stir slightly, a finger twitching here or a muttered sound there, and when her eyes opened again - this time slower, heavier but more erratically - he leaned forward, already bracing for whatever version of Momo was surfacing this time.
What he wasn’t prepared for was... this.
Her gaze was unfocused, blinking like she was trying to recalibrate where gravity was. She squinted toward the ceiling, then toward Shouto’s face, then back toward the IV stand, lips pressing together like she was preparing a lecture. Her hand lifted slowly, wobbly, and she pointed toward absolutely nothing with an air of determined academia.
“Did you know... hummingbirds’ hearts beat more than twelve hundred times per minute?” she asked, eyes glassy but her tone bizarrely proud. “That’s like... cardio royalty.”
Shouto blinked once, processing. “Hummingbirds. Okay.”
“They’re like... the Flash but tiny and prettier.” Her voice was thick with exhaustion but the conviction behind the facts was something else entirely. “Also, clouds aren’t weightless. They can weigh millions of pounds. Big clouds are basically sky whales. No one tells you that.”
He opened his mouth to respond but was cut off when she squinted at him, looking genuinely offended.
“And bananas are berries, but strawberries aren’t,” she declared. “That’s botanical betrayal.”
The shift from hospital quiet to chaotic trivia hour wasn’t something he’d mentally prepared for. Shouto kept a straight face as she continued, her expression intensifying, almost scholarly now, despite the loopy glint still swimming in her eyes.
“Oh! And you know... you know the long-neck goose horses? You know...” she gestured vaguely toward nothing in particular, “Neck giraffes? Nope. Giraffe horses? They got sponge bones. That’s why they don’t pass out when they bend down. Sponge bones. Like bone... marshmallows.”
“You mean giraffes?” he ventured gently.
“Yes! Tall babies. That’s the word.”
Her eyes lit up like she’d solved an equation. “Also, octopuses - octopi? Octopodes? - they have three hearts and blue blood. That’s so metal. Like a punk band, but underwater.”
Shouto sat still, listening like he was being educated by a fever dream. Her words tumbled out in spiraling loops, each fact stranger and more disconnected than the last, and when she couldn’t remember what something was called, she simply invented it. “Finger stars” became fingernails. “Mouth pillows” were cheeks. “The snoofle tube” was the oxygen line running beneath her nose.
“Did you know space smells like burnt steak?” she whispered urgently. “That’s very inconvenient. That means astronauts smell barbecue but can't eat it.”
And then, just as suddenly as the trivia storm had hit, her head lolled gently to the side and she smiled in a way that was utterly blissed out. Her words melted into a soft hum, lips twitching in half-formed phrases, and her eyes fluttered closed again, still grinning slightly.
Shouto exhaled slowly, finally letting himself laugh under his breath. His wife was brilliant. Even unconscious and drugged out of her mind, she was still herself - nerdy, passionate, endearingly ridiculous. And he loved every inch of her.
The door slid open with a soft hush and the attending physician stepped in, clipboard tucked beneath one arm and a tired but pleasant expression smoothing his features. Shouto turned immediately, alert in that quiet way he always was when anything medical approached Momo. The doctor, recognizing him as the emotionally weathered spouse standing vigil, offered a respectful nod before moving toward the monitors.
“She’s stabilized remarkably well,” he said in a low voice, his eyes glancing briefly toward Momo’s sleeping form. “Vitals have been consistent for the last half hour. This check-in is routine - just to make sure no signs of post-op complications are setting in.”
Shouto gave a small nod, barely more than a tilt, though his gaze hadn’t left Momo in minutes. She was deeper into rest now - no longer in that loose, rambling half-sleep of sedation - but an actual, heavy sleep, the kind that swelled into her body like gravity had finally taken hold of her bones. Her breathing had evened out beautifully, lips parted just slightly with each exhale, and her limbs were no longer twitching with errant energy or involuntary movement. Somehow, in just under three minutes, she had managed to achieve a level of unconscious serenity Shouto didn’t realize was possible for someone only recently pulled from surgery.
And then he noticed it. The smallest gleam catching light at the corner of her mouth. There it was - Momo Yaoyorozu, Japan’s reigning champion of elegance and poise, currently drooling into a hospital pillow like she hadn’t a single care in the world.
Shouto blinked slowly at the sight. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move to wipe it away. Didn’t even shift from his position beside her. He simply let himself absorb the image, eyes softening with a strange mixture of fondness and quiet heartbreak. It was absurdly adorable. That this woman - who had been on magazine covers, whose hero profile was practically dripping in grace and impossibly put-together charm - was now conked out, drooling in medically induced sleep while hooked up to machines. And yet, somehow, he loved her even more for it.
The doctor moved professionally, glancing over the data scrolling across the machines, scribbling something brief onto his tablet, and gently lifting the corner of her blanket to check for signs of fluid retention and inflammation. He made no comment about the drool, offering Momo the silent dignity of unconscious bliss. It felt like a kindness.
“She might wake again within the next hour,” the doctor murmured, “or sleep through the night if her body allows it. Either way, she’s progressing on track. You did well getting her here in time.”
Shouto nodded again, his eyes still on her face. “She said my voice sounded like velvet dipped in justice.”
The doctor paused for a beat, then gave a quiet, surprised chuckle. “I’d say that’s probably the morphine talking.”
Shouto finally allowed the ghost of a smile to surface, brief but unmistakable. “She tried to ask me out.”
“Well,” the doctor said, straightening with a light shrug, “sounds like your marriage is still thriving.”
With one last glance at Momo, the doctor made his exit, leaving the quiet hum of machines and Shouto’s steady presence behind. The room settled back into silence, and Shouto leaned closer once again, brushing a gentle thumb under her cheek just above the soft, glistening mark of drool.
“Even asleep,” he murmured, “you’re ridiculous.”
But his hand lingered, soft and reverent, and he stayed close, quietly guarding the woman he loved while she dreamed of strawberry-flavored gyoza and space that smelled like steak.
The hours that followed passed in quiet waves, soft and uninterrupted. The hospital lights had dimmed slightly, ushering in a calmer shade of sterile glow as late evening folded into night. Shouto hadn’t left the room - not even for a minute. The nurses had checked in now and then, offering updates or mild observations, but none dared disturb the cocoon of silence he’d built around Momo’s bedside. He kept one hand gently tucked against hers, thumb running slow, absent strokes along her knuckles while the other rested on his knee. Even with her drooling lightly earlier - and spiraling into trivia chaos beforehand - she remained the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing in the room. Every time she shifted in her sleep, his eyes lifted instinctively. But nothing stirred beyond the steady cadence of her breaths.
By the time her eyes blinked open again, nearly six hours had passed since her last bout of consciousness. Shouto had nodded off for just a moment, chin tucked into his shoulder, one hand still gripping hers like a tether. But the quiet rustle of movement jolted him upright. Her head turned ever so slightly on the pillow, the IV cords stretching gently with the shift. He could see the difference immediately - her gaze was clearer, slightly more grounded, but still teetering on the edges of post-op fog.
She looked at him with wide eyes, blinked twice, then gave the most radiant, sleepy smile as her lips parted with all the innocence of a first crush.
“You’re really pretty,” she whispered hoarsely, voice dry from hours of disuse. “Do you wanna go out with me?”
Shouto froze - just for a moment - then let his gaze fall, not in exasperation, but with the weary humor of someone who had loved someone through every storm. He adjusted in his chair, squeezing her hand just a little tighter, and lifted his head to meet her gaze.
“That’s the third time today,” he said softly. “And it’s still yes. Because we’ve been married for two years.”
Her eyes widened - again - as though this fact never failed to surprise her. The sheer delight that flooded her expression was so genuine, so delighted, that Shouto felt something tug behind his ribs. She gasped, hand reaching weakly for his arm like she might grab on for stability, or perhaps just dramatic flair.
“We’re married?! Wow, I’m so lucky! You must really love me.”
“I do.”
Her expression turned suddenly tender. Then hopeful. Then mischievous.
“Can we cuddle?”
Shouto’s heart gave a painful tug at the request. Of all things. She knew how much it meant to him - to both of them. Their weekends often began and ended wrapped in blankets on the couch or curled up in bed before dawn. It was sacred. But this? She had wires in her chest. A healing incision tucked just beneath the curve of her ribcage. Monitors tracking every breath.
He shook his head gently, already hating that he had to say it. “Not right now, Love. You’re still recovering. Too many wires.”
Momo frowned instantly. Not in anger, but with a slow-motion heartbreak that unfolded across her face like a cloud darkening the sun. Her lower lip trembled ever so slightly, her brows drawing together as if betrayed by the laws of medical reality.
“But... but I wanna cuddle,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I need cuddle therapy. Doctor’s orders. Probably. You could be my cuddle doctor. I’ll give you a license.”
“I want to. You have no idea,” he said, leaning in close enough that their foreheads almost touched. “It’s just not safe right now.”
The pout deepened. Her lip quivered again. Then her eyes, so warm and hopeful only seconds ago, shimmered with sudden moisture that welled and spilled almost without warning. One fat tear slid slowly down her cheek. Then another.
And then she began to cry.
Not loudly - no sobs or shaking breaths - but those soft, gutting tears that came from pure exhaustion and the need for comfort she couldn’t physically receive. Shouto’s chest cracked open watching her. His thumb swept gently across her skin, catching tears as they fell, and he leaned down and kissed her forehead with reverence, pressing his lips just long enough for her to know she wasn’t alone.
“I’m right here,” he whispered against her skin. “Always.”
She sniffled once - soft, broken - and blinked up at him one last time before her lids sank shut again, slower this time. Her breathing evened out almost immediately. But even as she drifted off, another tear slid down, and her fingers remained laced with his like she was anchoring herself to something constant.
Shouto didn’t let go.