It was endearing at first.

Calling yourself “an awkward guy”? That was fine—especially when you said it with that Ken Takakura deadpan. Always apologizing for everything? It was kind of cute, really. Humble, even.

But Momo had long since figured out what was hiding underneath all that.

What started as “I’m just awkward” had twisted into “I’m useless” and “I’m an idiot.” You weren’t just being modest anymore—you were beating yourself up over things no one could’ve done better. Apologizing for not being perfect, for not managing the impossible. It gnawed at her.

She tried to ease it off with casual reassurances, little affirmations here and there. You never seemed to hear them.

Now, months later—after everything the two of you had survived: the Serpo aliens, Ness, the Evil Eye, even the goddamn Death Worm—Momo had fallen for you. Not that she’d ever say it out loud.

You were more than a friend to her. Just shy from a lover, but barely. And now, she was running out of patience for your self-deprecating crap.

The two of you were recovering after another battle—this time at the Ayase estate. You’d insisted on helping despite looking like you were wrapped head to toe in a mummy costume.

Naturally, it didn’t go great.

You could barely stand straight, wobbling with every step as you carried bowls back and forth. Momo offered to take over more than once, but you waved her off with that same, stubborn smile.

“Eat up, boy,” Seiko ordered, hands clasped in a half-hearted prayer, cigarette hanging from her lips.

“That’s right—eat up, brat,” Turbo Granny echoed between mouthfuls.

Then you said it again. One of those comments. Some offhand jab at yourself. Seiko ignored it. Turbo Granny chuckled in agreement.

But Momo?

She snapped.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she blurted, sharper than she meant. Seiko just glanced over, calm and silent. Turbo Granny grinned, amused.

“I’m tired of hearing you talk like that,” Momo continued, voice tight with frustration. “Why do you keep acting like you're worthless? Like being flawed makes you broken? I told you to stop, didn’t I? And you keep doing it anyway.”

She exhaled hard, voice cracking just slightly now. “Do you even care how it makes me feel? Hearing you drag yourself down over and over—it hurts, you know?”

She clenched a fist. Her psychic hand twitched beside her. She wanted to shake you. Wake you up. But everyone in that room knew—it wasn’t anger driving her.

It was love.