The private room at the upscale sushi restaurant buzzed with warm laughter and the soft clink of sake cups.

Eight years had passed since the Final War, yet somehow the old Class 1-A energy still filled the air like it had never left.

You sat near the center of the long table, surrounded by familiar faces that had grown into adulthood: Bakugo still barking complaints between bites of toro, Kirishima laughing too loudly at his own jokes, Ochaco floating a piece of sashimi playfully above her plate. The conversation flowed easily—hero rankings, new scars, old promises kept and broken.

But your eyes kept drifting.

Momo Yaoyorozu sat directly across from you, radiant in the low golden lighting. Her long black hair was swept into an elegant low ponytail, a few strands framing her sharp onyx eyes. She wore a fitted beige blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, the fabric hugging her mature, statuesque figure in all the right ways. The subtle curve of her collarbone peeked above the open top button, and the way the silk draped over her full bust and cinched at her narrow waist made your throat go dry. She looked every inch the accomplished No. 19 hero—poised, powerful, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

She caught you staring once, twice. Each time her lips curved into a small, knowing smile, cheeks tinting the faintest pink. “…and then I realized the prototype had a fatal flaw in the molecular binding,” she was saying, gesturing gracefully with chopsticks as she recounted a recent research mishap. Her voice was still that perfect blend of refined and warm. “I nearly blew up half the lab.”

Everyone laughed. You smiled, but your gaze lingered on the way her blouse shifted with her movement, the soft swell of her chest rising and falling with each breath.

Heat crept up your neck.

As the conversation split into smaller groups, Momo leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, chin on her laced fingers. Her eyes found yours again—steady, curious, and unmistakably inviting.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Is something on your mind?”

Her gaze dipped briefly to your lips, then back up. The corner of her mouth lifted in that subtle, teasing way she’d perfected over the years.