Chapter Text
The soft glow from the desk lamp spilled across her bare shoulder as Momo Yaoyorozu leaned forward, eyes tracing the dense wall of chemical formulas stacked across the open pages.
There was still so much to learn.
Memorizing compound structures, understanding reactivity chains, studying alloy ratios—it wasn’t just schoolwork. It was the foundation for everything she wanted to create. And if she couldn’t visualize a formula on the molecular level, then how could she expect her quirk to replicate it?
A quiet sigh slipped from her lips as she pressed her fingers into her temples. The list of ideas she'd brainstormed lay crumpled under the corner of the book, half-scribbled and entirely inadequate. Nothing felt like it was enough.
The assignment was simple in theory: create something unique. Something innovative. Something that showed not just raw creation ability, but true understanding.
The more she thought about it, the more the pressure built. Every idea unraveled into complexity, every plan turned into layers of uncertainty. She couldn’t just make something—it had to be hers. Precise. Elegant. Controlled.
A small cupcake sat on the tray beside her—dense, high in calories, chosen not for taste but efficiency. She lifted it absently with her left hand, took a bite without thinking, and returned to flipping pages.
Her sports bra left plenty of surface area for creation. She took a breath, focused, and let the technique flow.
A shape emerged—sharp and metallic—just over her shoulder, landing on the desk with a soft clink.
It didn’t hold.
The alloyed double helix—half titanium, half steel—shattered the moment it touched down. Crumbled apart like ash. Too brittle. Wrong balance. Useless.
She let out a breath, more resignation than frustration, and swept the fragments into the overflowing wastebasket beside her. Another failed attempt.
Back to the book.
Back to the lines of text and chemical chains and element charts that had started blurring together hours ago. She forced her eyes to keep moving, scanning the entries, willing her brain to stay focused long enough to find the missing link. The wastebasket beside her brimmed with half-melted prototypes, misaligned gear cores, and fragile fragments that hadn’t survived impact.
So focused, she didn’t hear the door open.
Didn’t register the soft thud of footsteps crossing her room.
She didn’t even react at first.
Not until she felt the light pressure of a hand resting gently on her shoulder.
Her head turned, sluggish from focus and fatigue, and her eyes landed on Izuku Midoriya—standing beside her in his familiar All Might pajamas, the kind that looked almost comically heroic with the oversized lightning bolt down the front.
She blinked.
For a moment, her mind struggled to catch up. But somehow, his presence didn’t feel out of place. Comforting, in its own odd way. Like no matter what time it was, he’d still be wearing something with his mentor’s emblem, still trying to live up to the impossible.
“I was out in the hall and noticed your light was still on,” he said softly, glancing toward the book spread in front of her.
He leaned in just enough to skim the page—rows of tightly packed formulas and alloy breakdowns. His brow furrowed faintly.
“This is for the final, right? The special assignment they gave you?” His voice was warm, never prying. “I think all of ours were different. How’s it going?”
Momo hesitated.
Words caught somewhere between her throat and her pride. How was it going? Honestly? She didn’t know how to answer that without sounding like she was unraveling.
The truth was, it wasn’t going well.
But saying that outright… it felt like an admission of failure. Like she’d be confessing something she hadn’t even accepted herself.
“I’m trying,” she said eventually, voice quiet. “It’s... challenging. I’m still figuring it out.”
Her fingers slipped through her long black hair, pushing it back as she tried to hide the wear in her voice.
He nodded, thoughtful.
“I get that,” he replied after a beat. “I couldn’t sleep either. I’ve got one too, and they just told me to be ‘ready for anything.’” He smiled, sheepish. “So of course, my brain’s been spinning trying to figure out what that means.”
She looked at him again—really looked—and noticed the way his hand fidgeted by his side, the slight furrow in his brow, the way his eyes drifted unfocused for a second as he started quietly muttering to himself.
Overthinking. As always.
But somehow, instead of irritating her, it made her feel… understood.
Comforted, even.
They were all being pushed to their limits. Not just her. And maybe that was the point of these finals. Not to break them, but to see what they’d do when things felt unsteady.
“Midoriya,” she said sharply, interrupting his muttering spiral. “Let me guess—you’ve been awake all night overthinking it too.”
He blinked, caught, and scratched the back of his head with a nervous laugh. “You got me. They didn’t really tell me anything except to ‘be prepared,’ so now I’m imagining, like, twelve possible outcomes and none of them make sense.”
She nodded, sympathetic. That kind of ambiguity would rattle anyone—but especially someone like him.
There was a pause—brief, but enough.
In that moment, she realized just how much they had in common. Not just as classmates or hero students, but as people. Driven. Overwhelmed. Trying their best not to fall short of the expectations they carried.
“Momo,” he said, a bit more firmly this time, pulling her from her thoughts.
She looked up again, eyes meeting his.
“What if we work together on this?” he offered. “Not the final itself, of course. But tonight—let me help with your design.”
She blinked once.
“You’re serious?”
He nodded without hesitation. “Of course. I mean—if you’re okay with it.”
For just a second, the weight on her shoulders eased. Not gone entirely—but lighter. She felt it in the way her breathing slowed, in the way her hand didn’t tremble when she reached up to close the book just slightly.
“That would be... nice.”
“Then it’s settled,” he said, already pulling over a chair.
He sat beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world—like showing up and offering to help was just another part of who he was.
And maybe it was.
Maybe that’s why she didn’t feel quite so alone anymore.
“All right, so this is what I’ve come up with so far—the theories I’ve been working through,” Momo explained, passing over the few pages filled with diagrams and notes.
He took it, glancing down as his eyes moved across the sketches. She waited.
Seconds ticked by. No reaction.
The quiet stretched just long enough to twist in her chest. Maybe he thought it was clumsy. Maybe he was trying to find the most polite way to say it wasn’t enough. She should’ve double-checked the alloys again. Maybe the structural sequencing was off. Maybe—
“I have to admit,” Izuku said, voice soft, “you’re way smarter than me.”
She blinked.
That smile—that one he always wore when he meant it, no edge, no angle—rose on his face. It hit harder than anything she’d braced for. It caught her completely off guard.
Warmth slipped through her before she could stop it.
He looked back down, fingers tapping lightly against the corner of the diagram. “It looks like you’re going for something really big. Ambitious. Something that’ll knock them off their feet.”
She didn’t answer. It wasn’t really a question.
“But... complexity breaks under pressure.” His tone wasn’t judging—just thoughtful, measured. “The more layers you build in, the more points of failure you introduce. You’ve probably already realized that, given the material splits here.”
He turned the page, gently, and let it rest between them again.
“I think you’re brilliant. I think this whole thing is brilliant,” he said. “But maybe there’s a simpler path to something just as impressive. Or maybe not even impressive—just solid. There’s a phrase someone once told me: ‘Keep it simple, stupid.’”
The last line landed softer than she expected.
Her hands drifted back toward the page, fingertips resting lightly near the center of the top diagram. That phrase circled in her head, loud in its clarity.
Keep it simple, stupid.
Not showy. Not complicated. Not a grand attempt to prove her worth.
Just something that worked.
She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but maybe a part of her had been trying to prove something—to the teachers, to the class, maybe even to herself. Trying to be flawless. Trying to be exceptional. And in the chase for that perfection, she’d let go of the very thing her creations were supposed to be: useful.
Before she could spiral too far, she felt the warmth.
His hand, resting on hers. No warning. No big gesture. Just there.
She looked up, the weight in her chest catching for a moment when she met his expression.
“It's okay,” he said, quietly. “I got you.”
The words weren’t clever or poetic. They didn’t have to be.
They just settled—warm, grounding, steady.
Her fingers tightened slightly under his, not to hold back, but to say she heard him.
He smiled again.
“So,” he said, “why don’t we start from the beginning, work through the base idea, and maybe—just maybe—get a few hours of sleep before class?”
She didn’t smile exactly. But something in her exhale felt closer to it.
“…All right.”