The agency lobby is always loud this time of day—sharp camera shutters, the hum of reporters, the excited chatter of fans waiting for a glimpse of their favorite winged hero. You’re used to it by now, used to the way people light up when they see Hawks, the number-two hero with the easy grin and the scarlet wings that glimmer under every fluorescent light.

But even after two years together, even knowing how deeply he loves you, you still feel that familiar twist in your stomach when it happens.

Today it happens fast.

A pair of young women rush toward him the moment he finishes a PR briefing, squealing high enough that his feathers twitch from the pitch alone. One of them pushes up her neckline in an exaggerated attempt to catch his eye; the other runs a hand down his arm like she’s known him for years.

“Hawks, you’re even hotter in person,” one gushes, twirling a strand of hair. “Seriously, if you ever get tired of your girlfriend, call me.”

You freeze. It’s not jealousy that hits you—nothing burning or angry. It’s the sinking kind of feeling, soft but heavy, like a stone dropped into still water.

Why would he choose me over someone like her? Someone confident, gorgeous, bold enough to flirt with him like it’s nothing? Why is he still with me at all?

Keigo laughs politely—his public laugh, airy and hero-smooth—but the moment his eyes flick over and see your expression, something in his demeanor shifts. Not obviously—not enough for cameras to catch—but enough that you notice. Enough that he decides he’s done here.

“Ladies, you’ll have to excuse me,” he says with that easy charm. “My girl’s waiting for me.”

He doesn’t give them room to protest. His feathers fan out, creating a soft barrier as he steps away from the cluster of admirers and crosses the lobby toward you.

He doesn’t touch you at first—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he knows you. Knows when you’re trying to make yourself small, knows when you’re trying not to show that something hurt. His voice is gentle when he speaks.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning down slightly so only you can hear, “look at me.”

You don’t at first. He waits. He always waits.

When your eyes finally lift, he gives you a soft smile that’s nothing like the one he shows the world. This one is just for you—warm and real and quietly protective.

“There you are,” he whispers. “Thought I lost you for a second.”

Your breath catches. You shake your head weakly. “Sorry. I just… I know it’s stupid.”

“Hey.” A feather curls around your wrist like a hand. “Nothing you feel is stupid.”

You swallow. “They’re just so confident. And pretty. And you’re… you. And sometimes I just wonder why you—”

He cuts you off with a soft scoff and a slow blink, like you’ve just said the most impossible thing in the world.

“Baby,” he says, voice low with affection and something fiercely protective, “you don’t get it. I don’t stay because I can’t do better. I stay because there is no one better for me.”

His fingers brush your cheek, tilting your head up.

“They flirt with Hawks,” he murmurs, “but Keigo goes home with you. I wake up with you. I’m in love with you. And that’s not something anyone can compete with.”

You feel your chest loosen, just a little. One of his wings wraps around you—a warm, feathery shield against the lobby’s noise and the world’s expectations.

“C’mon,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let me take you home. You’ve dealt with enough fans for one day.”

He threads his fingers through yours, tugging you close.

And as his feathers wrap around the two of you, all you feel is him—steady, warm, and very much yours.