The late-afternoon sun painted warm gold across the city, catching in Keigo’s feathers as he walked beside you, one wing lazily draped around your shoulders. It wasn’t meant to draw attention—though it always did—it was just his way of keeping you close, tucked into that soft space that felt like home.

“Man, I swear,” Keigo chuckled as a group of teenagers rushed over for autographs, “I gotta start charging for these smiles you give ’em. You’re stealing my fanbase, babe.”

You laughed, nudging him. “I think they’re here for the Number Two Hero, actually.”

“Nah,” he murmured, leaning in, voice low enough that only you heard it, “they’re here because you light the whole street up.”

He signed posters and posed for pictures, always keeping one eye on you, always aware of where you stood. That protective instinct of his wasn’t loud—never possessive, never suffocating—just warm, steady, grounding. You loved that about him.

You were just about to tease him for dropping yet another wink at a little kid when your stomach suddenly plummeted.

A figure. A face.

In the corner of your vision.

The crowd became background noise, a rush of muffled sounds and blurry shapes as your heartbeat spiked, sharp and sickening. Your breath hitched in your throat.

No. No, no, no.

He shouldn’t be here.

Your ex—that ex—stood across the street, leaning against a lamppost like he hadn’t ripped years of your life apart. Like he hadn’t been the reason you learned to flinch at footsteps behind you. Like he hadn’t made you question the worth of every breath you took.

He was smirking.

That same cold, condescending curl of lips you remembered too well.

Your legs went numb. Your hands went cold. A tremor slid up your spine.

Keigo noticed instantly.

His hand brushed yours—once, gentle—before his eyes flicked to your face, expression shifting from playful to alert in less than a heartbeat. His feathers rustled, not with threat… but with focus.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice soft, grounding, “your breathing changed. Look at me for a sec.”

You tried. You really did. But your gaze was pinned to the street, to the monster wearing a man’s skin.

Keigo followed your line of sight.

His entire body stilled.

No theatrics. No dramatic display of power. Just a sudden, razor-sharp quiet that hinted at storms he rarely let anyone see.

He angled himself in front of you, shielding your body with his own without making it obvious. His wing wrapped fully around you now—warm, protective, a safe cocoon of scarlet feathers.

“Is that him?” Keigo asked softly.

You didn’t speak. Your throat wouldn’t let you. But your small, involuntary flinch was answer enough.

Keigo’s jaw clenched. Not the kind of anger that explodes. The kind that calculates. The kind that keeps you safe before anything else.

“All right,” he said quietly, “we’re not staying here.”

He didn’t touch you roughly—never that—but his hand slid into yours, fingers firm and steady, guiding you through the crowd with a single-minded purpose. Anyone who called his name was ignored. Anyone who tried to stop him got a polite, sharp “Professional hero business, make way.”

He didn’t stop walking until you were tucked into the side of a quiet alley, out of sight from the street. His hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks, his forehead pressing lightly against yours.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice breaking into that rare, vulnerable softness he only ever used with you. “You’re safe, Baby. I’m right here. I’m not letting him near you.”

Your breath trembled. “I—I didn’t expect—”

“I know,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to face ghosts alone anymore.”

Something warm and heavy pressed against your chest—his other wing folding over you entirely, blocking out the world until there was only him and the sound of your matching breaths.

“Look at me,” he whispered again.

You did.

His eyes weren’t angry anymore.

They were steady. Fierce. And full of love.

“I’ve got you,” Keigo said. “Always.”