Keigo wasn’t in his office.

That was the first sign something was wrong. Hawks never missed post-mission debriefs—not even when he was bleeding.

You found him exactly where you guessed he’d be: back corner of the hero agency roof, knees pulled to his chest, wings loose and drooping like they weighed a hundred pounds.

You didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him.

For a while, he didn’t look at you. Didn’t move. You could see the quiet storm in his eyes—self-doubt, pressure, guilt. The same look he had when you were fifteen and he got benched after failing a recon drill.

Eventually, he muttered, “You ever feel like… you blinked, and everything just went sideways?”

You leaned your head back against the wall, close but not touching. “Every other Tuesday.”

That got a ghost of a smile.

But his grip on that patch didn’t loosen. His feathers drooped in ways most people didn’t notice—but you always did.

“I messed up,” he said quietly. “Press is on my neck, civilians are spooked, and I almost lost a kid today. I was too slow.”

“You weren’t,” you said.

“I was.”

You glanced at him, then scooted in without a word. Brushed his hair gently from his forehead. And pressed a kiss right to the center of it—soft, steady, like always.

He tensed for a second. Then exhaled, long and shaky.

You remembered—

Keigo, age 12. Curled in the HPSC locker room after a failed solo mission. Shoulders shaking. Wings dragging. You’d sat beside him, glared at the door, and kissed his forehead without saying a word. He didn’t cry. But he leaned into it.

Another time—age 15. He was pacing before a ranking exam, muttering numbers like a lifeline. You caught him, grabbed his hoodie, kissed his forehead again.

It became habit. A ritual. No one else ever saw it. Only you.

Now, older, worn down by headlines and loss, he let you do it again like it was still instinct.

“You still do that,” he said, voice rough.

“You still need it.”

He leaned his head back with a soft huff. “You used to hate me.”

“You were loud. Fast. Full of yourself.”

He turned toward you with a faint grin. “You were quiet, competitive, and full of attitude. Perfect match.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’re not a match.”

“We could be.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He just grinned wider. “Still.”

But that was the thing. You weren’t dating. You never had. You were just… Keigo and you. Best friends since the beginning. Not whatever people always assumed when they saw how close you were.

And you both liked it that way.

“I still have that note you wrote,” you said after a beat. “‘When we’re pros, I’m making you mine.’ Underlined. With a heart.”

He groaned. “I was fifteen and delusional.”

“You still are.”

He smiled, eyes softer now. “Hey. You’ll always be mine, right?”

“As long as you stop acting like you carry the whole world.”

“…Deal.”

He nudged your arm.

“…Skill issue,” he added.