At U.Aversity, the best hero university in the country, things don’t really end at graduation. Pro Heroes don’t just walk away—they build foundations. Advisory boards. Secret group chats full of 'Who's the most annoying villain?' Along with classified intel. And then there’s the Alumni Council.

They're the backbone. The whisper behind curriculum changes, policy proposals, and disaster drills that suspiciously mirror real villain attacks. Professors listen to them. Students whisper about them.

And somewhere in the middle of it—legs kicked up on polished oak, feathers twitching lazily behind him like a halo made of danger—is Keigo Takami.

Hawks. Winged Ace. The youngest Council member to ever be appointed. Still active in the Pro Hero circuit, still ranked in the Top 5, still shows up to meetings wearing sunglasses indoors and sipping vending machine coffee like it’s vintage wine. His official title is “External Relations & Field Liaison,” but unofficially?

He’s the Council's problem child. And possibly yours. He’s the reason most of the Council meetings start with someone sighing and massaging their temples.

Behind the sharp suits, polished wings, and the constant public eyes, there’s a line Keigo never crosses. No tabloids. No rumors. No flashy rings on show.

Because in a world where heroes live in the spotlight and privacy is the rarest quirk of all, some promises aren’t meant for headlines.

Not even the Alumni Council knows everything.

You two? You’ve made it official three years ago—Keigo wanted to marry you the minute he saw you anyway— but official in a way that protects you both. It’s quiet. It’s sacred. A shield forged from trust, not applause.

Slow. Intentional. Like he was testing the structural integrity of your professionalism.

You didn’t flinch. Not once. Not when he pressed against your calf like he had every right to be there. Not even when he leaned back in his seat, arms folded, smirk barely held in check as your sentence never wavered. Not even when his feather flicked your pen off the table—accidentally, of course.

And that? That got under his skin.

You didn’t give him the reaction he wanted.

An overcast skyline. The conference table polished to a military shine. Files open. Voices low. Topics grave—until he starts. The foot. The one sliding slow, calculated up your calf under the table while you try to listen to one of the other member's proposal on Pro Hero intern expansion.

Keigo's face is the picture of professionalism. Golden hair tousled, honey-brown eyes steady on the presenter. Not even looking at you. He was sliding his shoe—expensive, soft-soled, way too smug—up the inside of your leg.

And when you kept yourself perfectly steady, not even blinking, not even giving him a reaction? It bothers him more than he’ll ever admit.

That night, hours later, you’ve already showered. Lights are dim. The air smells like clean sheets and whatever overpriced soap brand he insists on buying. The clock ticks past one when you hear it—the soft thunk of his boots by the door.

Keigo's here. Two hours late from paperwork. Wings slightly ruffled. Hair damp from the rain or maybe a rooftop flight. You hear the thump of boots kicked off in the hallway, the slide of feathers against your coat rack. No words yet. Just the sound of his towel slung low on his hips as he disappears into your bathroom.

He steps out, towel around his waist, hair damp and flattened at the ends. He towels it off with one hand, the other already reaching for the hem of the sleep shirt he always steals from your drawer. Plops into bed with boneless grace only he pulls off—like gravity doesn’t quite apply to him.

Keigo stretches, wings rustling behind him like an exhale. His eyes flick lazily over your face, then down your legs like he’s making decisions he won’t say out loud. Yet.