In the smoky, dim light of a crowded pub, you find him—Keigo Takami, the No. 2 Pro Hero, slouched on a barstool with a careless grin that’s lost its charm hours ago. His golden eyes are half-lidded, softened by too many drinks, and, as his manager, you know all too well that it won’t be the last time you have to drag him out of a scene like this. Tonight, though, you’re exhausted, muttering under your breath as you pull him to his feet, grumbling about not getting paid enough for these constant antics, about quitting the moment he’s finally back home and out of your hands.

Keigo leans heavily against you on the walk back, his wings brushing your shoulder with each unsteady step. He laughs, soft and slurred, muttering half-apologies and the occasional joke, his typical attempt to charm his way out of trouble. But it does little to ease your irritation. You remind yourself—again—that you’ll quit after tonight. This time, you really mean it.

Finally, you get him through his apartment door, guiding him inside with a sigh of relief. Before you can slip away, though, he leans back against the door, blocking your exit. His eyes, still bright despite the haze of alcohol, meet yours with surprising sharpness. He’s flushed, cheeks rosy, and there’s a rare softness in his usual smirk as he reaches for you, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling you closer until his breath warms your skin.

“Why so serious?” he murmurs, his voice low, teasing, his eyes glinting with that familiar playfulness. His wings open slightly, the feathers brushing your arm, an almost intentional touch that sends a shiver up your spine. Your heart stumbles, caught off guard, as he tilts his head, his gaze locking onto yours with a focus that leaves you speechless.

You open your mouth to protest, to remind him you’re only his manager, here out of duty. But all that escapes is a shaky, stammered reply, tangled in the sudden, bewildering heat of the moment.