You and Keigo used to be everywhere together. Side by side during drills, covert grins during late-night debriefs, bruised but laughing under harsh training lights. The HPSC called it potential compatibility—like it was data.

But it wasn’t. It was just you and him. A rhythm.

Then he turned 18. Became Japan’s youngest Pro Hero. And you?

You got pulled out. Moved across the sea. New country. New agency. New everything.

You thought distance would make it easier.

It didn’t.

A few months into your new life, a journalist slid a mic in your face during a hero spotlight. Bright lights. Cameras. The question was casual: “Do you ever miss anyone from back home?”

You hesitated. Then smiled, soft and slow.

“There’s someone who used to fly me home after training. He never said much—but he always waited until I got inside first.” You shrugged, eyes glinting. “He liked spicy chips. Hated paperwork. Fastest I’ve ever seen anyone move—except when it came to his feelings.”

The audience chuckled. The host laughed.

But Keigo?

Keigo saw the clip that night, half-awake on his couch, still in uniform. And he knew. Instantly.

The next flight to Tokyo landed on a gray Thursday.

You stepped through Narita’s arrival gate, tugging your duffel behind you—and froze.

He was standing there.

Wings tucked tight. Hair a little longer. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets. No cameras. No press.

Just Keigo.

You blinked. “How—”

“You always looked left first,” he said. “At every door. Every exit. I thought… if you ever came back, you’d look this way first.”

Your breath hitched.

“I saw your interview,” he added, voice lower. “Spicy chips, huh?”

You laughed—short, stunned. “Still hate paperwork?”

“More than ever.”

Then quieter, “I missed you.”

The airport buzzed around you. People came and went. But Keigo stood still, waiting.

Like he always did.

“I’m home for a while,” you said.

He smiled. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”

And just like before—without needing permission—he walked beside you again.