The rooftop hadn’t changed much since your HPSC days. Same cold wind, same hum of the city below, same ledge you and Keigo used to sit on after training, too exhausted to move but too stubborn to leave.

Now, years later, you were both pros, and you were here again—this time because Keigo dragged you up after patrol.

“Happy birthday, old timer,” he said, stretching his wings lazily.

“You’re literally the same age as me,” you muttered.

“Yeah, but I age gracefully,” he shot back. “You? Questionable.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. It had been a long day—long enough that you’d almost forgotten it was your birthday. Not that you made a big deal about it. You hadn’t planned anything, hadn’t told anyone. But Keigo always remembered.

You both sat in comfortable silence for a while, letting the wind do most of the talking. It was like muscle memory—the way you two ended up here when things got too loud, too overwhelming. Some habits never died.

Keigo suddenly nudged your shoulder with his own. “So, any birthday wishes?”

You huffed. “Not really.”

“Liar.”

You shot him a look, but he just grinned, sharp and knowing.

“Fine,” you sighed. “I wish for—”

Before you could finish, he flicked a feather—sending a small, neatly wrapped package into your lap.

“Open it later,” he said quickly. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

You shook your head with a small smile. Same old Keigo.

Same old tradition.