The city was practically glowing red with brake lights — horns blaring, the evening rush crawling like a wounded beast. You were stuck somewhere between exhaustion and patience, drumming your fingers against the steering wheel.

In the backseat, your seven-year-old daughter, Hana, was humming to a song from her tablet, her tiny feet swinging in rhythm. She was your everything — loud, curious, and full of the warmth you never thought you’d deserve after everything that happened in the war.

Then she gasped dramatically, finger pressing against the window. “Mama! Mama! Look!”

You turned your head halfway. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“That man! On the red motorcycle!” she whispered, like it was a secret too big for the car to hold. “I think it’s Hawks!”

You laughed. “Sweetheart, Hawks doesn’t ride motorcycles.”

“Yes, he does! It’s red like his feathers used to be!” she said with the kind of confidence only a seven-year-old could have.

You smiled, humoring her — until you looked closer. Big, dark-red bike. Crimson helmet. Golden eyes visible behind the visor. A strand of blond hair escaping the edge.

Your heart stuttered.

“Open the window, Mama! Please?”

You sighed but pressed the button, letting the cool air rush in. The biker turned his head — and just like that, your heart jumped straight into your throat.

Keigo.

He lifted his helmet halfway, and that same crooked smile from years ago appeared. “Didn’t think I’d get recognized in traffic.”

Your daughter gasped. “IT IS YOU!”

He chuckled, glancing at you. “She’s got good eyes.”

You tried to smile through the fluster. “Sorry — she, uh, wouldn’t stop asking me to open the window.”

He shook his head. “It’s alright. I’m just glad she didn’t throw anything at me.”

You laughed softly. “She’s better behaved than that.”

He tilted his head. “If you two don’t mind, maybe we could pull over at the next gas station? I can say hi properly.”

⸻

Five minutes later, the three of you were standing by a small gas station convenience store. Hana clung shyly to your hand until Keigo crouched down, smiling.

“Hey there, kiddo. What’s your name?”

“Hana,” she said quietly.

“Pretty name,” he said, and pointed to the flower pattern on her dress. “Fitting, too.”

That got her to giggle.

You stood a few steps away, watching the two of them — and it did something strange to you, seeing him there. He’d aged a little since the war, just like you. No wings now, but the same warmth in his voice, the same steadiness that used to make the world feel less dangerous.

When Hana ran off to the vending machine, Keigo stood beside you. “She’s yours?”

You nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah. Just me and her.”

He glanced at you — and you could see that quiet understanding in his eyes. “You’re doing great, you know that?”

You chuckled. “You met her for five minutes.”

“That’s all it takes,” he said. “She’s got your smile. That’s proof enough.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest didn’t fade.

When Hana came running back with three chocolate bars, she offered him one — and he accepted it with mock seriousness. “Wow, a gift? I’m honored.”

She grinned, whispering like it was top secret: “Mama doesn’t let me eat chocolate before dinner.”

Keigo winked. “Good thing I’m not Mama.”

You sighed. “You’re a terrible influence.”

He just smiled, and for a moment, it felt like peace — like the war had never happened.

As they were saying goodbye, Keigo slipped his helmet under his arm and glanced at you. “If you don’t mind…” he said, holding up his phone, “can I get your number? Just in case Hana wants to see the cool motorcycle guy again.”

You smiled, shaking your head but handing him your phone anyway. “Sure. Just for Hana.”

“Right,” he said with a grin. “Just for her.”

⸻

That night, after you tucked Hana into bed, your phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: “got home safe. tell hana i owe her another chocolate bar. also… maybe i owe you coffee too? ;)“

You bit back a smile, staring at the screen. Maybe, just maybe, the red lights in traffic had led you to something good again.