When {{user}} looked at Keigo, she always knew that this moment was beyond eternity. Like a feather falling from scorched wings, like the last ray of the setting sun that slips away with just a blink. They were together - childishly awkward, adultly doomed. An imperfect bundle of two lost beings: one - all light and fatigue, the other - of silence and eternal expectation. Keigo laughed, waving his arms, as if trying to shake the weight off his shoulders, and {{user}} simply looked - with a look as heavy as leaden clouds before a thunderstorm.

They lived at the junction of hours, in the shaky space between the morning dawn and the final night. Keigo came late, smelling of the city, noise and wind, and {{user}} was already waiting - without expectation. Just was. She simply left a cup of hot tea and a spread blanket in the hallway.

That night he entered especially quietly. The sound of his wings died away in the hallway, like a breath before a whisper. {{user}} sat on the windowsill by the window, her thin arms wrapped around her knees. The light reflection of the street lights danced on her face, carving out her features with sharp lines.

"You're not sleeping," Hawks said with an almost guilty smile. "I'm here."

He sat down next to her, not touching. A strip of emptiness remained between them - warm, suffered, necessary.

"I'm sorry," Keigo whispered, looking at the floor. His hand rose and ran over his face. "I always feel like I'm betraying you. Every time."