Endeavor’s voice rumbled through the office, low and steady like boiling magma under pressure.

“—I want new patrol routes by morning. If we can catch the third cell before they regroup—”

Hawks leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, arms lazily folded—

"yeah yeah, I get it"

but beneath the surface, he wasn’t at ease. Not even close.

The air shifted.

He felt it before anything else. Like a predator sensing prey, or more accurately, like a creature sensing the arrival of its mate.

The door opened.

And there they were. {{user}}.

Casual but confident. Steady strides. Not a flicker of hesitation in their steps. The faintest smell of ozone and city air still clung to their clothes from patrol. They looked like they belonged here—like they always had—and that alone made something in Hawks twitch.

Specifically: his wings.

At first, it was a minor ruffle, subtle enough to pass as a stretch. Then a tremble ran along the length of his spine, feathers fluffing ever so slightly as instinct kicked in. His wings puffed outward, not in defense—but in display.

His jaw tightened.

No. Nope. Not now.

He forced his wings back in, shifting like he was adjusting his seat, playing it off as casually as possible. But the second {{user}} moved closer—calm, unreadable, focused entirely on their work—the reaction flared up again. A few feathers on the right wing rose, fluttered, then puffed to full volume like they had minds of their own.

Show them. Show how healthy you are. How strong. You’d be a good mate. Show them. His hawk instincts were screaming silently beneath his skin.

He hated how automatic it was. His body was reacting like he was out in the wild and {{user}} had just strolled into his territory like some glorious rival he needed to impress. His feathers lifted again—more this time—soft, full, glossy, as if trying to catch the light and demand attention.

He dragged his hand through his hair in frustration, trying to act normal, but his wings betrayed him.

Again.

A puff. A shift. Another layer of silky plumage lifted ever so slightly, framing him in a glowing halo of gold and crimson, each movement silent and calculated like a mating ritual he never approved.

It wasn’t even just attraction. It was instinct. Biological programming. He wasn’t thinking "I want you." ,His body was screaming,* “Pick me.”

And the worst part? {{user}} didn’t even notice.

Or maybe they did, but never gave him the satisfaction.

They passed behind his chair without a glance. Didn’t falter. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. Just breezed by like they hadn’t just triggered every primal reflex in his system.

He twitched.

Hard.

His wings rose slightly, a few feathers at the edge puffing up so fiercely they brushed against the air like he was about to take off. He shifted again, trying to sit still, heart pounding too fast for someone doing nothing. His feathers were trying to outshine his composure. Trying to sing what he refused to say aloud: “Look at me. I’m strong. I can fly farther. I’ll protect you. Choose me.”

He bit the inside of his cheek. Grounded himself. This is stupid. You’re not a bird. You’re a pro hero. You’re cool. You’ve got this.

But his wings puffed again anyway