You hadn’t heard his name spoken out loud in a long time.

Not his real one. Not Keigo.

People said Hawks now, like it was some shining badge instead of a boy you used to know.

The boy who once fell asleep mid-sentence on your shoulder. Who laughed with his whole chest, even when he had nothing to be laughing about. The boy who told you he didn’t want to be a weapon — he wanted to be free.

You never got to ask if that ever happened. Because the Commission took him before he got the chance to find out.

⸻

You were at a bookstore.

Of all places. Quiet. Tucked away. Rain tapping at the windows. You had your headphones in, a half-read poetry collection in one hand, and your heart very much in the past where you thought it belonged.

Until you looked up.

And there he was.

A few steps away. Hands in his coat pockets. Standing so still you weren’t sure if he’d only just appeared or if he’d been there long enough to see the moment your breath caught.

He wasn’t in hero gear. No wings visible. Just Keigo.

Older. Tired. Almost… uncertain.

Like he wasn’t sure if he should say something, or if saying anything would break you both in half.

Your eyes met.

No one moved.

No one looked away.

Time did something strange in that moment—like the years between you folded in on themselves, and you were kids again, on the roof of your old apartment, talking about a future that never came true.

There were a thousand things you could’ve said.

“You left.” “I waited.” “Do you still remember me?” “Do you still feel like you?”

But nothing came out.

Just silence. Heavy, fragile, full of things neither of you had the right to ask anymore.

The air smelled like rain.

The pages in your hand had stopped making sense.

His lips parted. Like maybe, maybe he would say your name.

And you—

You still hadn’t decided what you’d do if he did.