The world still spoke his name with awe—Hawks, the man who flew higher than most heroes dreamed. But now, the air was heavier. His wings were gone. His quirk was silent, carved away by All For One like a piece of his soul, leaving only phantom sensations across his back when he moved too quickly or leaned too long in one spot.

The Hero Public Safety Commission headquarters felt different now that he was walking its halls instead of swooping into top-floor balconies. And as its newly instated president, he carried himself with a smile so perfect it was practically policy.

But you knew better.

You’d fought beside him before the war—two pros who understood each other’s pace, rhythm, and style. When they offered you a transfer into the Commission as his field liaison, you didn’t hesitate.

Someone needed to be there for him. Not Hawks—the symbol. Keigo.

He hid his discomfort well, trading sharp feathers for sharper diplomacy. Meetings, press briefings, policy drafts—all things he handled with practiced ease, but the quiet moments gave him away.

The way his hand twitched when he stood near open windows. The absent-minded flex in his shoulders where wings used to spread. The seconds too long he stared at the sky.

The Commission called it “a tactical adjustment period.” You called it what it was—grief.

So you didn’t push. You just showed up.

You walked him to morning briefings instead of letting him take the elevator alone. You rearranged his office so the chair didn’t dig uncomfortably into his back. You made a habit of lingering after hours with tea and mission reports so he didn’t work in silence.

And he let you in—not all at once, but piece by piece.

One evening, after a grueling policy session, you found him alone in his new office. The windows were open, the city far below. He’d taken off his hero coat, sleeves rolled up, back facing you. The scars where his wings once attached were still red in places.

He didn’t turn when you stepped in. “Feel like I should be somewhere else,” he murmured, staring out. “Higher.”

You leaned against the door frame. “Being grounded doesn’t mean you’re not soaring.”

That made him exhale—a tired, broken sort of laugh.

You crossed the room and set a hand on the back of his chair. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

For the first time since the war ended, he let the smile drop completely.

He didn’t speak for a full minute. Then softly—almost guiltily—

“Does it bother you? Working with me like this? No feathers, no flights, no saves?”

You shook your head. “I didn’t work with you because you could fly. I worked with you because you’re Keigo.”

He finally looked at you then, something unguarded flickering in his eyes.

Over the following weeks:

You took over the physical field briefings he used to fly to, and he trusted you without question.

You accompanied him to rehabilitation consultations—not for powers, but posture, scar sensitivity, stress.

When the press circled like vultures, you were there at his shoulder, steady and immovable.

One morning, when the elevator doors opened, he bumped your arm lightly with his elbow.

“You know,” he said, glancing sideways, “if they’d told me losing my wings meant getting stuck with you full-time, I might’ve taken the hit sooner.”

You snorted. “You’re not charming enough to spin that.”

He grinned, and this time, it reached his eyes.

It wasn’t dramatic or miraculous. He didn’t immediately accept his losses, and you didn’t try to make him.

But you were there for the small things:

The quiet mornings when phantom wings ached.

The days the chair felt wrong or meetings dragged too long.

The pauses between breaths where the silence threatened to swallow him whole.

And little by little, the Commission stopped calling it accommodation and started calling it leadership in transition.

You just called it staying by his side.