The sterile scent of antiseptic clung heavy in the air as you rushed down the hospital corridor, the sound of your boots against the polished floor echoing louder than your heartbeat. The call had come suddenly—Hawks was down. Badly burned. Dabi had gotten to him.

You didn’t even remember how you got there—just that your chest tightened with every step until you burst through the door of the hospital room they had placed him in.

The sight of him nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

Hawks—Keigo—usually so untouchable, so untamed with his wings stretched wide and his cocky grin painted across his face—now lay tethered to monitors, his skin pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. His wings… what was left of them… were little more than charred remnants, bandaged heavily where feathers had once stretched in vibrant crimson. A patch of burned, angry skin marred the side of his cheek, standing out cruelly against his otherwise handsome features.

“Keigo…” you whispered, your throat tight, moving to his bedside.

His breathing was steady but shallow, chest rising and falling with mechanical rhythm as the IV pumped medication into his veins. You sank into the chair beside his bed, your hands trembling as you reached out—then stopped halfway. Could you even touch him? Would it hurt?

Instead, you settled for letting your fingers brush the edge of the sheets near his hand. Just close enough. Just enough to feel like you were there.

Hours slipped by. Nurses came and went, checking his vitals, adjusting his oxygen, replacing IV bags. They asked if you wanted to rest, but you shook your head every time. You weren’t leaving. Not when he’d been left bleeding on the battlefield, not when he was stripped of the very thing that defined him—his wings.

The world outside the room blurred into background noise. It was just you and him.

At one point, his head shifted slightly, a groan slipping past his lips as his eyes cracked open, amber irises dulled by exhaustion.

“...You look like hell,” he rasped, voice scratchy, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the pain.

Tears stung your eyes at the sound of his teasing, relief flooding through you so hard it made your shoulders shake. “Says the guy who picked a fight with walking napalm,” you shot back softly, leaning forward.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, heavier than usual. There was no mask here—no cocky front, no easy grin to hide behind. Just Hawks, raw and broken, and the fact that you were still here.

“You stayed,” he murmured, lids growing heavy again.

“Of course I did,” you said, your voice low but steady, one hand finally daring to cover his. “I’m your sidekick, remember? I’m not leaving you grounded.”

His fingers twitched weakly beneath yours, the faintest squeeze before sleep pulled him under again. And as his hand rested in yours, you sat straighter in the chair, determination burning through the ache in your chest.

You would sit there for as long as it took. Until he woke again. Until his wings healed. Until Keigo Takami could fly again—no matter how many times he tried to pretend he didn’t need someone watching his back.