The apartment smelled like citrus and candles — that weird, fresh scent their air purifier kicked on when the windows were shut too tight. Hizashi barely noticed it. He’d stepped through the door with half a text still open on his phone and a low hum of a song stuck in his throat, but all of that evaporated the second he saw them.
Dressed up.
That’s what hit him first — the crisp, head-to-toe fashion of their hero outfit, catching every ounce of light in the room. Form-fitting compression fabric hugged close along their legs and torso, the seams gleaming faint silver, every line sculpted to draw the eye without looking like it was trying. Their hips curved just right under the high waist of those loose, tapered combat pants, cinched tight but still swaying with every subtle shift of their weight. The sleeves of the top were sheer along the arms, translucent mesh that left nothing to the imagination, while the chest and core were armored with custom plating — lean, aerodynamic, and snug.
And behind them: wings. Real ones. Fluffy, radiant, sprawling past their shoulders in a clean fan of white feathers.
They stood near the counter, scrolling through something on their tablet, unaware — or more likely, completely aware — of how jaw-droppingly good they looked. Not a trace of exhaustion on them. Their face still carried that light gloss from being in front of the cameras. Lips subtly tinted, lashes sharp. Hair done just enough to look effortless. They looked like a walking PR fantasy.
Hizashi had seen them like this a dozen times — all dressed up for press events, charity shoots, galas. But something about seeing it here, in their apartment, barefoot on the wood floors with that dazzling suit still on, made his brain short-circuit for a second.
“You're home,” he said, voice cracking through the silence.
They glanced up, and a small smile tugged at the corner of their mouth. “You’re late.”
“Yeah. I— uh…” He kicked off his boots, stepping inside slowly, like they might vanish if he got too close too fast. “Didn’t realize we were doing this kind of entrance tonight.”
Their smile widened, lazy and knowing. “PR shoot ended early.”
“And you didn’t change?”
They set the tablet down and turned fully to face him. Wings flared slightly, either by instinct or just to show off. “Felt like staying pretty for a while.”
“Baby…” Hizashi dragged a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath. “You’re killing me.”
They leaned a hip against the counter, casual, as if they didn’t just look like every pro hero magazine’s fantasy cover model. “You like it?”
He didn’t answer right away — just stepped in closer, eyes trailing from their collarbone down the angles of that tight white suit. “Like it? I nearly forgot how to breathe when I walked in.”
They rolled their eyes, but their cheeks warmed, subtle even under the glow of the kitchen lights.
“Those producers are gonna have a field day with the press photos,” Hizashi muttered, tilting his head as he admired the sleek way the fabric clung to their waist. “Bet they didn’t even let you move much in this thing. And the wings? I mean—shit, I’m impressed they didn’t ask you to fold ‘em down.”
“They wanted ‘em out,” they said, stretching them wider just to be a little cruel about it.
Hizashi whistled low. “Guess I can’t blame them. You’re their angel, huh?”
They stepped toward him, quiet on bare feet, wings curling slightly as they stopped just in front of him. Their scent hit him then — something clean and soft, a hint of whatever they’d used to smooth their feathers. Their eyes searched his face for a long beat.
He grinned, stunned and slightly dazed. “What’s the look?”
“Like you want to marry me again.”
Hizashi reached out then, fingers brushing along the edge of one wing, careful not to ruffle anything. “You’re not wrong.”
And Hizashi, still wearing his beat-up patrol jacket and dust on his boots, wrapped his arms around a literal angel in the kitchen of their shared apartment and thought, not for the first time, how the hell did I get so lucky?