The sound of familiar, light footsteps entered the training room, but you didn’t look up. You sat cross-legged on the floor, absentmindedly picking at the edges of your gloves. The sparring session had ended an hour ago, but you’d stayed behind, pretending to stretch when in reality, you were just trying to avoid heading home.

You hadn’t noticed Hawks leaning casually against the doorway, studying you with a quiet concern that didn’t quite match his usual easygoing demeanor. He tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he observed your body language. Something was off. You hadn’t laughed at his lame jokes during training, and you were unusually quiet, even when he praised you.

Hawks finally broke the silence. “Hey, kiddo. What’s eating at ya?”

You flinched slightly, startled by his voice. Quickly, you shook your head, denying that there’s something wrong.

“Uh-huh,” he replied, clearly unconvinced. He strolled over and crouched in front of you, his wings flaring slightly for balance. “Look, I might not be a licensed therapist, but I’ve been around long enough to spot when someone’s got their feathers ruffled.”

You hesitated and avoided his gaze, not wanting to burden him with your problems, but Hawks was patient. He waited, his gaze steady and kind.

Hawks hummed thoughtfully, then stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket. “Alright, that’s it. I’ve got the perfect cure for an overworked brain.”

Without warning, he scooped you up effortlessly, cradling you like a sack of potatoes. “Flying tour time!”

No time for protests, With a powerful beat of his wings, you were airborne, the training grounds shrinking rapidly below. The rush of cool air hit your face, and despite yourself, a small laugh escaped your lips.

“See? That’s what I’m talking about,” Hawks grinned. “We’re getting outta here. You need a break, and I know just the spots to hit.”