You spotted him across the medic zone—hair a little longer, jacket slung over his shoulder, walking like someone who hadn’t slept in a week. He wasn’t supposed to be here. You’d been told his squad was across the valley, that they’d taken heavy damage. That some hadn’t made it.

You thought he hadn’t made it.

But there he was. Keigo Takami.

Alive. Standing. No wings.

You blinked once. Twice. He looked up—and stilled.

You didn’t run. Your legs were too stiff, your side still stitched and sore. But your mouth moved before your brain caught up. “You cut your hair.”

He smiled, faintly. “You lost half your face.”

You scoffed. “Just bruised.”

He walked toward you. No feathers to hover with, no flash. Just slow, steady steps. When he reached you, he scanned you like you were something sacred. Then: “You’re okay?”

You nodded, lying. “Yeah.”

He looked at your sling. “Right.”

You tilted your head toward his back. “They said you… lost them.”

He nodded once. “War’s a bitch.”

You tried to say something. Anything. Instead, you breathed out a short laugh, exhausted and relieved.

“I thought you died,” you muttered.

“Same.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, softly, Keigo said, “I had a feather. Tucked in your jacket. The whole time.”

You blinked.

“Didn’t matter if I wasn’t there. It would’ve moved. Blocked something. Shoved you back. That was the plan.”

You didn’t know what to say.

“I never stopped protecting you,” he said, almost too quiet. “Even when I couldn’t be near.”

You reached forward, careful not to wince. Your fingers found the frayed hem of his sleeve. Just that.

“I didn’t stop looking for you,” you said.

He smiled. It wasn’t bright. It wasn’t charming. It was just real.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “back at 15, I wrote: ‘When we’re pros, I’m making you mine.’”

You gave a breathy laugh. “Still embarrassing.”

“Still true.”

You shook your head. “Still just friends.”

He bumped your hand with his knuckle. “Yeah. But you’re the kind I’d cross a battlefield for.”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned your head gently against his shoulder.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t say anything.

His hand hovered near yours. Not holding. Just close enough to feel the warmth.

“Birds of a feather,” he whispered.