Your apartment felt unnaturally vast, the silence a stark contrast to the usual hum of Hawks’s activities. He was a city away, on an overnight patrol, not due back until morning. But the thought of an entire night without him, without the warmth of his presence and the casual brush of his magnificent red wings, was a chilly prospect. You traced the rim of your coffee mug, a sigh escaping your lips.

Then, your gaze fell upon it: the single, crimson feather he’d given you, resting on your bedside table. Not just any feather, but one he’d personally plucked from his wings, a symbol of trust and intimacy, still humming faintly with some residual part of his quirk. It was more than just a souvenir; it was a silent link.

A mischievous, decidedly un-heroic impulse sparked. He was the #2 Pro Hero, sharp as a tack, always vigilant. But you knew his weaknesses, too. His feathers were intensely sensitive, almost an extension of his own nervous system. What if that sensitivity could be… exploited?