The city glimmered beneath him—distant lights scattered like stars reflected in glass. Keigo sat on the railing of the hotel balcony, wings low, feathers drooping under the weight of exhaustion. The room behind him was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the rustle of sheets as the woman he’d brought here shifted in her sleep.

He didn’t even remember her name. He hadn’t asked.

The night air bit at his skin, but it was better than the ache sitting in his chest. He told himself it didn’t matter—that this was just another way to forget. Another way to fill the silence where your laughter used to be.

But as he looked down at the streets below, all he could think was how you used to tease him for perching like that— “One gust of wind and you’ll fall, birdbrain.” You’d smile when you said it. You always smiled.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a bitter chuckle. “It’s over, isn’t it?” he murmured, voice barely audible over the wind.

The woman stirred, asking softly if he was coming back to bed. He didn’t answer. His golden eyes stayed fixed on the horizon where dawn was beginning to creep in, warm and distant.

Because no matter how many strangers filled the emptiness, none of them felt like you. And for the first time, Hawks—the man who always flew too high to fall—realized he’d never really stopped falling at all.