The bass hit his chest before the door even closed behind him.

Hawks—no, Keigo Takami—slid into the thick atmosphere of the club, head bowed just enough that the brim of his cap and the tint of his shades shielded most of his face. His feathers had dispersed, the base of them tucked beneath a custom-tailored jacket that made his frame seem narrower, more ordinary. He looked nothing like Japan’s number two hero. Just another shadow among the neon.

The smell hit next—cheap perfume layered over sweat and smoke, that faint metallic tang of alcohol on the air. Every light was dim except for the stage, where glitter spilled across bare skin and the men around him leaned forward like moths desperate to touch flame.

He wasn’t here for the fire.

His focus stayed sharp, hawklike, as he scanned the room with the subtle flick of his gaze. The Commission’s tip had been vague—anonymous, deliberately so—but concrete enough to drag him down into this pit. League movement. Someone important making contact. It could’ve been a wild goose chase, but Hawks wasn’t the type to risk ignoring it.

He slid into a booth along the back wall, posture relaxed, almost lazy. A beer he had no intention of drinking sweated on the table. To anyone watching, he looked like a man here to disappear, to watch without being watched.

Then he saw her.

His throat tightened instantly, a constricting band that made his next breath shallow.

You.

The spotlight cut across the stage, bouncing off your skin like liquid fire, illuminating the small, deliberate curve of your body as you gripped the pole and swung with practiced ease. You weren’t just moving—you were performing, holding the crowd in your hand with every arch of your back, every roll of your hips. Keigo’s jaw ticked.

He hadn’t even known.

Tonight, he’d kissed your forehead before heading out on “patrol.” You’d murmured something about staying home, napping, or catching up on the TV series you’d been binging. You’d looked tired, soft around the edges. He believed you.

Now? Now you were draped in sequins and shadows, commandingly beautiful, while men with greedy eyes shouted for more. “...fuck,” Keigo breathed, so low only he could hear.

His hand curled into a fist against his thigh. Not hard, not enough to shake. Just tight enough to keep his control from spilling through the cracks.

Keigo wasn’t naive. He wasn’t the kind of man to cage his lover or shame you for what you chose to do with her body. But the fact that you hadn’t told him—that cut sharper than any blade. That you’d chosen secrecy when you knew how much trust meant to him.

A storm gathered behind his shades, hidden but alive. His shoulders leaned back, deceptively calm, but his boot tapped softly against the sticky floor, an arrhythmic pulse of stimming frustration.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, tilted the bottle at his lips without drinking. A bead of condensation slid down, caught by his gloved thumb. Onstage, you arched, light catching the hollow of your throat, the dip between your legs. Cheers roared. Money fluttered.

And Hawks sat still as stone, a mask of ease stretched thin across a storm he refused to let loose.

In his mind, questions circled like vultures: Why didn’t you tell me? Was it fear? Lack of trust? Were you protecting me, or yourself?

He wanted to drag you offstage, tuck you against his chest, demand answers with his heart pounding too loud for words. He wanted to look you in the eye and hear the truth.

But instead, he stayed.

Maturity demanded restraint. His job demanded patience. And so he gave the performance of a lifetime—cool, detached, a man who had no business here except for the mission.

The set ended. You disappeared backstage. And Keigo’s hand—still fisted beneath the table—finally unfurled, fingers flexing slow. He felt the ache in them, the way his nails had dug shallow crescents into his palm.

He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, and muttered into the rim of his bottle, voice a whisper that got swallowed by the music:

“You’re gonna break my damn heart, birdie.”