You were new—but not that kind of new.

While the others fresh from U.A. were barely out of their teens, all bright eyes and quick words, you were… different. A little older, a little more grounded, and a little too aware of how cruel the hero world could be. You’d repeated a few years, taken extra training, and spent time healing from mistakes that nearly cost you your license before you even got it.

So when the Hero Commission finally sent you out on field duty, you thought you were ready.

You weren’t expecting him.

Keigo Takami—Hawks—was the one assigned to oversee your integration. The Commission called it “mentorship,” but you could tell from his easy grin that he saw it more like babysitting.

“Man, you really drew the short straw, huh?” he’d teased that first day, leaning lazily against a railing, wings flicking in the wind. “They send the veteran rookie to hang out with me. Guess they think I’m good with strays.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. You’d learned long ago that confidence wasn’t something you proved by talking. So you just shrugged, adjusted your gloves, and said quietly, “I’m here to learn, not to be handled.”

That got his attention.

Since then, you’d worked side by side on missions, patrols, and cleanups. And somewhere between the rooftop stakeouts and shared coffee runs, the teasing softened. He started looking at you differently—not like a rookie, but like someone he didn’t want getting hurt.

That realization hit you one night on a mission gone wrong.

Smoke and debris filled the air, a villain with an explosive quirk had cornered you, and before you could react, Hawks was there—feathers sharp, eyes burning, his body shielding yours as a shockwave tore through the street.

When the dust settled, you blinked up at him. His hand was still pressed against your shoulder, wings half-open like a barricade.

“You good?” he asked, voice low but tight.