Keigo called it “playing the game,” but everyone else could see it for what it was — desperation wrapped in feathers and a forced smile.

He showed up everywhere you might be: cafés you liked, rooftops you used to share, even the quiet park bench where you always read after work. And every time, he arrived with a different woman clinging to his arm like a shiny accessory, laughing too loudly, touching him too much, trying to be the one who caught his eye.

But Keigo’s eyes were only ever on you.

He’d pretend not to notice you at first, tilting his head back with that trademark smirk, whispering something flirtatious to the woman beside him — but it always faltered. His wings twitched the moment he sensed your presence, his façade slipping just enough for the truth to show.

You’d try to look away. You’d try to ignore him. And the moment he realized you weren’t biting, he’d “just so happen” to cross paths with you.

“Oh? Fancy seeing you here,” he’d say lightly, though his voice always carried a tremor. “Didn’t think you came around this area anymore.”

The women hanging onto him would giggle or glare or pout, but Keigo didn’t spare them a second glance. His whole focus narrowed to you — to the softness he once had, the warmth he threw away without thinking.

He wasn’t playing the game for fun. He was playing it because he didn’t know how else to make you jealous, to make you look at him, to make you want him back