It was just a patrol. Not a big one, either. Mostly rooftops, some back alley surveillance, and a few loop-de-loops around the business district just to show the public the heroes were watching. Nothing wild. Nothing life-threatening.

Unless you counted your heart rate.

Keigo Takami—Hawks—was walking two steps ahead of you, hands buried in his pockets, head tilted back like this was the most boring thing he’d done all week. And maybe it was. For him.

For you? This was nightmare fuel. Or dream fuel. You hadn’t decided.

“So,” Keigo said suddenly, not looking at you. “You always breathe like you just ran a marathon or am I just that pretty up close?”

You choked.

“I—what?!”

He turned slightly, grinning. “Come on. You’ve been sneaking glances at me since we took off. That, or I’ve got something on my face.”

You turned your head so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “I wasn’t looking at you.”

“Sure. And I’m not a national icon.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Thanks! That’s in my fan mail, too.”

You tried to focus, tried to act like you weren’t walking next to your celebrity crush of three years—a fact that felt like the universe’s worst-kept secret at this point.

But then, a beat later, his tone shifted. Softer. Not teasing.

“You’re doing fine, by the way. First patrols with a partner are awkward. Doesn’t help if the partner’s someone you used to print out posters of.”

Your face went nuclear.

“…You knew?”

“Oh yeah. You fumbled that one during your interview. You called me ‘hotshot with bedroom eyes.’” He was smirking. “Honestly, it’s the highlight of my month.”

You groaned into your hands. “End me.”

“Can’t. You’re too fun.”

Still, as the patrol went on, his teasing lightened into something more grounded—like he was actually paying attention to your movements, your timing, the way you handled the little things.

And when it ended, with you both perched on a billboard overlooking the city, Keigo bumped his shoulder against yours.

“You did good,” he said.

“…Thanks.”

He waited a beat. “Want me to sign something? Poster? Shirt? Your forehead?”

“Go to hell.”

“Only if you come with.”

And gods help you… you smiled.