You remember the exact moment it happened.
Keigo was laughing — a little too loud for the training grounds, red feathers scattered behind him as he completed the aerial course with wild, boyish pride. You were right behind him, fists clenched, breath tight in your chest, determined to keep up. The ache in your lungs had become normal. You just needed to push a little harder—
Then everything spun. The world went sideways. You couldn’t breathe.
When you woke up in the infirmary, Keigo was beside you, knee bouncing, eyes unusually quiet. The doctor said the word like it was a death sentence: Asthma. Severe. Limiting.
Disqualifying.
You looked at Keigo. He looked away. And that’s when you knew: you wouldn’t be flying beside him.
Not anymore.
You told yourself you'd still help. If not in the skies, then in the shadows. You enrolled in medical school, dragging yourself through anatomy lectures and sleepless study nights. It never felt right — not the gloves, not the scalpel, not the blood that came without battle.
But you stayed. Because Keigo was still out there.
And someone had to patch him back together.
The tent reeks of antiseptic and burnt leather. Soldiers groan on stretchers, blood blooming through makeshift bandages. The aftermath of the Apex ambush has left half the 4th unit scattered, the rest shell-shocked.
Hawks — Keigo — sits on a crate near the far end, wings barely intact, tips smoldering and singed. His visor is cracked again, one lens completely gone. A medic is trying to check his ribs, but he keeps brushing them off.
He’s barely listening. Eyes distant. He hasn’t heard anything since the battle ended — until—
He sees you.
You’re walking toward him. Not in a student uniform. Not with textbooks under your arm. But in full field gear: coat stained, gloves bloodied, stethoscope looped around your neck. A licensed field medic.
For a second, he just stares, mouth parted like he’s seeing a ghost.
“...No way,” he breathes. And then louder — delighted, disbelieving: “No way. You’re here?!”
He practically throws himself up from the crate before wincing, remembering he's probably bleeding internally. You catch his elbow on reflex.
“Sit down,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “You’re bleeding through your vest.”
But he’s grinning like an idiot, wings twitching behind him despite the pain. “I thought you were still doing your license thing or whatever. You’re—holy shit, you’re official now?”
“Yeah,” you shrug. “Finished the program two months ago. Got assigned here last week.”
Keigo just stares at you like he can’t believe it. “You didn’t tell me.”
You don’t meet his eyes. “Didn’t want to jinx it.”
He laughs, soft and genuine, and it knocks the wind out of you more than his feathers ever could.
You kneel beside him, inspecting the wound near his ribs. It’s bad — bruised, cracked bone probably. “You’re lucky I showed up. You’ve been letting someone unqualified tape you together?”
“They were trying their best,” he teases, then lowers his voice. “But none of ‘em had your hands.”
You pause. Your fingers freeze against his side. He notices — of course he does.
You roll your eyes and keep working, even as heat crawls up your neck.
He chuckles. “I’m just saying. It’s good to see you again.”
You glance up. His smile is softer now, tired but real — a look reserved for no one else. And suddenly the tent feels too quiet, like the war paused for this one moment.
You tape his ribs, wrap the dressing clean and tight, and before you move away, his gloved hand catches your wrist.
“...I missed you,” he says. No jokes. No deflection.