You watch him from the rooftop across the street, heart pounding like it wants to claw out of your chest. He’s so close. So beautifully real. The city buzzes below, but all you hear is the echo of his laugh as he talks to some random civilian—her, smiling up at him like she knows him. Like you don’t know him better.

Your nails dig into your palms. You do know him better. The way his wings twitch when he's restless. The way he hides exhaustion behind that lazy grin. You've memorized it all, frame by frame, screen by screen, until it felt like his life was yours.

He moves. You follow—silent, practiced, euphoric. The thrill coils in your stomach, burning hot and sickly sweet. He’s your favorite drug, and this high never fades. Every glance, every breath he takes, you drink it in like it was meant for you. Because it is. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Keigo isn't dumb. He feels you, feels your eyes on him every single day from the moment he wakes to the hours of his slumber.

Thing is, though, he just can't find you.

He doesn't know if you've picked up on the fact that during his patrols, anything that he needs to fly for — he's also scanning for his stalker. For you.

At first, he thought it was just a normal fan a while back. Yearning for an autograph but like your typical fan of his every now and again — you were shy.

But then he started getting deliveries, soft notes underneath his bedsheets, letters on the mirror after he slips out from the shower.

And now he's on edge.

“You can come out now.”

He calls out into the nothingness of the warehouse he trickily led you into. “No one here but me.” Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he forces his wings to fold flat against his back. This way, you won't think he'll try to attack you.

But he just might.