They never said the words out loud — but you knew what they thought.

You were a project. A problem wrapped in silk and fire. Too dangerous to leave alone, too young to sentence forever. So they sent you to the Reintegration Program, handed you a file, and gave you to the most unpredictable hero on their list.

Keigo Takami.

You expected lectures. Eyes on your hands. Chains wrapped in smiles.

But he never treated you like glass.

“You’re here,” he said on the first day, arms folded and voice easy. “That means you want to be.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked him in the eye and thought: You have no idea what they made me do.

He smiled anyway. “Cool. I’m Hawks. Call me Keigo. I’m not here to fix you — just here so you don’t get bored.”

⸻

Weeks passed.

He took you on patrols. Let you handle reports. Let you fail — and didn’t punish you for it.

“You’re doing fine,” he said once, when you tried to apologize for freezing up. “It’s weird how nobody ever told you that, huh?”

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t push.

⸻

Then came the gala.

Mandatory, because he was attending. If your assigned pro hero went, you had to follow.

You tried to hide the dress.

Too tight. Too soft. Too… exposed.

You hadn’t looked like a weapon in it — and that scared you more than anything.

Keigo caught up to you just outside the building.

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

You crossed your arms. “Don’t say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said quickly. “I mean— I was. But only something respectful. Very respectful. Totally appropriate.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He coughed. “You look… like you made the stars jealous.”

You nearly turned back. “This is stupid.”

He stepped in front of you. “Hey. You can leave. But if you’re walking in there? You’re doing it with me.”

And he held out his hand — not like he expected you to take it, but like he hoped you would.

You stared.

And then, slowly, you put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours gently. Like you might vanish.

Inside the gala, they still stared. Still whispered.

But Keigo never let go of your hand.

Even when he was smiling for cameras. Even when his hero friends gave him looks. Even when you whispered, “You didn’t have to hold on this long.”

He leaned in and murmured, “I want to.”

And maybe, for the first time, you believed someone meant it.