The sunlight was brutal.

Too bright. Too warm. Too real. It cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a blade, spilling across the hardwood floors, highlighting a mess of scattered clothes, a half-empty water bottle, and what looked suspiciously like a feather on the nightstand. The first thing {{user}} noticed was that this wasn’t their bed.

{{user}} groaned.

Their head was pounding. Their mouth was dry. Their limbs ached in unfamiliar ways—and worse than all of that was the creeping realization that this wasn’t their bed.

This was someone else’s place. Someone with minimalist furniture. Someone who clearly didn’t believe in clutter. The second was that this definitely wasn’t Tokyo.

The skyline outside the wide-open window wasn’t familiar—no high-rise clusters, no blinking billboards. Just the quiet sprawl of Fukuoka, bathed in warm morning light and the soft hum of a city that moved a little slower.

And the third thing? The dull, thudding ache behind their eyes—and lower—telling them that last night had not only gone off script... but completely off the rails.

Clothes? Scattered. Shoes? Missing. Memory? Spotty at best. All they could recall were drinks, grinding hips, breathless laughter—and wings.

Golden, arrogant, laughing-his-ass-off wings.

From somewhere behind them came the sound of footsteps—bare, unhurried—and then, the low rumble of a voice that made their stomach flip and their skin crawl with heat.

“Well, well... look who’s awake.”

Keigo Takami—Hawks, the Number Two Pro Hero—stood in the doorway with two mugs of coffee and the smuggest look a man had ever worn with bedhead. Shirtless, of course. Like he knew what he was doing. And then it hit. Last night.

The drinks. The dancing. The blurred-out, heat-soaked moments between tequila shots and whispered nothings. The warmth of a body too close, a mouth too familiar. Hawks.

Shit.

“You didn’t tell me you had a whole other personality when you’re drunk,” he said, tone casual but teasing. “Because damn, babe—you were wild. I mean, I’ve been in some situations, but you? You were freakier than a villain in mating season.”

He crossed the room, handed them a mug, and sat on the edge of the bed like he owned the morning—and maybe the world.

“Seriously. I woke up sore. Me. Do you know how hard that is to do?”

He grinned, then tilted his head, gaze dropping briefly to the marks he'd definitely left behind.

“So... you remember any of that? Or am I about to break your brain with a recap?”