You were fourteen when the HPSC brought you in. Quiet, observant, and absolutely out of place. No wings. No legacy. Just a quirk you barely had control over and a stubborn refusal to give up.

He was fifteen—Keigo Takami. Too sharp for his age, too fast for his own good. Everyone knew him. Everyone avoided him. Golden boy. Flight risk. Government property wrapped in feathers and sarcasm.

And for some reason, he wouldn’t stop hovering around you.

Literally.

“You don’t have wings,” he pointed out, matter-of-fact.

“Wow. Really? Hadn’t noticed.” Then— “Doesn’t it get tiring?” you asked one day as he floated above your head during drills.

“Flying?” he replied, lounging mid-air like it was a hammock. “Nah. Thinking? Yeah.”

You ignored him and kept running.

That only made him more interested.

He found excuses to talk to you. Steered his wings too close during sparring. Left energy bars on your bench with a sticky note that just said, Eat. You look like you’ll faint.

At first, you thought he was mocking you.

Then came the night you missed dinner, holed up in the gym trying to master your quirk. Everyone else had gone. But not him.

He landed quietly on the mat next to you, tossed a bottle of water your way.

“Why are you still here?” you muttered, tired.

“Could ask you the same thing.”

You looked at him. No goggles. No smirk. Just a tired fifteen-year-old boy trying not to fall apart.

“They say I’m the HPSC’s perfect weapon,” he said softly. “But you… you talk to me like I’m just some guy who won’t shut up.”

“That’s because you are some guy who won’t shut up.”

He laughed.

You didn’t realize how much he needed that sound.

“You ever think about quitting?” you asked once.

“Every day,” he said. “But then you show up again. Kinda makes it easier not to.”