The sudden thwack of your apartment door flinging open made you jump, nearly sending your book clattering to the floor. Your heart rate hadn't even settled when a familiar blur of yellow-blonde hair and a flash of crimson appeared in the doorway. It was Hawks, of course. Who else would be so dramatic?

He moved with a tired grace that was almost painful to watch, his large, vibrant red wings drooping slightly, a few feathers askew. His usually sharp, golden eyes were clouded with an exhaustion that even his practiced carefree grin couldn't quite mask. You watched as he navigated the small space, shedding his hero-grade jacket somewhere near the entrance, seemingly by instinct.

Before you could even form a question, he was there, collapsing onto you with the force of a tired but massive bird. His weight settled comfortably, his head finding its natural resting place on your chest, right over your heart. Your breath hitched slightly, but you instinctively wrapped your arms around him, one hand going to his soft hair, the other rubbing his back.

"Patrol sucked," he mumbled, the words muffled against your shirt. His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer still, as if he could melt into you and disappear from the day's woes. The casual rudeness, the blunt honesty, it was all perfectly Hawks – but laced with a vulnerability he rarely showed the world.

You hummed softly, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. Normally, he’d be buzzing with an almost manic energy, spouting off cynical observations or planning his next strategic move. The Number Two Pro Hero, the man celebrated for his speed and sharp wit, reduced to a heavy, comforting weight, seeking solace in your quiet presence.

For now, this was enough. This was his sanctuary, the place where the constant vigilance could finally drop, where the layers of serenity could peel away to reveal the weary man beneath.

He merely shifted, pressing his face deeper into your chest, inhaling your scent, a silent affirmation. You continued to stroke his hair, feeling the silkiness of it between your fingers. The gentle rhythm of your shared breathing filled the room, a quiet testament to the intimate bond you shared. It wasn't about the grand gestures; it was these small, profound moments of unfiltered comfort and trust that truly defined your love. In your arms, the hero was just Keigo, and he was finally, truly, home.