The first time you met Keigo, it was nothing grand. Just a blur of feathers and motion—him half-running, half-flying into you at the corner of a street.

“Careful,” he said with a grin, steadying you with a light grip. His amber eyes flicked down to the sheer dress you were wearing, then back up. Not in a rude way—more like he was surprised someone so soft-looking had just knocked into him hard enough to make his feathers twitch.

You exchanged words, quick and light, both of you in a rush. But you remembered him. He remembered you.

⸻

Later, friendship grew like wildfire. You teased him for eating too many convenience store chicken skewers; he teased you for always carrying notebooks like you were plotting something. Somewhere between patrols, late-night ramen runs, and arguments about whether heroes ever got a day off, you became his person.

When the war came, there wasn’t time for confessions or sweet moments. Just survival. You fought alongside him, bled with him, carried him when his wings failed, and he refused to let you go even when everything seemed like it was breaking apart.

By the end, when the dust settled and the world felt quieter than it should’ve, you both knew. Words weren’t necessary. He kissed you like he was holding onto the last thing worth living for.

⸻

After the war—

Keigo wasn’t the same. Neither were you. There were scars—visible and not. But you were alive. Together. You two had already been inseparable for years. Dating didn’t even feel like a step forward; it just felt like acknowledging what had always been there. And eventually, marriage followed—a quiet ceremony, small but full of laughter and people who truly mattered.

And that was enough to start imagining a future.

That’s when the talks started. Quiet ones at first, lying in bed with his arm draped over you. Joking about what it would be like to have a little version of him running around, tugging on feathers, asking questions he couldn’t answer.

But the trying wasn’t easy. Nights ended with frustration, mornings with disappointment. You’d catch him staring off sometimes, feathers tight and restless, and you knew—he blamed himself.

One night, you found him sitting on the balcony, wings curled close, staring at the city lights.

“Keigo,” you said softly, stepping out to join him.

He tried to smile, but it wavered. “Guess I’m not as perfect as they thought, huh? Can’t even—” He cut himself off, voice tight.

You touched his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “Hey. This isn’t about perfect. It’s about us. And we’re not done trying.”

His feathers drooped in relief, a shaky laugh leaving his chest as he leaned into you. “How the hell did I get so lucky with you?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, whispering, “Guess you were in a rush the day we met. Right place, right time.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter how many tries it would take. You had already chosen each other.