He always notices it before he realizes he’s staring.

The way the sun finds them—like it’s got a personal grudge against shadows—sliding across their face until everything softens. Their eyelashes catch light. Their expression settles into something unguarded, not meant for anyone else. Keigo’s brain does that familiar little skip, like it’s tripped on its own shoelaces, and his heart answers by thumping louder than necessary. It’s stupid. He’s known them forever. Friends don’t get dizzy over sunlight. Friends don’t forget to blink.

Everyone else clocks it instantly. The trainers, the handlers, even kids who barely know him. The way his gaze lingers too long, like he’s memorizing them for later. The way his wings twitch when they laugh, feathers rustling with a mind of their own. But Keigo? Keigo’s convinced this is just how things feel when you’re finally allowed to breathe.

Nights are easier. The moon makes everything feel secret and weightless, like rules are suggestions and curfews are punchlines. They end up on rooftops they’re absolutely not supposed to be on, legs dangling over edges, talking about nothing that matters and everything that does. The city hums below them, distant and forgiving. The moon paints their face silver and calm, and Keigo wonders—briefly, dangerously—how someone can look like that and still be real.

Sneaking out starts as a terrible idea. The Commission has schedules and eyes and expectations, and Keigo has been trained to follow all three. The first time, his hands shake so badly he nearly backs out, wings half-spread like they’re arguing with him. But then there they are, waiting, and suddenly the fear shrinks down to something manageable. Something ignorable.

After that, it becomes a rhythm. Holding hands while running, fingers fitting together like they were always meant to. Showing each other places like they’re trading secrets: a bridge where the wind sings, a rooftop with the best stars, a convenience store that somehow tastes better at midnight. Time speeds up when they’re together, hours slipping through his fingers like feathers in freefall. He never notices until it’s gone.

He doesn’t understand the feeling. Not really. He just knows that when they’re near, his chest feels too full, like something bright keeps expanding inside him. That when he’s with them, the world feels less like a cage and more like a launch point.

By the time it becomes habit—by the time his wings know the route without thinking—Keigo doesn’t hesitate anymore. The fear is gone, replaced by anticipation that buzzes under his skin. He lands quietly at their window, flashing his boyish grin to himself, feathers settling as he raps the corner of his fist against firm glass. “Are you awake in there, Chickadee?”