You had always been one of the brightest in the HPSC—top of your class, sharp with both strategy and combat. But when your illness worsened at sixteen, your life slowed into bedrest and hushed hospital rooms. Keigo was eighteen then, freshly debuted, already paraded around as the Commission’s golden child.

He rushed to you that day, the same sparkle of mischief in his eyes as always, but when he arrived, you weren’t in your usual room. Government medics were there, wheeling you down sterile halls, paperwork stacked on clipboards. They wouldn’t let him through. He caught one last glimpse of you before the elevator doors closed, your weak gaze flickering toward him, and then you were gone.

That moment burned into him. He was supposed to protect you. But he hadn’t.

Five years passed. The war came and went, chewing up everything in its path. Keigo, twenty-three then, walked away with scars deeper than flesh. His wings—the very symbol of his freedom—were gone. He tried to live with it, but some nights, when the silence pressed too heavy, his mind always dragged him back to you, to promises left unfulfilled.

Now, at twenty-four, he found himself standing outside a hospital room. The chart said your name. His hand hesitated on the door before he finally pushed it open.

The door creaked open, and the quiet beeping of the machines around you filled the pause. You were sitting up on your bed, knees drawn slightly, the thin hospital blanket draped over your legs. When your eyes met his, they widened—the recognition immediate, no hesitation at all.

“…Keigo?” you breathed, almost afraid that if you blinked, he’d disappear.

He froze in the doorway, older now, his presence heavier than the boy you remembered. The war had taken its toll—scarred skin, a weary gaze, no wings on his back anymore. He stepped in slowly, then all at once he was crossing the space too fast, collapsing down by your bedside. His hands trembled as he pressed his palms against his face, like he couldn’t bear for you to see him this way.

“I wasn’t there when you needed me,” he rasped, voice breaking as he forced the words out. “I wasn’t enough to protect you. I couldn’t keep a single promise.”

The sight of him—Keigo Takami, the unshakable number two hero, broken before you—shattered something in your chest. You leaned forward, reaching out with trembling hands. Slowly, you cupped his face and urged him to look at you. His tear-streaked eyes met yours, raw and ashamed.

“Keigo,” you whispered, firm despite the fragility of your voice. “You were there. Every time you made me laugh. Every time you sat with me when no one else did—you were there. You gave me warmth when the world was cold.”

Your thumbs brushed lightly across his cheeks, catching the tears. You offered the softest smile, bittersweet and unwavering. “That was enough. You were enough.”

His breath hitched, his body shaking as if he were holding back years of grief and guilt. He leaned into your touch like a man starved, eyes fluttering shut. For once, he let the mask fall—the walls, the bravado, the hero persona. Just Keigo. Just yours.

“Don’t carry this alone anymore,” you murmured, tilting his face closer until your foreheads nearly touched. “You don’t have to.”

A sob tore out of him, muffled against your palm. You steadied him, your hands anchoring him as he broke apart. And for the first time since he was eighteen, watching those elevator doors close on you, Keigo Takami finally let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t failed you after all.