Summary: Hawks tries to stay anonymous at a book signing to meet a new favorite author of his. Obviously, it does not go as planned.
Note: Here's the winner from my December poll! Thanks to the people who voted, I really appreciate the response :)
Hawks does not read romance.
That is the official, public-facing stance.
The carefully crafted image.
The one that fits neatly alongside Number Two Hero, effortlessly cool, and emotionally unavailable enough to be mysterious.
Privately, Keigo Takami is sprawled across his couch at two in the morning, one wing draped lazily over the backrest, the other twitching every time his phone lights up. The city outside his window hums softly, distant sirens, wind between buildings, the low thrum of life continuing without him.
His screen glows with a forum thread.
âBooks That Will Ruin Your Life (Emotionally)â
He squints at it like it personally offended him.
âThis is a terrible idea,â he mutters, thumb hovering.
Mirko: read The Quiet Between Heartbeats or iâm kicking your ass next training session
He snorts, tossing the phone onto his chest.
âWow,â he says to the empty apartment. âThreats. Real mature.â
Then he picks the phone back up.
He tells himself heâs just going to skim the blurb. Just to know what sheâs talking about. Heâs a professional; being informed is practically part of the job.
Five minutes later, the ebook is loaded on his phone.
Thirty minutes later, heâs sitting upright.
An hour later, his wings have curled in slightly, feathers ruffling whenever a line hits a little too close to something he doesnât like examining.
By the time the sky starts to lighten, heâs finished.
And thatâs the problem.
Now, a week later, heâs standing three blocks away from a small, cozy indie bookstore, heart doing something stupid in his chest, hood pulled low, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, baseball cap tugged down so far itâs more suspicious than helpful.
In his hands is a paperback copy of The Quiet Between Heartbeats.
He keeps glancing down at it like it might suddenly scream his secrets to the world.
âThis is for research,â he tells himself. âTotally professional. Heroes should understand emotional narratives. Itâs⌠empathy training.â
Mirko would never let him hear the end of this.
Mirko: signing today. go.
He exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face.
Because what if someone recognizes him? What if someone sees him holding this book? What if someone asks why heâs there?
The cover is understated, no dramatic embraces, no glossy torsos, just two hands almost touching, fingers hovering in that unbearable space right before contact. The title is simple. Intimate.
Your name is printed beneath it.
No author photo. No smiling headshot. Just words.
Somehow, that makes it worse.
Because now his imagination has room to work, and thatâs never gone well for him.
âOkay,â Hawks mutters. âIn and out. Five minutes. I buy another copy for a friend. Normal. Casual. Extremely masculine.â
The bookstore is warm in a way that feels intentional. Wooden shelves, soft lighting, the smell of coffee and paper, and something faintly sweet, vanilla, maybe. It feels lived-in. Loved.
Thereâs a small crowd gathered near the back.
Itâs not loud. Not performative. It bubbles up easily, like it surprised you too, and something about it makes his chest tighten before he can stop it.
Youâre seated behind a table stacked with your books, pen in hand, leaning forward as you talk to a reader like thereâs nowhere else youâd rather be. Your expression is open, engaged, eyes warm when you listen, brighter when you respond.
You tuck your hair behind your ear as you speak.
Not distant. Not dramatic. Not like someone hiding behind their success.
Not at all what he expected.
Not that he had expectations. Obviously. That would be ridiculous.
He swallows, suddenly hyper-aware of his own height, his wings, the way he takes up space even when he doesnât want to.
He shuffles into line, keeping his head down.
Right up until it very much isnât.
Hawksâ soul leaves his body.
He doesnât look up. Doesnât breathe. Doesnât move.
He bolts. Not gracefully. Not heroically. Pure, panicked instinct.
The hood slips. The sunglasses tilt. His wings twitch reflexively, feathers rustling.
The bookstore goes silent.
âOh my god, it is him!â
The air changes instantly. Phones come out. Voices overlap. Someone grabs his sleeve. Someone else reaches for a selfie. Another asks if heâs single, which he absolutely refuses to acknowledge.
âOkayâheyâhahaâeasy, feathers,â he says, backing up, palms raised. âLetâs all justâwhoaâpersonal spaceââ
Your voice cuts through the noise, calm, steady, unshaken.
âThis is a book signing,â you say gently, standing. âNot a hero appearance. If you want to meet Hawks, there are official events for that.â
You glance at him then, really look at him, and something in your expression softens.
âAnd,â you add, smiling slightly, âheâs clearly trying not to be noticed.â
Then, miraculously, people start backing off. Apologies murmur. Someone looks embarrassed. Another mutters about boundaries.
Hawks stares at you like you just performed actual magic.
You tilt your head, âYou okay?â
ââŚYeah,â he says, stunned. âYeah. Thanks. That was, wow.â
You grin, âPerks of being the one with the pen.â
He laughs before he can stop himself.
When itâs finally his turn, he approaches your table slowly, like heâs stepping into something fragile.
âWho should I make it out to?â you ask, pen poised.
He slides the book forward, tapping the cover once.
âUh,â he says, casual to a fault. âItâs for a friend.â
âMhm,â you say. âYour friend has excellent taste.â
âMirko recommended it.â
Your face lights up instantly. âMirko?! Oh my god, she actually read it?â
âShe threatened bodily harm if I didnât,â he says. âVery persuasive.â
You laugh again, and this time itâs brighter, more delighted.
âI love her,â you say, writing his inscription. âShe DMâd me once about chapter fourteen.â
He winces. âYeah. That tracks.â
âYouâre⌠Hawks,â you say, writing.
âUnfortunately,â he replies. âOn days like today.â
âYou tried to go incognito,â you say, amused.
âI tried,â he defends. âI even practiced not standing like myself.â
You gesture at his wings. âAnd yet.â
âThey betray me constantly.â
You finish signing and slide the book back to him. He looks down.
Thanks for taking a chance on quiet love stories.
Something settles in his chest, quiet and unfamiliar, like a weight that isnât heavy enough to hurt but is definitely there to stay. He looks down at the book in his hands, then back up at you, eyes a little softer now, a little less guarded than when heâd first approached the table.
âYou didnât ask my non-hero name,â he says softly, almost like heâs testing the words.
You smile, knowing and unbothered, the kind of smile that tells him you noticed far more than you let on.
The sound he lets out is half a laugh, half a breath he didnât realize he was holding. He rubs the back of his neck, feathers rustling faintly with the motion, bashful in a way that feels wildly unfair coming from someone like him.
âFor what itâs worthâŚâ He hesitates, then meets your eyes. âYour bookâs really good.â
Your expression shifts instantly, not the polite gratitude youâve mastered for readers, not the practiced warmth for signings and small talk. This is quieter. Real. Something open and unguarded.
âThank you,â you say sincerely. âThat means more than you think.â
The space between you hums for a moment, charged but easy. Then you tilt your head, lips quirking as mischief sneaks back in.
âSo,â you tease, âdid your friend cry?â
He scoffs immediately, all bravado snapping back into place. âAbsolutely not.â
You lean closer, lowering your voice like youâre sharing a secret, eyes bright with victory.
His jaw tightens. He looks away. ââŚOkay, maybe a little,â he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.
You beam, full, delighted, triumphant.
âWell,â you say, standing and gathering your things, your voice dropping conspiratorially, âsince I accidentally ruined your day, I think I owe you an escape.â
Before he can ask what you mean, you reach out, fingers wrapping around his wrist, warm, sure, and tug him gently toward the back exit.
He goes without question.
Outside, the air is cooler, quieter, the noise of the bookstore muffled behind the door. He exhales slowly, deeply, like heâs finally come up for air after being underwater too long.
âWow,â he breathes. âYou just kidnapped a top hero.â
âRelax,â you say easily. âIâm a romance author. Itâs basically my brand.â
He laughs, really laughs, and this time when he looks at you, he actually sees you. The way you stand comfortably in your own space. The warmth in your eyes. The quiet, unshakable confidence that doesnât demand attention but somehow commands it anyway.
âYou know,â he says thoughtfully, âI pictured you completely different.â
âOh?â you tease, folding your arms. âHow so?â
âOlder,â he says. âScarier. Probably wearing a lot of black.â
You snort. âWow. Rude.â
He grins, unapologetic. âStill⌠kind of a fan.â
Your smile softens, fond and unguarded.
âGood,â you say. âBecause Iâm a fan of yours too.â
He blinks, caught off guard. âYou are?â
You nod casually. âSaved my cousin during a villain attack last year. He hasnât shut up about it since.â
ââŚHuh,â Hawks says, something warm blooming behind his ribs. âGuess weâre even.â
The moment lingers, quiet, suspended, before something impulsive sparks. You step closer, rise onto your toes, and press a quick, teasing kiss to his cheek.
âFor your friend,â you whisper.
You pull back before he can even process it.
Hawks just stands there, stunned, book clutched to his chest, face heating up faster than he can control.
ââŚWow,â he breathes. âGuess Iâll have to come back.â
You grin over your shoulder as you head back inside.
âNext time,â you call, âadmit itâs for you.â
He watches you go, wings twitching, heart absolutely done for.
Heâs completely ruined.