Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was early.

Correction, it was offensively early. The night sky had melted into a chalky grey as dawn approached, casting a dreary glow over the office. Every shadow seemed tired - every corner weighed down by the promise of another long day.

You groaned from your desk, your forehead pressed to it as you stirred from your brief nap.

God, how was it morning already?

For the past five months, your evenings had followed the same thrilling routine: wrestling a mountain of documents into submission, filing them with a precision born of spite, and setting aside yet another stack of forms your coworkers had apparently filled out with their eyes closed.

Truly, you were living the dream.

At this point, you spent so little time sleeping in your own apartment that renting out your room was starting to feel like a solid business plan.

However, admitting that you had permanently surrendered to a life without a healthy sleep schedule was just too soul-crushing to bear. It was easier—if only slightly—to cling to the fragile hope that things might someday improve.

It didn’t help that your so-called “team” had unanimously promoted you to Office Pack Mule—without a pay-rise, perks, or the decency of a vote. Forcing you to take on and carry every mind-numbing and dull task they deemed below their paygrade.

The worst part? You couldn’t even blame them.

Out of everyone in your department, you were, without a doubt, the least qualified. Somehow, fresh out of college, you had managed to land a job in the esteemed ‘Community and Hero Relations’ sector of the HPSC—a feat practically unheard of. Most of your coworkers had at least three years of professional experience under their belt before they even snagged an interview.

And yet, here you were, at the ripe old age of 22, working for one of the most important establishments in Hero society. Even if you were only a desk-bound office clerk.

Talk about a double-edged sword.

“I need a bath,” you groaned to yourself, rubbing your temples as a headache began to pound against your skull. “And a drink.”

Luckily, there was no one around to witness your little pity party.

The last person in your department had clocked out hours ago, tossing you a half-hearted “Work hard tonight!” before rushing off to enjoy the creature comforts you could only fantasize about.

You had responded with a silent middle finger behind their back.

Of course, just as your misery hit its peak, a painfully familiar knock echoed at the door. You groaned again. Forget one drink—at this point, you needed a whole bottle.

The interloper didn’t bother waiting for an invitation. With a casual swing of the door, he strolled in like he owned the place— which, honestly, he sort of did. As usual, his trademark grin was the first thing to catch your eye, practically radiating smug confidence.

It took everything in you not to hurl your stapler at his head. What heinous sins did you commit in your past life to deserve this?

“Well, good morning, Sunshine,” Hawks greeted brightly, his hands casually tucked into his suit pockets, like he was just popping by for coffee. “Figured you’d be the only other soul still hanging around. Those slackers working you too hard?”

You felt your nostrils flare as irritation twisted in your gut. Hawks knew damn well they were working you ‘too hard’.

If anything, he was the one allowing it to happen, quietly feeding the toxic dynamic with his passive complicity. Every time one of them belittled you or dumped their responsibilities on your plate with a condescending smirk, he’d simply look the other way—strolling past like everything was just fine.

Occasionally, he would pull you aside, that unsettlingly calm gaze of his making you feel like some wounded animal under his scrutiny. "You know," he would whisper, voice low and syrupy, "I can make it all stop. All you have to do is ask.”

As much as you hated to admit it, he was right—he could make it stop. One word from him, and your coworkers would surely back off.

The temptation was there, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. But it came at a price. You knew he wanted more than just gratitude—he wanted you to crawl to him, desperate, begging for his intervention.

And, frankly, you would rather swallow a mug of needles than indulge whatever power trip he was on.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you murmured, waving a hand dismissively as you forced your attention to the papers in front of you. You shuffled them absently, counting back from ten in your head.

His footsteps were unhurried, echoing through the quiet room as he sauntered toward your desk. Even without looking up, you could feel his presence looming over you – far too close to be considered professional.

“That’s good to hear,” he said smoothly. “I’d hate for my favourite little employee to burn out. You know you can always come to me if it gets too much, right?”

To an outsider, his words would sound like those of a caring boss. But you knew better. You had spent enough time around the man to hear the mockery expertly woven through his tone.

You inhaled sharply, swallowing the sharp retort bubbling at the back of your throat. You forced a calm expression and met his gaze, masking your frustration.

You were an adult – you could handle one shitty boss. 

“I appreciate the concern, Hawks,” you said evenly. “But, like I’ve told you a million times—I’m fine. I just need to prove myself to them. I got this job for a reason.”

Hawks’ response was instant, and somehow more infuriating. His face lit up with fond amusement, as though you had just said something adorably naive. It was the kind of look that made you feel like the punchline to a joke you didn’t understand.

“Of course, of course,” Hawks replied breezily, rocking back on his heels and finally giving you a sliver of space. As he did so, you let out breath you didn’t realise you were holding. “I’d never question your abilities—heck, you’re the best assistant I’ve ever had. No one else comes close.”

You grit your teeth. Stay calm – he’s just trying to get a rise out of you.

“Thanks,” you shot back flatly, barely glancing up from your desk. “Not your assistant, though.”

He hummed softly, one bushy brow arching as he regarded you like a parent indulging a petulant child. “If you say so.”

At that, you shot up from your chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor with a sound that could have woken the dead. You winced but quickly masked it with a fiery glare aimed squarely at him.

Hawks didn’t so much as blink.

“On that note,” you exclaimed, your tone dripping with forced cheerfulness, “I’m going home to freshen up. You know, since I don’t actually live in this office.” You grabbed your things, pausing just long enough to add, “Don’t worry, boss—I’ll be back later to do more of everyone else’s work.”

Feeling a surge of pride for finally standing your ground, you strode past him, deliberately checking his shoulder as you went.

Screw your reputation—whatever fallout came from disrespecting the HPSC president was worth it if it meant scoring even a single win in this twisted game of his.

You didn’t bother looking back to gauge his reaction. Let him stew in it. For once, you’d play by your own rules.

For a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe you’d finally gotten the last word. But, as usual, you underestimated Hawks’ unwavering dedication to getting under your skin.

“Y/N,” he called after you cheerfully. “Make sure you’re back by 9:30 a.m. sharp. I’ve got five meetings today, and I’ll need my not-assistant to sit in and take notes for me. You know, since you’re so good at it.” He didn’t sound the least bit bothered by your defiance—if anything, he sounded like he was enjoying himself.

You bit down hard on your lip until the sharp tang of blood coated your tongue. Asshole. Scraping together the last shreds of your dignity, you spun on your heel and stomped out the door.

Even after you left, the searing intensity of Hawks’ eyes lingered, the burning on your neck persisting all the way back to your apartment.

After a long soak in the tub and choking down a plate of congealed leftovers, the gravity of your earlier actions began to sink in.

In hindsight, snapping at a man who had built a career out of taking down the most dangerous criminals wasn’t exactly a stroke of genius. Especially when that man had, very publicly, killed someone before—even if it was a villain.

The world had been quick to forgive him, of course. Saving the day and stopping the destruction of society tended to overshadow someone’s body count.

But none of that changed the simple, unnerving truth: Hawks wasn’t the type to hesitate when it really mattered.

You tried to convince yourself it wasn’t that serious, but the thought lingered like a splinter under your skin. Your only real comfort was that he no longer had those deadly wings. If he did, you would already be shoving your life into a suitcase and booking a one-way ticket to Guam.

Getting impaled by a feather just didn’t sound like a flattering way to go out.

Much to your frustration, your anxieties proceeded to hijack the few hours of peace you’d managed to scrape together, leaving you sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling with a brain that refused to shut up.

You tried to steal a few precious minutes of sleep—because, honestly, the bags under your eyes were threatening to become a permanent feature—but your thoughts had other plans. Images of bossy coworkers morphed into flashes of piercing golden eyes, sharp and unrelenting, lingering like a bad dream you couldn’t shake.

As if conjured by your restless mind, your phone buzzed, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. You groaned, throwing your arms over your face. Somehow, you knew exactly who had texted.

Deciding to not delay the inevitable, you grabbed your phone and opened the message.

Hawks (Bird-Bitch):

Hey, Y/N! How’s my little superstar enjoying her morning??

“Terrible, thanks to you, you tyrannical creep,” you muttered through gritted teeth, tapping out a carefully restrained response.

You:

Fine, thank you. Do you need something?

The typing dots popped up almost immediately, taunting you like they had nothing better to do. You glared at the screen, willing them to disappear. No such luck.

Hawks (Bird-Bitch):

Ouch! Someone’s feeling feisty today. Don’t tell me you’re grumpy about earlier, Y/N. 😟

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall out of your head. You could practically hear the mockery oozing from the message, each word grating at your already frayed nerves.

You:

Not grumpy. Just tired. Again, do you need something? Or is this your idea of groundbreaking leadership?

The typing dots reappeared instantly, practically vibrating with excitement. You braced yourself, regretting your decision to reply in the first place.

Hawks (Bird-Bitch):

Oh, you wound me, Y/N. 😢 But since you asked so nicely… Meeting got bumped to 8:00. Need you back at the office ASAP. Thanks, superstar! 😊😊😊

You stared at the message, blinking slowly, rereading it as though the words might somehow rearrange themselves into something less devastating. They didn’t.

Your gaze dropped to the time on your phone. 7:30.

For a long moment, you just sat there, the weight of your exhaustion crushing down on you. Then, with any shred of dignity you might have had left crumbling into dust, you let out a broken, muffled sob. One turned into another, until you were curled up on the couch, crying like a sleep-deprived child who had just learned their favourite cartoon was cancelled.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you could imagine Hawks smiling—victorious. The thought alone sent another wave of sobs ripping through you, your body trembling.

This had to be a violation of workers’ rights—surely. Right?

Yes, people had warned you that working for the Hero Commission was intense, that the line between work and personal life would inevitably blur.

But this? This wasn’t a blurred line; it was an obliterated one, and it felt like you were the only one who noticed. This was something else entirely—a level of unfair so absurd it almost felt personal.

And knowing Hawks, it probably was.

For the first time in five months, you seriously considered quitting. Not just fantasizing about it during late-night breakdowns, but actually throwing in the towel and sending Hawks a text that simply read: “Screw your meeting. I quit”.

Of course, doing so would be career suicide.

You would be torching any chance of a reference and potentially blacklisting yourself from the industry altogether. Hawks would see to that—you were sure of it. He would probably spread tales of your so-called ‘unprofessionalism’ to every hero agency in his contact list, just to get the last laugh.

And yet, a small, defiant part of you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the fallout.

The dreams that had once fuelled you—of working behind the scenes to restore faith in heroes—had been slowly chipped away, piece by piece, until all that remained was doubt. Doubt in your abilities, doubt in your worth, doubt that you were ever cut out for this at all.

Maybe that had been Hawks’ plan all along—hire an inexperienced newbie and let the brutal reality of the job do the rest.

A subtle, hands-off way to weed out anyone too weak to cut it. No need for direct confrontation when the workload and pressure could break you just as easily.

Maybe, in some twisted way, he thought he was doing you a mercy.

Your fingers hovered over the keypad of your phone, poised to type the words that would finally set you free. But something held you back—a stubborn, invisible force refusing to let you pull the trigger.

If you quit now, five gruelling months of hard work would vanish into thin air. Every sleepless night, every hour spent bending over backward to earn even a shred of your coworkers’ respect —it would all be for nothing.

And the thought of walking away empty-handed stung almost as much as staying did.

With a trembling hand, you swiped at the tears streaking your cheeks, forcing the sobs in your throat to quiet.

Screw it. You had just as much right to be in that office as anyone else. And you sure as hell weren’t going to let some arrogant ex-bird man derail your life.

Hawks thought he could break you? You’d show him. You’d show all of them.

The flicker of defiance in your chest caught like a match, burning away the doubt. Fuelled by sheer determination (and spite), you pushed yourself off the couch, popped a caffeine pill, and began the trek back to the office.

Each step felt heavier than the last, but you kept moving, the fire in your chest refusing to go out.

“There she is! My apologies, everyone—I did mention we were starting at 8:00.”

You wanted to slap Hawks. Hard. But unfortunately, you were a little busy trying to catch your breath, hunched over like you had just run a marathon.

Your chest rose and fell with each laboured gasp, sweat clinging to you like a second skin. Your clothes were no doubt wrinkled and askew, and as for your hair? You didn’t even want to think about the disaster perched atop your head.

But you were here. Only ten minutes late—a miracle in itself.

Unfortunately, the group in front of you didn’t seem to share your enthusiasm.

Their faces ranged from mildly annoyed to outright horrified, like you had just walked in covered in blood instead of sweat.

Oh. Right.

Hawks was meeting with the executive members of the Commission today. And you had just burst into the room like a charging bull, panting like you had sprinted the whole way. Because, well... you had.

You felt your already flushed cheeks turn a deeper shade of crimson.

Hawks, ever the picture of composure, rose from his seat at the head of the table. He addressed his baffled colleagues with a disarming, professional smile—the kind that somehow managed to smooth over any situation.

So, he could smile like a normal person, you thought bitterly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“It looks like Y/N could use a moment to catch her breath,” he said pleasantly, as though your grand entrance hadn’t been utterly mortifying. “Why don’t we take five?”

Judgmental murmurs rippled through the room, each one a dagger to your already fragile pride. You lowered your eyes, heat creeping up your neck.

But before you could spiral further into the pits of humiliation, a warm hand settled on your shoulder. The grip was firm yet deceptively gentle, fingers pressing just enough to make you acutely aware of their presence—almost as if they were testing the texture, the shape, the reality of you beneath them.

You froze, your breath hitching as you glanced up, only to find yourself face-to-face with Hawks.

But something was off.

Gone was the mocking, confident gleam you’d grown used to. Instead, his eyes were unnervingly sharp, locked onto yours with an intensity that felt like a scalpel slicing through every layer of your flesh.

They didn’t just look at you—they seemed to dissect you, lingering too long, too deep, as if searching for something. The longer he stared, the bigger the knot in your stomach grew, a quiet alarm ringing in the back of your mind.

His grip on your shoulder tightened, firm but not painful—at least, not yet. “Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low and almost too casual, the kind of softness that felt more like a warning than comfort. “Let’s step outside for a little chat, yeah?”

You swallowed hard, the motion feeling sharp and uncomfortable, like your throat was lined with glass.

The last thing you wanted was to be alone with him—especially not when he was looking at you like that. But the alternative was staying in the room with a cluster of higher-ups whispering about you like you were some kind of unwelcome pest.

Cornered by the lack of better options, you gave a stiff nod.

Hawks’ lips curved into a pleased smile, his thumb brushing lightly over the slope of your shoulder in a gesture that felt far too intimate.

The touch was fleeting, yet your skin burned at the contact.  

Then, just as quickly, he withdrew his hand, the darkness in his eyes fading like a passing shadow. Turning back to the group with an easy smile, he dipped his head in a slight bow.

“Apologies for the hold-up, folks. I’ll get this sorted out real quick, and then we can dive back in. In the meantime, take a look at the materials—plenty to keep you busy.” He said, slipping effortlessly back into his usual easy-going tone, as if nothing had happened.

For a fleeting moment, you wondered if you’d imagined the unsettling shift in his demeanour entirely.

That was, until his hand came to rest on the small of your back, the thin fabric of your shirt doing little to dull the sensation. The touch sent a jolt through you, a gasp slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

But before you could summon the nerve to slap his hand away or spit out a sharp retort, he was already guiding you out the door. Each step felt like it wasn’t yours to take, as though you were a puppet, his gentle pressure dictating your movements.

Your mind barely had time to register what had just happened before you found yourself standing in the long, empty hallway once again.

The echo of the door clicking shut behind you grounding you back to reality.

In the blink of an eye, Hawks was there, suddenly and effortlessly in front of you. He was close—too close—his towering frame cutting off any chance of escape.

He leered down at you, blank but calculating, as though studying your dishevelled state.

“Look,” you stammered, “I’m sorry I was late, okay? But it’s not my fault you failed to communicate the change to the meeting time until half an hour before it started! What was I supposed to do?”

The words tumbled out in a rush, your frustration slicing through the thin veneer of professionalism you’d desperately tried to hold onto.

“I left work at 4:00 a.m.,” you continued, your voice pitching higher. “I’m running on fumes here! I know I look awful, and I’m probably breaking about a dozen dress code rules, but I still made it to your damn meeting—just like you wanted!”

It was like a dam had burst.

Each word spilled out faster than the last, your hands gesturing wildly as if that might help you keep up with your spiralling thoughts. “So, yeah, I’m sorry, but maybe next time, don’t drop a bombshell meeting on me at the crack of dawn when I’ve barely slept, and then expect me to—”

Hawks’ hand rose slowly, and before you could step back or protest, his fingers brushed against your cheek, silencing your frantic tirade mid-sentence.

“You’ve been crying,” he murmured softly, as though mesmerised by the sight. Then, with unnerving tenderness, the pad of his thumb traced over your cheekbone.

In an instant, your brain short-circuited, flipping to pure static.

Great. This was it.

You had finally cracked. Either you were hallucinating, or you had died and been fast-tracked to hell. Frankly, the second option felt more plausible—because you were certain not even a hallucination could replicate such an absurd scenario.

Unable to fully process the fact that your boss was, in fact, stroking your cheek, you managed to blurt out an impressively articulate, “Wh-huh?”

Hawks sighed, the sound more indulgent than exasperated, as if your confusion was a private joke he enjoyed far too much. “What am I going to do with you, Y/N?” he chuckled, the corners of his lips twitching in faint amusement as his fingers lingered just long enough to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

Before you could recoil, his hand shifted, smoothing the rumpled collar of your shirt with deliberate precision. “You know,” he said lightly, his tone carrying that familiar, syrupy charm, “things would be so much easier if you didn’t go out of your way to make them harder for yourself.”

“What are you—”

“I want you to stick around my office today,” he interrupted, his abrupt topic shift as seamless as it was disorienting. His tone carried that infuriating mix of nonchalance and quiet authority that left no room for argument. “You’re in no shape to sit through meetings—seriously, you don’t even look like you could hold a pen.”

He flashed you a smile, one that sat somewhere between concern and something far harder to pin down. “Go through my files, kick your feet up on the sofa—whatever works for you. Just… don’t stray too far, yeah?”

Your brows furrowed as you searched his face, looking for the usual glint of teasing or mockery lurking in his expression. But, for what felt like the first time since you’d met him, his features were disarmingly open—unguarded in a way that left you momentarily off-balance.

“But… am I being punished?” you asked hesitantly.

“Punished?” he echoed, chuckling softly. He leaned in just slightly, a playful wink accompanying his next words. “Trust me, if I were punishing you, you’d know.”

The lightness in his tone didn’t reach you. Your stomach sank like a stone, the implication behind his words impossible to shake.

“I’m taking care of you,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, almost soothing if not for the steel beneath it. “Since you refuse to ask for help, guess I’ve got no choice but to step in and handle things myself.”

At that, you bristled, every hair on your body standing on edge, an instinctive warning. “I don’t need you to take care of me,” you snapped venomously as you took a deliberate step back from Hawks. Your glare hardened. “I’m not some stray cat you can swoop in and rescue.”

For a fleeting second, you thought you saw a flicker of something—hurt?—flash across his face. But just as quickly, it vanished, smoothed over by his familiar mask of sly confidence. The shift was so seamless it left your stomach churning, bile rising in your throat.

“We’ll see,” he hummed, the words carrying a teasing lilt that only made the unease settle deeper. Hawks turned toward the door, his casual stride as infuriatingly self-assured as ever. “Go straight to my office. Be good, and I’ll swing by around lunchtime.”

Without sparing you another glance, he stepped back into the meeting room, the door clicking shut behind him with a sense of finality.

You stood in the hallway, frozen, as the reality of what had just unfolded wafted over you like a heavy fog. Shell-shocked and struggling to process, your mind spiralled.

And then it hit you—clear as day.

You stood frozen in the hallway, Hawks’ words replaying in your head like a haunting refrain. Go straight to my office. Be good.

A crossroads.

The thought took root in your mind before you could stop it. You could keep walking, pretend nothing had happened, and resign yourself to another day of suffocating beneath Hawks’ oppressive presence. Or you could march straight to HR, demand a meeting, and spill everything.

You swallowed hard.

Slowly, you let yourself imagine it—walking into the HR office, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as you sat across from someone who probably didn’t even know your name.

They’d nod politely as you laid it all out: the way Hawks’ hands lingered a moment too long, the disturbing look in his gaze, every honeyed word.

Maybe they’d believe you—at first.

But then you’d see it: the subtle shift in their expression as doubt crept in.

Are you sure you’re not misinterpreting? they’d ask, their words careful but dismissive. Hawks has always been like that. It’s probably just his personality—he’s naturally friendly with everyone.

Friendly.

You could almost hear the word drip from their lips, a neat little bow to tie up the messiness of your accusations.

Hawks wasn’t inappropriate; he was charismatic.

He wasn’t crossing lines; he was just being friendly.

And even if they did take you seriously—what then? A half-hearted investigation? A slap on the wrist?

Hawks could charm his way out of anything, turn the narrative around so quickly you would forget what you were accusing him of in the first place. By the end of it, you would be the one under scrutiny—painted as bitter, overworked and delusional.

Another cog in the machine breaking down under pressure.

That’s all it would take, you realized bitterly. A few choice words from him, and I’d be out on the street.

Your mind replayed the way Hawks had smiled at you before he disappeared back into the meeting room, that infuriating, knowing smirk that made it clear: he already knew what choice you’d make.

You shuddered, shame and anger tangling together in your chest.

There was no point.

With a heavy sigh, you turned toward Hawks’ office, the crushing defeat settling over you like a shroud.

Chapter Text

The moment you stepped into Hawks' office, you all but collapsed onto the couch, sinking into an absurdly plush sea of red cushions. They were far too luxurious for an office, but they swallowed you up like they were custom designed for emotional breakdowns.

Your face, swollen and itchy from crying, was buried in your hands, while the room’s heater hummed uselessly in the background. Despite its best efforts, a chill still clawed at your spine.

How did my morning spiral this badly?

Normally, you prided yourself on being the reigning champion of compartmentalizing your meltdowns. Strictly reserving them for post-work hours, ideally in the privacy of a shower or under the sanctuary of your comforter. Definitely not in full, humiliating view of the people who approved your paycheck.

Yet, here you were, sprawled out like a swamp monster that had somehow slimed its way onto your employer’s designer couch.

What was next? Crying over spilled coffee? Sending passive-aggressive emails about the breakroom fridge? Honestly, you were about two missteps away from penning a self-help book titled "How to Ruin Your Career in 10 Easy Steps."

To make matters worse, the room itself was an inescapable reminder of Hawks.

Every detail screamed him: sleek, high-end furniture that belonged more in a designer catalogue than an office, a hero memorabilia collection so extensive it bordered on obsessive (seriously, who needs a life-size cutout of Endeavour staring into their soul during meetings?), and those floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city—a view that felt like a not-so-subtle reminder of the soaring heights of Hawks' career compared to the flatline of yours.

It was too much. All of it. Overwhelmingly, undeniably him. And he was the last thing you wanted to think about.

The unwelcome memory of Hawks' fingers skimming your cheek and shoulder resurfaced, sending an involuntary shudder through you. The sensation clung to your skin like grime, sparking a desperate urge to shed it altogether.

But what truly unsettled you wasn’t the touch—it was the look.

That piercing, unreadable gaze he’d given you after escorting you from the meeting. It was so intense, so alien, that for a fleeting moment, you wondered if your overworked, stressed-out mind had conjured it entirely.

You were accustomed to Hawks watching you with a mix of amusement and curiosity, as though you were an endearing yet harmless creature scampering about.

But the expression he wore earlier had been devoid of that familiar, patronizing charm.

His eyes had locked onto you with a piercing intensity that made your skin crawl, like he was scrutinizing every layer of your existence. It wasn’t just disturbing - it was borderline surgical.

Combined with his cryptic talk about “taking care of you,” his words felt like they were walking a razor’s edge between a threat and a promise.

And now? Now you were here, moping around in his office, just like he probably wanted.

You huffed, sinking further into the cushions.

How were you supposed to stand your ground against someone like Hawks—a universally beloved former hero—when half the office couldn’t even be bothered to learn how to spell your name?

To make matters worse, the real motives behind Hawks’ behaviour were as clear as mud. You were almost certain he didn’t like you—not in the normal, socially acceptable sense of the word, anyway.

Treating someone like a personal plaything wasn’t exactly the hallmark of affection. And given the decade-wide gap between your ages, the idea of any relationship with Hawks—beyond that of a reluctant employee—was firmly off the table.

Yet, there was an uncomfortable persistence in how he gravitated toward you, his attention a suffocating weight that threatened to crush you if you let it linger for too long.

It was overwhelming, terrifying, and—frankly—a flagrant violation of at least half a dozen HR policies.

You supposed you had a choice: roll over and become the obedient office pet, or at least pretend you still had some fight left in you.

The decision wasn't exactly difficult.

Shaking off the fatigue that weighed down your limbs and the ache in your muscles, you pushed yourself off the couch with renewed determination. Planting your hands on your hips, you let your gaze sweep the room like a general surveying a battlefield.

Bingo.

If Hawks wasn’t going to assign you a task, then fine—you would take matters into your own hands.

By lunchtime, you had transformed into a one-woman cleaning powerhouse, striking fear into the very soul of dust particles everywhere.

Each surface of Hawks’ office was scrubbed and polished to a blinding shine. His files, which had previously been a chaotic whirlwind of paper, now stood to attention in perfect alphabetical order—like disciplined little soldiers. Efficiency at its absolute finest.

You stepped back, surveying your handiwork with pride. The room was immaculate, practically unrecognizable.

Maybe you had missed your true calling—clearly, you had a gift for tidying up other people’s disasters. And honestly, when compared to your current job of managing a smug, overbearing boss, a career in housekeeping was starting to sound downright glamorous.

At least vacuums didn’t invade your personal space.

Surprisingly, immersing yourself in the Herculean task of cleaning proved oddly therapeutic. It even managed to temporarily scrub Hawks' face from your mind.

But as all good things must come to an end, so too did your brief escape.

The door flew open, the sudden noise shattering the calm like a sledgehammer to glass. Then, in strolled Hawks, cheerfully whistling a tune and balancing two large bento boxes in his arms—carried like peace offerings.

His arrival hit you like a proverbial anvil to the face. Startled, you jolted upright, your elbow catching the edge of the cabinet you had been dusting. The sudden motion sent your foot slamming into the corner with pinpoint accuracy. A sharp, searing pain shot up your leg, and an undignified yelp escaped before you could stifle it with your hand.

For a moment, you both just stared at each other - caught in a bizarre stand-off.

The corners of Hawks’ mouth twitched, looking at you like you were a particularly interesting case study in a looney bin.

Great. Just great. Now he probably thought he had stumbled onto the perfect excuse to call HR—or worse, a psych evaluation.

“What are you doing here?” you blurted, your voice pitched slightly higher than intended. The silence had stretched to unbearable levels, and you would have rather faced an awkward confrontation than whatever this strange examination was.

He blinked slowly, one brow arching as if to say really? before a smirk broke across his face. “Y/N, you do realize this is my office, right?”

Oh. Right.

Your cheeks flamed, embarrassment spreading through you like wildfire.

Somehow, in the span of a single day, you had managed to humiliate yourself more times than seemed humanly possible. At this rate, you were on track to earn a Guinness World Record for ‘Most Workplace Failures in 24 Hours’.

"Yeah—I—uh, I know," you stammered, trying to salvage some dignity. "I just wasn’t expecting you to wrap up your meetings so fast. They usually drag on forever."

It was true. You had spent countless hours trapped in those torturous office chairs, dutifully taking notes while execs droned on in excruciating detail about every minor initiative in the hero community. The memory alone made your eyelids feel heavier.

“Tell me about it," Hawks groaned, setting the bento boxes on his desk. He sauntered towards you, hands casually shoved in his pockets, as if he weren’t the centrepiece of your ongoing workplace nightmare. "They completely lost me at ‘Hero-Taxation.’ Like, who decides it’s a good idea to dive into tax reform before morning coffee? Sadists, that’s who.”

His tone was light, and you couldn’t help but snort softly in agreement. But then he leaned in, just close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from him, the movement so seamless you almost didn’t register it until he was there. Too close.

Inhaling sharply, you masked your discomfort with a weak smile. “Yeah, good thing I missed that – I probably would have passed out.” you mumbled.

Hawks chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that sent an involuntary shudder racing down your spine. His hand slid onto the edge of the drawer beside you, fingers brushing close enough to your hair to make you tense. The way he leaned in, his movements unhurried and deliberate, created an invisible cage around you.

Your chest tightened, the air growing heavier with each passing second. The walls seemed to close in around you.

Something in the atmosphere had shifted— something dangerous.  

"I don’t doubt that," he murmured, deceptively soft. His eyes flicked down to the dark shadows beneath yours with an almost clinical precision. "Especially since it’s obvious you didn’t get any rest while I was out. What happened to taking it easy? You look even worse than earlier."

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you felt despite your work attire. “You can’t seriously expect me to nap at work,” you shot back, doing your best to inject confidence into your voice. “What if someone walked in? It’s not exactly professional.”

Hawks tilted his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “That’s hardly an issue—no one sets foot in my office without my say-so. And, just a friendly reminder,” he added with mock sincerity, “I’m the big boss here. I get to decide what’s professional.”

He leaned in slightly, a puff of his breath grazing your forehead. The proximity made your heart stumble in your chest as he dropped his voice to a low murmur. “So, you want to tell me why you were playing maid instead of taking that break I suggested?”

A wave of insecurity crashed over you. You had intended to assert yourself boldly, to shove your defiance in that smug face of his. Yet, standing before him—facing that dark glint in his eyes—was more daunting than you had imagined.

It didn’t help that he was close—too close. Close enough that you could feel the burn of his body heat, his presence so overwhelming that it seemed to fill every corner of the room.

So, like the coward you felt yourself becoming, you hid behind an excuse.

“I thought I’d... surprise you?” you said slowly, before giving a half-hearted attempt at jazz hands. “Surprise.”

Hawks paused, the sharp intensity in his gaze lingering just a second too long, making your stomach twist. His eyes seemed to dissect you, weighing your words, your movements—everything.

Then, as if flipping a switch, his expression softened, melting away into something lighter, easier.

You let out a quiet breath of relief, the knot in your chest loosening ever so slightly.

“You know, Y/N,” he began teasingly. “You’ve got a real talent for this. Makes it almost impossible to stay mad at you. Honestly, it’s starting to feel like you’re doing it on purpose.”

He chuckled, though the sound wasn’t entirely playful.

After a moment, he stepped back, finally granting you some much-needed space. But not before his knuckles brushed lightly against your arm, the fleeting touch sending a trail of goosebumps racing across your skin.

"Well, I live to please," you mumbled half-heartedly, the words tasting like ash. "But I was thinking - maybe I could spend the rest of the afternoon back in my department? I’ve still got a mountain of paperwork waiting for me there. Plus, people are probably wondering where I am.”

Hawks leaned against his desk, effortlessly casual as he dodged your request like a seasoned pro. “Hungry? I got you the teriyaki one—it’s your favourite, right?” He grabbed the larger of the two bento boxes and held it out, the gesture reminiscent of feeding time at a petting zoo.

Your jaw dropped slightly at his audacity. “No—I’m not hungry. Really, I appreciate it, but I’d rather just get back to work.”

Just as the words left your mouth, your stomach decided to voice its own opinion—a loud, traitorous rumble.

You blushed furiously. Well, that’s just perfect.

Hawks burst into a hearty laugh, so rich and unexpected it almost startled you. Had you ever heard him laugh like that before? “Well, sounds like your stomach has better judgment than you do. Guess I made the right call,” he said with a grin, gesturing toward the seat across from him. “Come on, sit down. We’ve got a few things to go over anyway.”

Your eyes darted from the door to his desk, frantically weighing the odds of making a successful escape. Unfortunately, a quick glance at Hawks’ relaxed posture—those lean, coiled muscles poised like a spring—dashed any illusions of outrunning him.

With a resigned sigh, you slumped into the chair across from him. “What things?”

Hawks didn't respond immediately. Instead, he made a show of pushing the bento box towards you, even going so far as to open the lid and meticulously split your chopsticks, as if you were a toddler who hadn't quite mastered the use of utensils.

Your eyebrow twitched, but you managed to hold your tongue.

“Dig in!” he chirped. You opened your mouth to repeat your question, but Hawks raised a hand, cutting you off mid-breath. “Nope, not a word until you eat. Can’t have you wasting away on my watch.”

Bastard.

You wanted to argue—really, you did—but the tantalizing aroma of marinated meat and tangy pickled vegetables wafted up, teasing your resolve like a cat batting at a string.

Okay, maybe you were slightly hungry.

“Fine,” you muttered, glaring at the bento like it had personally wronged you. “I’ll eat. Just promise to tell me what’s going on after.”

Hawks propped his chin on his palm as he watched you. “You have my word,” he said smoothly, nodding as though he were sealing a high-stakes deal. Then, he slyly added, “But only if you finish every bite.”

The roguish grin that accompanied the words made your jaw clench.

Of course. You thought bitterly, stabbing at the food with your chopsticks. He just has to get the last word.

Sensing that snapping back would only prolong the inevitable, you resigned yourself to the meal, attacking the bento box with a vigour that bordered on feral. Mouthfuls of meat, rice, and vegetables disappeared at record-breaking speed, though not without a few near-choking incidents that left you coughing and glaring at your treacherous throat.

Finally, with the last morsel gone, you slammed your chopsticks down onto the table like you had just won an intense poker game.

Hawks, reclined in his chair with a hum of approval, lazily picking at his own food like he had all the time in the world. His enjoyment was subtle but unmistakable, and it made your molars ache.

"Thanks for the meal," you muttered, knitting your brows together in a silent but desperate plea. "Now, can we please get to what you wanted to discuss?"

On any other day, the urgency in your tone might have embarrassed you— begging was not a good look— but sheer exhaustion had dulled your sense of pride. Besides, the early onset of indigestion was already making you regret eating so fast.

Hawks studied you for a moment as he happily nudged his half-eaten bento aside.

"Of course! Really, it’s nothing bad—you don’t need to look so nervous," he said brightly, as if this were just another light-hearted chat over coffee.

"Can you blame me? Given my... less than stellar performance earlier." You averted your gaze, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. "But you know that's not me, right? It was just a one-off, I promise."

The soft drumming of Hawks’ fingers against the table interrupted your thoughts, each tap deliberate, almost calculated, the sound worming its way under your skin. His hand inched toward yours, slowly closing the distance until his fingertips hovered just shy of touching yours. The space between them was agonizingly small—intentional, no doubt.

“Hmmm. I’m not so sure,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “This little breakdown of yours... feels like it’s been brewing for a while, don’t you think?”

The words cut deep, their sharpness leaving you momentarily stunned. Your expression faltered, and your teeth sank into your lower lip. "No! No—it—I was just having a bad morning," you stammered, the words spilling out in a clumsy rush, as if saying them faster might make them more believable.

Hawks cocked his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “We all have bad mornings, Y/N. But the rest of us don’t burst into important meetings looking like we’ve just crawled out of a trench.”

“That wasn’t my fault! You’re the one who called me in with only half an hour’s notice, knowing full well how late I worked the night before!” You argued, heat rising to your cheeks.

Hawks raised an eyebrow, his tone taking on an infuriatingly patient edge, like a parent chiding a child. “You can’t seriously be blaming me for this.”

Your shoulders sagged slightly, the fight ebbing out of you as you muttered under your breath, “You knew what you were doing.”

“What I knew,” Hawks said, calm but pointed, “was that I needed an employee—that’s you—to handle her responsibilities during office hours. Nobody forced you to stay late.”

“You’ve seen how much they dump on me!” you shot back. It felt as though you were stretched to the breaking point, like a rope fraying under too much tension. “It’s impossible to finish everything during normal hours!”

Hawks’ face softened, almost teetering into sympathy but stopping just short, hovering near the edge of pity. “I’ve offered to help before—you know that,” he asserted evenly, his words almost placating, like he was speaking to a skittish animal. “But you insisted you could handle it on your own. I respected that decision, even when it was clear you were in way over your head.”

Disbelief rippled through you, sharp and jarring. Your head throbbing as his words sank in.

How dare he? How dare he frame those so-called offers to help—thinly veiled jabs, really—as acts of goodwill? The sheer audacity almost made you laugh.

Almost.

Instead, a cold detachment settled over you, numbing the earlier anxiety with an icy layer of indifference. “Is this your way of telling me I’m being demoted?” you asked flatly, as if the answer didn’t matter.

The implication was clear: go ahead, do your worst. I’m beyond caring. In fact, a tiny part of you yearned to hear those words— to take the loss and get the hell out of that department.

Maybe you would even sprinkle in a few well-deserved ‘fuck yous’ to your colleagues on the way out.

“Y/N, don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I’m not demoting you,” he corrected with a faint chuckle, bemusement spreading across his face. “You really need to stop jumping to conclusions—it can’t be good for your health.”

You’re not good for my health, you wanted to snap, the words on the edge of your tongue. But instead, you clamped your jaw shut, settling for a glare that you hoped was sharp enough to convey your disdain.

“Okay, then what is it?” you demanded. “I seriously doubt you’re here to promote me.”

“Well,” Hawks began, “it’s not exactly a promotion. It’s more like… a transfer.”

The word hit you like the sudden drop of a roller coaster, the floor falling out from under you. “A transfer?” you echoed, your voice strained, the implication sending your thoughts spiralling.

“Yep! Honestly, I’ve been mulling it over for a while. Your current department isn’t exactly… playing to your strengths.” He stated brusquely, pulling a neat stack of forms from his desk drawer with practiced ease. “You’re talented, Y/N—young, ambitious. But you need guidance, a bit of one-on-one attention to help you reach your full potential.”

One-on-one.

The words clanged in your head like an ominous bell, sending an uneasy ripple down your spine. You really, really didn’t like the sound of that.

Hawks slid the paperwork across the desk toward you, the motion slow and deliberate, like a hunter setting bait. A knot of dread coiled in your stomach, tightening further with each passing second.

As your eyes skimmed the words on the page, that knot burst into a tangle of full-blown panic.

Mentorship Program

Mentor: Keigo Takami

Trainee: Y/N L/N

Your breath hitched audibly.

“A mentorship program?” you croaked. “I thought you said this was a transfer!”

“It is a transfer—kind of,” Hawks said completely unaffected, as if he were discussing the weather. “You’ll be working directly under me. Given your age, it’s clear you could use a bit more… hands-on training.” He paused, his lips curving into a cheeky grin as he added, “Don’t worry—I’m not heartless. Your pay stays the same.”

The irritation clawing at you finally broke the surface, tugging your mouth into a scowl.

Sure, you were younger than most of your coworkers, but the irony of his statement wasn’t lost on you. “Weren’t you already running your own hero agency at my age?”

“Come on, Y/N. You’re not seriously comparing us, are you? We’re hardly on the same playing field.” Hawks chuckled, light and faintly patronizing. The dismissive lilt in his voice made you flinch, his words cutting deeper than you cared to admit.

As brutal as it was, there was no denying the truth behind his remark.

In terms of achievements, you and Hawks weren’t just in different leagues—you were practically in different universes. Attempting any comparison felt laughable at best and outright delusional at worst. Not to mention, it probably was a little insulting to him.

Still, knowing that didn’t dull the sting.

Nevertheless, you held your ground, meeting Hawks’ gaze squarely despite the creeping self-doubt gnawing at the edges of your resolve. Now was not the time to crumble.

"Thank you for the offer, and for finding me so hilarious," you replied venomously. "But I'll have to decline. I believe I can learn more in my current position."

The air in the room grew heavier, pressing down on you as Hawks’ darkened. Though his easy-going smile stayed plastered on his face, there was a distinct shadow in his gaze.

Your heart pounded erratically, its rhythm uneven, as though it were trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“Y/N,” Hawks said, his voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable warning. “Let’s be clear—this isn’t really an offer.” He leaned forward slightly, honing in on you like a predator locking onto its prey. “After your little incident earlier, the execs weren’t exactly thrilled. To be honest, they were ready to cut ties entirely.”

Your stomach dropped, but he didn’t let the silence linger.

“Fortunately, I managed to talk them down,” he continued, his smile never wavering, though it somehow felt crueller. “So, what I’m giving you now? It’s a compromise, not a choice.”

It was as if someone had taken a skillet to your head, leaving your thoughts scrambled and reeling. “They wanted to fire me?” you whispered, barely audible.

The revelation wrapped around your chest like a vise, squeezing until it was hard to breathe.

Five months of gruelling effort, of late nights and sacrificed weekends—tossed aside like trash over one misstep?

Lost in the weight of it all, you didn’t notice Hawks closing the distance between you until his fingers curled over yours. The touch jolted you back to the moment, grounding you in the here and now. His thumb brushed across your knuckles in a deliberate, almost soothing motion, but the intimacy of it felt cruel, like salt pressed into a wound.

“They did,” Hawks confirmed softly.

The words struck deep, a gut punch that left you swaying in your chair, struggling to stay upright.

Bitter acid clawed its way up your throat as the image of those smug, self-righteous executives filled your mind. Their indifferent gazes burning into you, like you were a bug squirming underfoot.

Screw all of them

“So, it’s either this,” you rasped, waving vaguely at the document in front of you, “or I’m out of a job.”

“Not just out of a job,” Hawks replied smoothly. “But out of a reference too. And trust me—those suits upstairs might look like they’ve got sticks up their asses, but they’re not above spreading rumours if they think it’ll cover their own.”

You exhaled sharply, your gaze dropping to the document as if sheer willpower could reveal some hidden loophole, some escape clause that wasn’t there. Nothing. Just words trapping you tighter with every line.

Hawks’ grip on your hand tightened—and not in a comforting way.

Leaning in, he brought his face close enough that you could see the primal glint in his eyes. Had they always been so animalistic? “This is an incredible opportunity, Y/N,” he said silkily, like a snake whispering in your ear. “Most people here would kill for it. For once, why not make things easy on yourself?”

Before you could respond, he slid a pen into your fingers.

Your vision blurred, the edges of reality smudging as if you were watching yourself from the outside—an unwilling spectator to your own nightmare. Every sound seemed muffled, every movement surreal, like you were wading through a dream you couldn’t wake from.

A cacophony of thoughts clashed in your mind, each one pulling you in a different direction:

You can still quit.

This is wrong—this is so, so wrong.

There’s something dangerous about him.

But one voice drowned out the others, louder and more cruel than the rest:
If you quit, you’ll have nothing. You’ll be even more worthless than you already are.

Your hand moved before your brain could catch up, as though it no longer belonged to you.

The pen felt heavy in your grip, yet it glided across the paper with ease, carving your signature into the form shakily.

And just like that—with one tiny scribble—you sealed your fate.

You didn’t need to look up to know Hawks was smiling. You could feel his satisfaction pressing down on you, suffocating and triumphant. His victory practically radiated off of him, wrapping around you like an invisible chain.

As it turned out, working under Hawks was both better and worse than you had anticipated.

On your first day in the mentorship program, the office felt less like a workplace and more like a guillotine waiting to drop. Each step down the hallway was a march to your own execution, your feet dragging as if wading through quicksand.

Your coworkers didn’t help.

Concerned glances flitted your way, their expressions teetering between pity and unease. Some of them looked like they were genuinely debating whether to bolt the roof access door, just in case.

You didn’t blame them. The thought had crossed your mind too.

And then there was Hawks, waiting for you with a grin so dazzling it was almost suspicious. “Just stick with me today,” he chirped, his tone absurdly cheerful as he gave you a pat on the back. The gesture was meant to reassure, but it carried the weight of a command, leaving no room for argument.

With a sigh, you resigned yourself to follow him, shooting a scowl that you hoped conveyed your enthusiasm—or lack thereof.

But, much to your surprise, the day was far from the nightmare you had envisioned.

Trailing behind Hawks as he flitted from one department to another was almost... manageable.

He had an uncanny knack for turning the mundane into a spectacle, offloading stacks of paperwork onto you like a magician conjuring rabbits from thin air—only to whisk them back moments later for his signature.

There were no unwanted touches, no mocking smiles—just work. Real, tangible work. It was almost strange how normal it felt.

The true shocker came at 5:00 pm sharp. Hawks stretched back in his chair, glanced at the clock, and casually waved you off. “You’re done for the day. Go home.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded, waiting for the punchline that never came. Was this a trick? A new way to mess with you? But no, he seemed entirely serious.

When the realization finally sank in, relief hit you like a tidal wave. You barely managed to mumble a thank-you before bolting for the exit, your eyes stinging with something suspiciously close to tears.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d made it home before 11:00 pm.

And so, before you realized it, a routine began to take shape. The weeks flew by, each one settling you further into the rhythm of your new role.

Even more shocking? You were learning. A lot. Hawks had a knack for pushing you just enough to challenge you, but not enough to make you crumble. The experience was tough, yes, but it was proving to be far more educational than you’d anticipated.

Though you would never admit it to his face—God knew the man’s ego didn’t need any encouragement—you were actually starting to enjoy the rare luxury of regular sleep and a functional mental state.

Of course, that sense of normalcy couldn’t last.

The shift was subtle at first.

Stolen glances from across the room. Hands lingering a moment too long when he handed you files. His knack for always being at the building entrance just as you arrived each morning—ready to sling a lazy arm over your shoulder and launch into whatever trivial thoughts were currently occupying his mind.

At first, they were all things you could explain away. Coincidences. Quirks. Maybe even Hawks just being Hawks.

But soon enough, a pattern began to emerge. Each time you allowed him to edge past your boundaries, even slightly, he pushed further the next time.

If you were too tired to swat away a playful tug on your ponytail, the following day he would make it a point to casually stroke your hair every time he passed your desk. If you reluctantly accepted a single lunch invitation to avoid a confrontation, suddenly your breaks were aligned with his, and he was magically free to be your permanent lunchtime companion.

It was a slow erosion of personal space and independence, and though it was maddening, it was just subtle enough to leave you questioning if you were overreacting.

But deep down, you knew better.

It was frustrating—not quite enough to confront him outright, but just irritating enough to gnaw at you in the quiet moments. Besides, you were too busy enjoying your newfound work-life balance—rolling in it like a pig in spa mud—to let it bother you too much.

That is, until he started walking you home. At first, it seemed innocent enough. A coincidence.

You and Hawks had exited the building at the same time, his eyes locking onto yours as you both paused mid-step. His face lit up with a grin so bright it almost blinded you. “Well, talk about perfect timing,” he had said cheerfully. “Our apartments are in the same direction, right?”

Without a decent excuse at hand—and too tired to invent one—you begrudgingly allowed him to tag along, cringing every time his shoulder bumped into yours.

Just this once, you told yourself, grimacing internally as his steps fell perfectly in sync with yours. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.

It happened again. And again.

No matter how cleverly you tried to evade him, Hawks was always one step ahead.

Linger in the bathroom for twenty minutes? He would still be leaning casually against the lobby wall when you emerged, like he had all the time in the world. Sneak out through the side exit? He would be waiting by the curb, his nonchalant smile daring you to explain how you had managed to arrive there.

It was like playing hide-and-seek with a predator who had already mapped your every move. And judging by the smug twinkle in his eyes, he seemed to be enjoying every second of it.

It was equal parts infuriating and nerve-wracking.

Deep down, you knew you should confront him—call him out on his borderline stalkerish behaviour and let him know just how unacceptable it was. Sure, the man looked like he’d been plucked straight from the pages of Hero Weekly, but tailing employees like a private investigator? No amount of jawline could justify that.

But, much to your internal shame, you hesitated.

Confrontation wasn’t exactly your strong suit, and the thought of rattling the fragile semblance of stability you had managed to build made your stomach churn.

Honestly, it probably said more about you than you cared to admit—that you were willing to trade your dignity for the fleeting comfort of avoiding conflict.

As the weeks dragged on, it started to feel like Hawks was methodically collecting pieces of you, tucking them away in a vault only he had access to. Your life had become a relentless loop of Hawks, Hawks, and even more Hawks. Every corner you turned, every moment of peace, somehow led back to him.

Exhausting didn’t even begin to cover it.

Thankfully, a lifeline arrived one afternoon as you were packing up—delivered via a well-timed text message. For the first time in weeks, you felt a flicker of hope.

Hawks, engrossed in furiously typing on his laptop, didn’t notice as you sneaked a peek at your phone. His face was twisted in a scowl, like the concept of doing actual work while at work was a personal affront.

Your attention shifted to the screen in your hand, and a surge of excitement coursed through you as you read the latest message:

Daisuke:

Hey Y/N! Fancy grabbing drinks tonight?

A grin spread across your face. Trust Daisuke to have impeccable timing. It had been forever since you last saw your old friend—thanks to coworkers treating your schedule like a suggestion box. But now, with your slightly less insane hours, the prospect of a night out actually felt attainable.

You quickly tapped out a response:

You:

You are my hero. Seriously, let me know if you ever need a kidney.

Daisuke:

Girl, wtf. How about you just buy first rounds instead?

You:

Okay, that works too! I’m just heading out of work. Are you free now?

Daisuke:

Hell yeahhh. Wanna meet at that bar next to the ramen place?

You:

OMW!! Love uuuu

“Reading something good?” Hawks’ voice cut through your concentration like a knife, making your neck snap up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

He was no longer typing, his chair tilted back as he regarded you over his laptop with a sly grin—sharp and knowing.

Quickly, you tucked your phone away. “Uh—yeah. Just some happy news,” you mumbled, your voice too rushed, too awkward.

Smooth, Y/N. Real smooth.

“Huh. Must be some news to make you smile like that during office hours.” Hawks mused, fingers stroking his chin as though pondering a great mystery. “Landlord finally agree to lower your rent?”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling nervously. “I wish. If that were the case, I’d be throwing a full-blown party right here.” You slung your blazer over your shoulder, grabbing your bag with a quick glance toward the door. “Anyway, I’m calling it a day. Have a good weekend.”

Before you could make your escape, Hawks was already on his feet, moving towards you with that practiced swagger of his.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked, stopping just close enough to make the air feel heavier, before he reached out to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Let me walk you home,” he offered—or rather, declared. His statement was calm, but there was no mistaking the edge of finality in his words.

Oh. Well. Crap.

“Actually, I’m meeting up for drinks with a friend,” you stammered. “You know, Friday vibes and all that. But, uh, thanks for the offer.” You forced a tight smile, hoping it would be enough to end the conversation.

You turned to leave, but something stopped you dead in your tracks.

Hawks’ expression had shifted in a way that made your stomach twist. The teasing grin vanished, replaced by an eerie blankness that seemed to drain every trace of warmth from his face. It was like staring at a mask—cold, detached, and utterly devoid of humanity.

Your breath hitched as a chill ran down your spine, your instincts screaming at you to get out. But something in his empty gaze held you frozen in place.

Tentatively, you extended a hand, unsure if you were trying to comfort or protect yourself. “Are you—”

Before you could finish, his arm shot up, movement quick as a striking snake. His fingers clamped down around your palm with startling force, sending a jolt of pain straight up to your elbow.

“Ah! Hawks, what the hell?” you cried out, yanking your arm in a desperate bid to break free.

You yanked and twisted, your efforts to free your hand from Hawks’ unyielding grip growing more frantic with each passing second. Staggering backward, you fought with all your might, but his hold was like iron, locking you firmly in place.

Your heart pounded in your ears as panic surged. You needed to call for help, to scream— something. He was going to hurt you—

But just as you drew a sharp breath to let out a desperate cry, his fingers loosened, and you were suddenly free.

Stumbling backward, you gasped for air, your legs wobbling beneath you as you tried to regain your balance. The world tilted slightly, your pulse thundering in your ears.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Hawks stood there, staring at his own hand as if it had betrayed him.

It was unsettling to see him so rattled— him, of all people. The man who oozed control and confidence now looked genuinely baffled, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

Meanwhile, your own emotions boiled over.

Anger and disbelief churned together in a volatile mix as you steadied yourself. Your hands curled into fists, your breath ragged as you prepared to tear into him.

Because what in god’s name was that?

Hawks cut you off, flashing you a carefree smirk so out of place it was almost insulting. He raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Whoops! My bad, Y/N. Guess I haven’t quite kicked those hero reflexes yet, huh? You just caught me off guard for a second there," he said, his tone so light you’d think he’d accidentally bumped into you on the sidewalk.

Then, as if to pour salt in the wound, his voice shifted into a teasing drawl. "And here I was, clueless about the fact that I’ve got a social butterfly on my team. Should’ve asked you out for drinks myself—save your friend the trouble.”

Your anger dissolved into something sharper and colder—pure, scathing annoyance.

Seriously? His so-called "hero reflexes" had nearly made you keel over from a heart attack, and he was making jokes?

“It’s a miracle HR hasn’t started a file on you yet,” you shot back, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you cradled your throbbing hand.

Hawks just laughed, an infuriatingly casual sound that made your teeth grind. “Nah, HR loves me. I’m their favourite. But hey—don’t let me hold you up.” He gestured toward the door with an exaggerated flourish. “Go on, enjoy your weekend. But don’t have too much fun without me, yeah?”

You shot him a suspicious glare, your mind racing to make sense of what had just happened.

Surely it was just an accident, right? Right?

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably as the incident replayed in your mind, looping like a sinister highlight reel.

He just startled me, that’s all. He’s a jerk, but he’s not violent.

But the longer you stood there, the more the memory gnawed at you.

Seconds stretched into what felt like hours as you waged an internal war: Was this something to be genuinely concerned about? Or just another bizarre entry in the ever-growing list of ‘Weird Hawks Behaviour’?

Eventually, you shoved the thought aside, burying it under the mental label of ‘Not My Problem’. You didn’t have the energy to unravel the enigma that was Hawks right now.

Whatever. It was fine. Perfectly fine. Everything was fine.

With one last heated glare in his direction—your silent version of what the hell is wrong with you?—you spun on your heel and stormed out of the office.

Each step sent sharp jolts of pain through your throbbing hand, but you refused to let it slow you down. As far as you were concerned, this was just another odd encounter in the never-ending circus that was your life.

"Y/N!" an enthusiastic voice called out, cutting through the evening hum of the city.

Despite the memory of Hawks’ grip lingering like a shadow, you managed to plaster on a radiant smile. With a wave that felt a little too eager, you jogged over.

Daisuke leaned casually against the entrance to the bar, the glow of the neon sign casting soft blues and reds over his face. He held a cigarette loosely between his fingers, its ember crackling faintly in the cool night air.

The bar itself buzzed with life, the muffled beats of music thumping through the walls. Strings of exposed bulbs zigzagged across the patio, their warm light pooling on the cracked pavement below. Groups of patrons spilled out onto the street, laughing loudly over the clinking of glasses.

Tonight’s about forgetting, you told yourself, shoving thoughts of Hawks and his bipolar moods into the deepest corner of your mind. At least until Monday.

“Hey, Dai!” you greeted, throwing your arms around his neck in a hug that he returned without hesitation. The familiar scent of his cologne—woodsy with a faint hint of citrus—was grounding in its normalcy.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you teased, pulling back with a grin.

Daisuke rolled his eyes dramatically, dropping his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his boot. “Y/N, your jokes get better every time,” he deadpanned.

"What can I say? I was born to be a comedian—but alas, fate had other plans.”

“Don’t even start with the ‘poor me’ act, Ms. High-Flyer,” Daisuke retorted, smirking as he reached out to tousle your hair like an annoying older brother. “I’ve seen your paycheck stubs. The Hero Commission isn’t exactly pinching pennies.”

The casual jab at your job was lighthearted enough, but it hit a sore spot. The smile on your face faltered as the shadows of your office life crept in, pulling you down like a ship anchor.

So much for escaping tonight.

Daisuke noticed instantly, slipping into a look of concern. His brow furrowed as he leaned in slightly. “Hey,” he said softly, “everything okay?”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry as sandpaper.

For a brief moment, the idea of unloading it all crossed your mind—the suffocating weight of Hawks, the way he constantly seemed to blur every line you tried to draw.

But you stopped yourself.

You knew Daisuke too well. He would react like a fireworks show: loud, explosive, and impossible to control. He would either insist on dragging you to the police station immediately or launch into a full-scale social media crusade to expose Hawks as some kind of villain in disguise.

And the last thing you needed was for Daisuke to land on Hawks’ radar. Especially after today.

You conjured up a tight-lipped grimace, forcing yourself to shake it off. “I’m fine,” you lied. “Just thinking about how unfair it is that I’m not swimming in gold coins like Scrooge McDuck yet.”

Daisuke narrowed his eyes, skepticism written all over his face. “You sure? We can talk about it if you need to,” he said gently.

You shook your head. “No, really, I’m fine. Let’s focus on something much more important—like finding you a cute guy to take home tonight.”

Daisuke snorted, bumping your shoulder with his own. “Yeah, right. That would be great, except we both know you’re going to get too drunk, and I’ll end up babysitting you instead.”

“How dare thee! Have thee no faith in me?” You gasped, clutching at your chest as though your invisible pearls had been snatched.

“Thee has faith that thee will be completely plastered by 8:00 p.m.,” he quipped back.

“Daisuke,” you declared solemnly, raising one hand as if swearing an oath, “I swear on my grandmother’s grave that I won’t get plastered tonight.”

You were plastered by 7:30 p.m.

In your defence, you’d never been particularly fond of your grandmother.

The night had started with all the makings of restraint. You sipped your first beer at a leisurely pace, genuinely entertained as Daisuke regaled you with his latest dating disasters—stories involving mismatched socks, a cat named Aristotle, and a first-date escape that required scaling a fence.

But then, someone brushed against your shoulder as they passed by your stool, and your heart nearly leapt out of your chest.

You whipped around, your stomach twisting in panic, half-expecting to see Hawks standing behind you. The space was blissfully empty, but the scare had already set your nerves on edge.

From that moment on, restraint was a distant memory. You attacked each drink like it owed you money, the soothing buzz quickly giving way to reckless abandon.

Daisuke, too busy flirting with the handsome bartender—complete with shy smiles and lingering eye contact—didn’t notice your escalating state until it was too late.

By the time your laugh reached a volume that could rival a jet engine and your anecdotes turned into incoherent ramblings about your college roommate’s pet iguana, his head snapped in your direction.

“Y/N,” he said like a mother confronting her unruly child, “you’re gone, aren’t you?”

To which you eloquently replied, “Gooooooooooooone,”

"Alright, that's enough for tonight," Daisuke sighed, hoisting your arm over his shoulder as he helped you to your feet. As soon as you stood up, a freight train of vertigo slammed into you, and you instinctively clutched his shirt like a lifeline.

"No, no—you stay," you slurred, shoving at him with hands that seemed to have forgotten how coordination worked. Daisuke stumbled back onto his barstool, and you jabbed a finger toward the bartender, your arm wobbling like a faulty antenna. "I’m the idiot who got tanked. You stay here and make goo-goo eyes at Mr. Long Island Iced Tea over there."

The bartender, now visibly flustered, shot Daisuke a shy but hopeful smile, his cheeks tinged a soft pink.

Daisuke groaned, crossing his arms as he glared at you with the intensity of a disappointed parent. "There is no way I’m letting you walk home. What if you get kidnapped?”

"Dude," you huffed, staggering but managing to stay upright this time, "it’s barely eight o’clock, and my apartment is like a ten-minute walk away. Relax." You paused, swaying slightly as you pressed your hands together in mock pleading. "Please just stay. I’ll feel guilty forever if I ruin your night—and you like him, I can tell.”

Daisuke’s frown deepened, but the bartender’s subtle wave and bright grin clearly weren’t helping his resolve.

You watched his brow crease, the internal tug-of-war between his protective instincts and the prospect of romance playing out on his face. After a moment’s hesitation, he exhaled heavily and pulled you into a tight hug.

"Promise me you’ll text the second you get home, okay?" he mumbled into your hair.

You let out a loud snort that earned judgmental side-eyes from the couple seated nearby. Whoops. "Yes, dad," you teased, leaning in with a cheeky whisper. "And don’t forget to use a condom, alright?"

Daisuke rolled his eyes so hard you were surprised they didn’t fall out of his head. "Out. Now," he said, giving you a light shove toward the door.

Still giggling, you stumbled slightly but managed to turn and salute him. "Aye-aye, Captain Responsible!" you chirped before weaving your way to the bar’s exit.

As soon as you stepped outside, the cold night air slapped you in the face like a vengeful ghost. It clawed mercilessly at your exposed skin, making you immediately regret your wardrobe choices. Hugging your work blazer tighter around you, you cursed under your breath.

"Of course I didn’t bring a real jacket," you muttered to yourself. "Because that would require common sense, and apparently, I left mine back at the office."

Brushing off the chill biting at your skin, you squared your shoulders and began the short walk home, the thought of your warm, cozy bed acting as your beacon.

But before you made it more than a few steps, you collided with something solid. Your face smushed unceremoniously against what felt suspiciously like wool, the coarse fabric scratching your cheek. "What the—?" you sputtered, stumbling back as you tried to regain your balance.

Your heart shot to your throat as you looked up—and nearly swallowed your tongue.

There he was. Hawks. His scarred, maddeningly perfect face illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights, his golden eyes gleaming with an unreadable intensity.

His lips curled into a knowing smile, though it stopped dead before reaching his eyes. "Well, well," he said evenly. "Looks like someone’s been enjoying themselves tonight. Let me guess—your buddy decided to call it a night and leave you all alone?”

His words, teasing on the surface, had a razor-sharp undertone.

"Not very considerate of him, huh?" he added, leaning slightly closer, as if inspecting you for damage.

Your body went rigid as Hawks’ hands settled firmly on your hips, his grip dipping far lower than could be considered ‘helpful.’

“What the—why are you here?” you blurted, glaring up at him with squinted eyes, trying to wriggle free from his suffocating hold. “Were you following me?”

Hawks tilted his head, his face twisted with something you couldn’t quite place. “Of course not, Y/N. Honestly, where do you come up with this stuff?” he replied smoothly, as his fingers gave your hips a little squeeze.

He chuckled, a sound so light it bordered on dismissive. “I was just out on patrol. Sure, I might not be in the hero game officially anymore, but old habits die hard, you know? Can’t be too careful these days, especially when it comes to an intoxicated young woman wandering home alone at night.”

Embarrassment surged through you, your cheeks burning as hot as your indignation. “I’m fine,” you slurred, summoning every ounce of your drunken resolve to free yourself from his grasp.

After some clumsy manoeuvring and a lot of staggering, you managed to break away, stumbling backward like a newborn fawn learning to walk—on ice. Your arms pinwheeled for balance before you finally managed to steady yourself.

Hawks stood still, his expression unreadable, though the slight upward twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. He held his hands up, palms outward, as if to say hey, I’m harmless.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, narrowing your eyes at Hawks’ infuriatingly smug, stupidly handsome face. “Go on, finish your patrol or whatever.”

He hummed thoughtfully, taking a deliberate step closer, the dark flicker in his gaze setting your nerves alight. “Sorry, Y/N, but I can’t just leave you here,” he explained, his voice coated in syrupy concern. “Since your buddy decided to let you turn into a walking distillery, I guess it’s my responsibility to make sure you get home safe.”

Sure, you were dizzy, exhausted, and already bracing for what promised to be a category-five hangover. But the idea of Hawks escorting you home in your current state was a hard pass. The man was a gold-medal boundary-crosser when you were sober; the thought of what he might attempt while you were drunk was a horror show waiting to happen.

Stumbling slightly, you straightened up with drunken determination, shaking your head in a way that felt authoritative but likely resembled a bobblehead. Fixing him with what you hoped was a piercing glare (but probably looked more deranged), you barked, “Nope! I don’t want that.”

Your words came out louder than intended, and definitely less coherent, but you were too drunk and too stubborn to care. The curb was looking awfully inviting right about now.

Hawks sighed with exasperation, rubbing his temples as though you were the one singlehandedly responsible for all his woes. "Stubborn as ever," he muttered under his breath.

The nerve!

Your lips curled into a spiteful smirk as a petty thought flitted through your mind: maybe All-for-One should’ve gone for his tongue instead of his wings.

You squared your shoulders, fully expecting a condescending sermon—one of his trademark ‘I know better than you’ lectures, delivered with the charm of a self-satisfied fox. But instead of launching into a verbal masterclass on your supposed poor decision-making, he simply nodded.

You blinked. Was he... agreeing? Actually respecting your wishes for once?

“Alright, I get it,” Hawks said with a resigned chuckle, uncharacteristically soft. Before you could fully process his response, his hand lightly touched your shoulder, guiding you toward a nearby bench. “But before I head out, let’s sober you up a little, huh? Sit down for a sec. I’ll grab you something from the vending machine around the corner. We can’t have you stumbling home like this.”

You gawked at him, slack jawed. Hawks... being considerate? The concept felt so alien you weren’t sure whether to feel relieved or start scanning for hidden cameras.

Still reeling from his uncharacteristic compliance, you moved like a marionette with tangled strings, allowing Hawks to steer you toward the bench. You slumped onto it without a word, the strangeness of the moment settling over you like an ill-fitting coat.

This was weird—surreal, even.

It felt miles away from the man who had crushed your hand under the guise of ‘hero reflexes.’ The shift was so stark it felt almost like a set-up, and you couldn’t shake the prickling sense of unease crawling up your spine.

"Um—thanks? I guess," you sputtered hesitantly.

Hawks flashed a dazzling grin, his golden eyes shining with an energy that bordered on manic. He seemed... thrilled. Too thrilled. "Of course, Y/N," he crooned. "You know I’m always here to take care of you."

Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and strutted off around the corner, his departure leaving you blinking in confusion. True to form, it took barely a minute for him to reappear, a chilled bottle in hand.

He extended it to you with a satisfied smile—the kind of smile that made your stomach twist, as though you were the punchline of some elaborate joke.

Your eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. "Wow, speedy as ever," you said, still trying to process how he’d managed such a quick return. Squinting, you attempted to read the label through the fog of your inebriation—Oolong Iced Tea, your favourite.

"That was nothing," Hawks replied, his smile turning smug, though tinged with nostalgia. "Back in my prime, I would've been there and back before you even blinked."

You hummed softly, the words slipping out before you could catch them. "I guess you were pretty legendary. I used to watch your fights when I was a kid."

The moment the admission left your lips, you froze, cringing internally.

What the hell, alcohol brain? If there was one thing Hawks didn’t need, it was more fodder to fuel his already cosmic-sized ego. That was it—this was the last time you were drinking. Ever.

Hawks’ eyes widened briefly, just enough to betray a flicker of unguarded surprise, before his expression melted into something almost unbearably tender. “I know.”

The words hung in the air, disarming in their simplicity.

It took your sluggish, alcohol-muddled brain a moment to register them, too preoccupied with berating itself for the earlier slip-up. But when they finally clicked, your head whipped toward him. “Wait—what do you mean you kn—”

“Drink your tea, Y/N.”

You froze. There was something unsettlingly absolute about his voice, a weight behind it that left no space for argument. For a moment, you simply stared at him, the spark of understanding dawning like a distant storm on the horizon.

This was how someone like Hawks had climbed the ranks so quickly, how he had managed to wield so much influence at such a young age. His charm, his composure—they were weapons, honed to perfection.

And now, that effortless authority was bearing down on you, trapping you in its orbit.

With a heavy sigh of resignation, you concluded that getting sober as fast as possible was your safest bet. But as your eyes landed on the bottle in your hand, you froze.

The seal was already broken.

Your annoyance flared, a flicker of heat piercing through the fog of inebriation. Of course. Hawks couldn’t even resist the urge to sample your drink first. Classic.

Muttering under your breath, you shot the bottle a glare so pointed it could’ve pierced steel.

With all the flair of a petty tyrant, you twisted off the cap and wiped the rim with your sleeve, as if to erase any lingering traces of his lips. Then, determined to prove some unspoken point, you tipped the bottle back and chugged it like a college freshman at their first party.

The last drop hit your tongue, and you immediately regretted it. A syrupy sweetness clung to your mouth, cloying and foreign, like candy left out in the sun too long.

You grimaced, flipping the bottle in your hand to inspect the label. It was your usual brand. So why did it taste like someone had drowned it in sugar? Did they change the recipe? And if they had, where was the public outrage? Surely this was a crime worth rioting over.

You turned to Hawks, intending to ask if he knew anything about the change, but the question froze in your throat.

He wasn’t looking at you—he was watching you.

His eyes, hooded and fixed, glimmered with a golden light that sent an involuntary chill racing down your spine.

There was something there — a hunger, raw and unyielding, with a predatory edge. At the sight, your body began to tremble.

You opened your mouth to speak—to ask him what the hell was going on—but all that emerged was a soft, pitiful sound, a weak mewl that barely registered as your own voice.

What the hell was happening?

Panic surged as you realized your tongue felt leaden, as though it had been dipped in concrete and left to harden. It refused to move, every attempt to shape words collapsing into useless effort. You tried again, but the more you fought for control, the more helpless you felt, the cement-like weight spreading from your mouth to your cheeks.

Then came the rest of your body, surrendering to a sudden, inexplicable weakness. It crept into your joints, dulling your strength like rust devouring metal.

You buckled, collapsing forward with a feeble groan, only to be caught by Hawks’ waiting arms. The movement was so seamless, it was as if he had been anticipating it all along.

“There, there,” Hawks murmured, rich and velvety, a low purr that crawled under your skin. “I told you, didn’t I? I’ll always take care of you.”

Your vision wavered, the edges smearing like wet ink on paper.

Hawks’ hand slid into your hair, his fingers threading through the strands with an ease that felt far too natural. You tried to fight the haze, clawing at the fog consuming your mind, but it was like struggling against an immovable wall. Every rational thought was blocked.

“Easy now,” he cooed, his tone honeyed but unshakably firm as he tilted your head back. His fingers cradled your chin, forcing your gaze upward until his face dominated your blurred vision. It loomed above you, every scar and feature, etched with pleasure.

“That’s it. Just look at me, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice a hypnotic lullaby that made your eyelids grow impossibly heavy. “Nothing else matters. Just close those pretty eyes and drift off, okay? Sleep’s all you need.”

And as his words wrapped around you like a blanket, consciousness slipped further and further from your grasp.

Sleep. Yes—that sounded good. It sounded safe.

The thought clung to you briefly, before his soft humming began to unravel the last vestiges of resistance. Bit by bit, the fight drained from your limbs, your will slipping away like sand through trembling fingers.

You clawed desperately at the fraying threads of consciousness, but they dissolved faster than you could grasp. The world around you dimmed.

The last thing you registered was the rich timbre of Hawks’ chuckle curling around you like smoke. It lingered long after everything else faded to black.

Warmth blossomed in your core, radiating outward in gentle waves that sent pleasant tingles through your body.

‘That’s nice,’ you thought dimly, your mind clouded as though stuffed with cotton.

Your senses felt disjointed. Yet, you could still make out the soft plushness of your mattress beneath you, cradling you.

‘Oh, yeah’, you thought vaguely, ‘I’m in bed. Nice and cozy’.

You tried to sink back into the comforting haze of sleep, but something held you back—a foreign pressure against your stomach.

With great effort, you forced your eyes open, lids heavy and uncooperative. The room swirled around you, the darkness fractured and refracted like a broken kaleidoscope. Your thoughts, thick and sluggish, struggled to piece together what you were seeing.

Then, a deep chuckle vibrated against your thighs “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” came the voice, warm and teasing. “What’re you looking for?”

When the shapes around you finally sharpened, your stomach twisted with confusion.

It was Hawks.

Bare-chested, his scarred skin catching what little light filtered through the room. He was positioned between your naked legs, too close, far too close.

Another wave of that strange, pleasant heat rolled over you, clouding your thoughts further.

Then you realized why.

His lips were trailing along your naval, pressing slow, lazy, open-mouthed kisses against your skin.

Oh.

So that’s what the heat was.

A small mewl escaped your lips, pleasure spreading through you despite the numbness of your body.

His tongue dragged slowly, languidly, from your belly button to the dip between your breasts. (Oh, that’s strange, you were naked. Did you do that?)

Each deliberate movement sent shudders coursing through you, muddling your already fogged mind.

Golden eyes, glowing like molten amber, locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. They never wavered, heavy with something dark and possessive.

“You’re dreaming, Y/N. You’re dreaming about me.” He purred, resting his chin on your chest.

Right—a dream. That made sense. A funny, strange dream.

His fingers danced idly along your side, in soft, teasing strokes. Slowly, he pulled you into a suffocating embrace, his breath hot against your skin as he buried his face in the curve of your neck.

He inhaled deeply, the sound almost reverent, like an addict getting their next hit.

His weight pressed heavily against you, the crush of his body making it harder to draw breath. But that was okay, wasn’t it? Just a dream. Not real. Dreams couldn’t hurt you.

“You know,” Hawks whispered, his breath burning against your ear, “you’re kind of a little perv, dreaming about your boss like this. Makes me wonder... what’s really going on in that pretty head of yours, huh?”

Before you could even process his words, he caught your earlobe between his teeth, tugging it gently. “Don’t worry,” he added, his tone dropping to a husky murmur, “your secret’s safe with me.”

You inhaled sharply, a gasp spilling from your lips as his knee slid between your legs, pressing firmly against the satin barrier of your panties.  

Your body jerked, as a weak moan spilled from your lips.

Every nerve felt like it had been set alight, the friction sparking an unwelcome flood of sensation that drowned out your muddled thoughts. Your body betrayed you, arching instinctively into the pressure as desire—hot and relentless—washed over you in an overwhelming tide.

You whimpered softly as Hawks pressed his thumb against your jaw, gently prying it open. “You’re so cute when you’re sleepy.”

With his touch still searing your skin, your awareness began to slip away.

The last thing you registered was the possessive press of Hawks' lips against yours, his greed and hunger pouring into the kiss like a claim you were too far gone to resist.

Chapter Text

You woke up to what could only be described as the headache to end all headaches.

Pain pounded against your skull with the enthusiasm of a drummer unleashed on double bass pedals for the first time. Each relentless thud reverberated through your temples and down your neck. With a groan, you yanked the comforter over your face, desperate to escape the sunlight spilling into the room.

Had you ever been this hungover before? You doubted it.

This one felt like it deserved its own trophy—a monument to poor decisions and overpriced cocktails. Every muscle in your body throbbed with a dull ache, while your damp skin clung uncomfortably to the sheets.

Slowly, painfully, fragmented pieces of the previous night began to trickle in.

Meeting Daisuke.

Throwing back drinks like it was an Olympic sport.

Leaving the bar. Alone, right? Yeah, you had left on your own.

But then—

Hawks.

You shot upright so fast it was a wonder your spine didn’t snap clean in half.

Hawks had been there.

Your eyes darted around the room, wild and frantic, scanning every shadow and corner for any sign of dishevelled blond hair or piercing golden eyes. Each darkened shape felt like a potential threat, every flicker of light a cruel trick on your nerves.

Gradually, the familiar chaos of your bedroom came into focus—the tangled sheets twisted around your legs, the pile of laundry you’d been avoiding for weeks, and the soft light filtering through the blinds, painting everything in a peaceful glow.

Relief crashed over you, knocking the air from your lungs.

You were alone.

But a gnawing question quickly replaced the fleeting calm: how had you gotten home?

The last thing you could clearly recall was downing a bottle of tea, desperate to sober up. After that—

Hawks—his body pressed against yours, his lips trailing fire over your skin, his hands mapping every inch of you. Those eyes, unguarded and heavy with a raw, almost unbearable need, as if touching you was the only thing keeping him alive.

Your breath hitched.

It was a dream.

It had to be.

You pulled your knees to your chest, the blanket slipping off your clammy skin in a crumpled heap. A quick glance confirmed you were still in your work clothes. Thank god for small mercies.

Swallowing hard, you fought against the bile rising in your throat and forced yourself to focus - to breathe.

What in all that was holy could have caused you to dream about that?

Sure, you were only human—steamy dreams weren’t exactly uncharted territory. But they usually featured people who made sense. Like your absurdly hot high school math teacher, the one who somehow made quadratic equations seductive, or the sweet convenience store clerk who sometimes slipped you an extra protein bar with a shy smile.

But Hawks? Your cocky, slightly intimidating boss? That was a whole new level of forbidden weirdness you hadn’t realized your imagination could stoop to. And it hadn’t even felt remotely sexy—it was terrifying. The kind of fever dream cooked up by a brain that clearly had a personal vendetta against you.

“I need a psychiatrist. Or an exorcist,” you muttered hoarsely, cringing at the sound of your own voice. It cracked like you had spent the night belting out arias at an opera instead of simply getting wasted.

The sudden ding of your phone startled you, nearly sending you toppling off the bed. The chime felt like a hammer to your already pounding head. Wincing, you grumbled, "Aspirin. Immediately."

With all the grace of a sloth, you grabbed your phone and glared at the screen, prepared to curse out whatever notification dared to interrupt your misery.

Your heart sank as you saw the name flash on your screen. Hawks.

Hawks (Bird-Bitch):

Good morning, little miss tipsy. You make it home okay last night? 😊

A groan escaped you as your body slumped back into the mattress.

Well, at least this confirmed Hawks hadn’t been the one to walk you home. If he had, you would already be furiously drafting your two weeks’ notice—complete with an appendix titled “Why Therapy is Cheaper Than Keeping This Job.”

You exhaled slowly, reading the text again. Normal. Surprisingly normal. Well, normal by Hawks’ standards, anyway.

You debated not replying. Experience had taught you that giving Hawks even an inch of attention was like opening Pandora’s Box—but instead of horrors, it unleashed endless smirks, boundary-pushing antics, and unsolicited life advice.

 Still... he had respected your request not to escort you home last night. That was something, right? A miracle, really.

He had even tried to sober you up. Though, judging by the black hole in your memory, that attempt had been a spectacular failure. But hey, effort was effort.

Then there was the dream.

God, the dream.

How in the ever-loving hell were you supposed to face him after that? Maybe you could fake an illness for the rest of the month. Or quit. Pack up your life, move to a cabin in the woods, and live off the grid. Surely there were worse fates.

Still, he had been marginally less obnoxious than usual last night—which, granted, was a bar so low it was practically subterranean.

Deciding he at least deserved some acknowledgment for his brief attempt at decency, you typed out a short, no-frills response:

You:

Yep. Made it home fine. Thanks for the drink last night—and sorry for being a bother.

Hawks' response came in almost instantly, predictably over-the-top and riddled with emojis—there was a bird, a smirk, and, for some reason, a cowboy hat. Choosing to protect your peace, you pointedly ignored his ridiculous text and swiped over to your contacts, scrolling quickly until Daisuke’s name appeared.

Please tell me I texted him before passing out, you thought, guilt gnawing at your insides. Poor guy was probably imagining you unconscious in some back alley if you hadn’t.

But as you opened the message thread, your stomach plummeted faster than a broken elevator.

You had texted him, but what greeted you wasn’t relief—it was disaster.

Daisuke:

Heyyyy. I’m about to leave the bar with super-hot bartender (can’t remember his name). You stumbled to your apartment yet?

You:

Sure did. No thanks to you, asshole. Hope getting your dick wet is more fun than sticking with me.

Daisuke hadn’t replied after that.

Your jaw dropped as you reread the message, over and over, desperately hoping it was some cruel, alcohol-fuelled illusion. But no—there it was, plain as day, glaring back at you like an incriminating neon sign.

What the hell?

The vulgar words slammed into you, jolting through your system as if you’d been hurled into an electric fence. The sheer venom in your own message left your head spinning.

This wasn’t just a thoughtless slip—it was downright nasty.

Why? Why would you send something so vile to the one person in your life who consistently had your back?

You clawed at your memory, grasping at the haze of last night, but all you got in return was a foggy abyss. Nothing. No recollection of typing out those cutting words, no flash of misplaced anger to explain what had possessed you.

It was like a stranger had hijacked your body—and your phone.

Shakily, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, only for a wave of nausea to hit you like a sucker punch. Your stomach churned as you gulped down long, trembling breaths, willing yourself not to lose what little composure you had left.

You needed to call Daisuke—apologize, grovel, offer to buy him an entire year’s worth of drinks if necessary. Hell, maybe even ask him if there was any chance you had been possessed by some malevolent texting spirit last night. It was as plausible as anything else at this point.

Surely, he would understand. This wasn’t you—whatever had happened was a fluke, an out-of-character brain malfunction. Right?

Before you could chicken out, you pressed the call button with trembling fingers and lifted the phone to your ear, your pulse thundering louder than the dial tone.

The phone barely rang twice before Daisuke picked up, his voice clipped and cold. “Yeah?”

Oh—okay—he was pissed. Scratch that, he sounded livid. More so than the time you tripped and spilled an entire mug of coffee into his fish tank, dooming poor Bubbles to a caffeinated demise.

“Um—hey, Dai,” you stammered weakly, gripping the sheets like they might anchor you.

Calm down. Just explain yourself.

But how do you explain something you can’t even remember?

A heavy pause stretched over the line before Daisuke spoke again, sharper than you’d braced for. “What do you want, Y/N?”

That was it. The dam broke.

Tears welled up in your already stinging eyes as you tried—and utterly failed—to blink them away. So much for staying calm.

“Daisuke, I am so sorry!” The words tumbled out of you in a frantic rush, barely strung together. “I literally have no idea why I sent that—I don’t even remember sending it! You know I didn’t care about you staying at the bar. Hell, it was my stupid fault for getting so wasted. Maybe I hit my head on the way home? Or the tequila shots hit me later? I—I don’t know!”

 “Y/N—breathe,” Daisuke sighed, his anger softening into something worse: exhaustion. “Look, I know you’re sorry. But you can’t just say something that shitty and act like it doesn’t matter because you ‘can’t remember.’”

The words struck like a slap—not to hurt, but to shake you awake. Somehow, his calm delivery made them sting even more than if he had been yelling.

“I mean, this isn’t even the first time you’ve gotten shitfaced instead of just talking about your feelings,” Daisuke continued, “In fact, you never talk about your feelings. You let this crap pile up until it explodes into something self-destructive—like whatever the hell last night was.”

A knot of hurt began coiling in your chest, tightening with every word. It pressed against your lungs, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak.

The pain of his honesty sparked a defensive fire inside you, an almost overwhelming urge to snap back, to justify your actions—even if it meant sidestepping the truth just a little longer.

But deep down, where you couldn’t ignore it, you knew Daisuke was right.

You took a shaky breath. “I—I know. You’re right. I need to open up more,” you admitted, the confession heavy in your throat. “It’s just… things at work have been making me feel like I’m losing my mind. And I don’t want to drag you into it.”

“I’m your friend,” Daisuke said firmly. “You should drag me into it. How am I supposed to help if I don’t even know what’s going on?”

An image of Hawks surged to the forefront of your mind—those unrelenting eyes, the sharp edges of his grin, the way he seemed to move through life twenty steps ahead of everyone else. You could see him looming over Daisuke, not just dismissing him but erasing him with the precision of a predator swatting an insect.

No mess. No trace. No hesitation.

“No—no,” you stammered, shaking your head as if to dislodge the vision. “I need to figure this out myself.”

“You are honestly unbelievable,” Daisuke snapped, frustration crackling through the line. “Look, I think we need to take a break from each other—at least until you sort out whatever’s going on with your job. I can’t keep being your punching bag every time you get overwhelmed.”

The phone clicked with a finality that rang louder than any shout.

He had hung up.

For a moment, you just sat there, your phone slack in your hand as if it had suddenly become too heavy to hold.

Your breath came in uneven gasps, a shudder rattling through your chest. Slowly, your arm fell limply to your side, the device slipping through your fingers and landing on the mattress with a muted thud.

The dizziness hit like an uppercut—a brutal mix of hangover haze and the sharpness of Daisuke’s words. The room tilted and spun around you, and you clung to the edge of the bed, searching for an anchor in a world that suddenly felt off its axis.

How had this happened? Just yesterday, life had seemed… manageable, even semi-normal for the first time in months. Now, it was as if the ground had been yanked out from under you, leaving you suspended over a chasm of your own making.

And, as always, Hawks was at the center of it.

The grief sparked by Daisuke’s words began to dissipate, replaced by a surge of unfiltered anger.

That’s right—every single time your life veered off course, Hawks was there, a constant shadow at your lowest moments.

You clenched your fists, the realization burning in your chest.

Weeks of so-called "mentorship"— a joke, really — had reduced you to little more than a lapdog. His trainee? Hardly. You had ignored every sign, brushed off every red flag, just to cling to the illusion that things were fine.

Not anymore.

You had to rip this thing out by the roots before it contaminated the rest of your life.

Gritting your teeth, you grabbed your phone again and stabbed Hawks’ contact with enough force to make the screen wobble.

The sight of his name glaring back at you ignited a fresh wave of determination—and fury. With a scathing scowl etched across your face, you pressed Call.

As expected, Hawks answered on the first ring, his voice sliding through the line cheerily.

“Well, this is a nice surprise,” he drawled, warm enough to melt butter. “I was just thinking about you, actually. Thought I’d swing by with some aspirin and breakfast—you know, the hangover special. Figured you’d be feeling pretty rough after last ni—”

“We need to talk,” you cut him off, sounding more resolute than you had been in months.

The line fell silent for a beat, as if you had genuinely caught him off guard. Then, Hawks’ voice returned, smooth and composed, with just a hint of feigned concern that made your skin crawl.

“Y/N,” he began. “You know I’m always up for a little heart-to-heart. But you sound… tense. Something happen with your pal last night? I’m all ears if you need to vent.”

His tone was carefully measured, disarming in its casualness, yet unmistakably mocking—like he already knew exactly what had gone wrong.

You resisted the urge to growl, imagining that maddening grin on his face, undoubtedly twisted into amusement as he soaked up your frustration. “Not here. Not on the phone,” you bit out. “I need to speak with you face to face. It’s important.”

A low chuckle hummed in your ear. “Well, if you wanted to see me that badly, all you had to do was ask. Though I can’t say I’m not flattered.”

“This isn’t a joke!”

The volume of your outburst sent a fresh bolt of pain through your skull, intensifying the nausea that had been simmering just beneath the surface. Wincing, you hissed out a shaky breath and buried your face in your hands.

Seriously, what had caused this monstrosity of a hangover? Not even your most reckless college nights had ended in this level of bodily betrayal.

“Just… please. Can you take me seriously? Just this once,” you whispered, soft and utterly defeated. “You can go back to thinking I’m a joke after we talk.”

Hawks went quiet, so quiet you wondered if he’d hung up. The thought twisted your stomach, a flash of panic rising before his voice finally broke the silence.

“I do take you seriously, Y/N,” he said, slow and stern, as though scolding you. “More than anyone else ever has. And for the record, I’ve never thought of you as a joke. Not even once.”

Your lips parted, a retort already forming—something about whether he’d recently suffered a particularly bad head injury. But before you could get the words out, Hawks cut in, like he had read your mind and decided your input wasn’t necessary.

“You know, we could talk about this at my place. Plenty of privacy there, and you can get everything off your chest without worrying about anyone overhearing.”

You blinked, your brain grinding to a halt. His place? Oh, that wasn’t suspicious at all. “Oh, sure,” you said, sarcasm dripping from each syllable. “Because nothing screams ‘productive conversation’ like going to my boss's house.”

Hawks chuckled again, that infuriating, feather-light laugh that somehow managed to sound amused and unbothered all at once. “Well, I figured you’d appreciate the peace and quiet. Unless you’re more comfortable hashing it out in the office where anyone could walk in?” He let the question hang, his words coated in faux innocence. “I’m just thinking of what’s best for you, of course.”

You bit down on your lip so hard you were surprised it didn’t bleed.

This wasn’t just a bad idea—it was the bad idea, the kind that made history books and cautionary tales. If there were a ranking of disastrous decisions in the history of humankind, this one would take home the gold.

Through all of his mind games, there was one line you had managed to hold firm: under no circumstances—absolutely none—would you ever set foot in Hawks’ apartment. You’d sooner perform the macarena in front of your coworkers during a board meeting, complete with the hip wiggles and spirit fingers. And that was saying something.

But you needed to talk to him, and it was painfully clear he wasn’t going to budge on the location. Hawks never did anything on a whim; if he suggested his apartment, it wasn’t up for negotiation.

With a heavy sigh, you chanted in your mind, Pick your battles, Y/N. Pick your battles.

“Uh—yeah, sure,” you said reluctantly, the words tasting like defeat. “What time should I come over?”

“Hmmm,” Hawks hummed, “No rush. I’m working from home today, so whenever you’re ready works for me. But, uh”—there was a deliberate pause— “might wanna take a bath first. Just saying.”

You growled, indignation flaring as you leaned down to discreetly sniff your armpit. How dare he—

You froze.

Okay… he might have a point.

“Fine. I’ll see you later – just text me your address, I guess.”

You could practically feel his smile stretching wider, dripping with cheer. "Perfect! Should I cook up some breakfast? Or maybe a couple of cocktails—seems like you’re a party girl at heart, after all—"

You hung up mid-sentence, cutting off whatever teasing jabs he had prepared.

Smug bastard.

Feeling the last of your anger-fueled resolve drain from your body, you collapsed backward onto your bed, the mattress creaking loudly. Nausea churned in your stomach, every muscle in your body sore and uncooperative.

You were going to Hawks’ apartment.

After last night.

After that dream.

The sheer absurdity of the situation made your head throb even harder. Sure, you still intended to confront him, still clung to the idea of finally standing your ground. But any upper hand you might have had? Gone. Evaporated. Vanished like a puff of smoke.

And the worst part? You had willingly agreed to this.

As usual, Hawks had managed to back you into a corner, his honeyed words as irresistible—and as inescapable—as a flytrap. You kept buzzing straight into it, knowing full well you’d get stuck every time.

No wonder Daisuke had reached his limit. Honestly, if you could take a break from yourself, you probably would too.

With a resigned grumble, you dragged your stiff, aching body off the bed, bracing yourself for the uphill battle of becoming even remotely functional again.

First order of business: surviving this hangover.

You shuffled into the bathroom like a zombie freshly risen from the grave, your reflection in the mirror confirming the comparison. Dark circles sagged beneath your eyes, your skin was blotchy, and your hair looked like it had been electrocuted. Perfect. Exactly the state you wanted to be in when facing Hawks in his own domain.

"Okay," you muttered, gripping the sink as if it might impart some life-saving wisdom. "Let's fix this disaster."

Step one: hydration. You chugged a glass of water like your life depended on it, immediately regretting it as your queasy stomach gurgled. After a brief hesitation, you risked a second glass. Surely drowning the hangover was better than letting it linger.

Step two: caffeine. You stumbled to the kitchen, feet dragging, and started the coffee maker. The machine sputtered and hissed, an auditory assault on your throbbing head, but you clung to the promise of salvation in liquid form.

Step three: the shower. Stripping off your rumpled work clothes, you stepped under water just shy of scalding. Steam enveloped you, soothing sore muscles and washing away the sticky remnants of last night. You scrubbed your skin as if you could erase more than just sweat —Hawks’ text, his voice, the dream.

"Don’t think about it," you muttered, rinsing shampoo from your hair. "Just survive."

Step four: damage control. Towel-wrapped and slightly less corpse-like, you stood before the mirror armed with skincare and concealer. Dabbing at the dark circles under your eyes, you prayed to look at least marginally put together.

Step five: Armor. Rifling through your closet, you groaned, trying to find something that said I’m serious but also please don’t eat me alive. After much deliberation, you settled on a plain sweater and jeans—neutral and unremarkable. The last thing you needed was to give Hawks more material to mock.

With your headache still clinging to the edges of your senses and your nerves fraying by the second, you grabbed your phone and checked the time.

Too early to bail, too late to stall. It was time to face him.

“You’ve got this,” you whispered to yourself, though the tremor in your voice betrayed your own doubts.

Taking a deep breath, you slipped on your shoes and headed out the door, steeling yourself for whatever Hawks had in store.

The address Hawks provided caught you off guard. So much so that you double—and then triple—checked the postcode, just to make sure you hadn’t misread it.

It wasn’t the proximity to your own apartment complex that surprised you; Hawks had teased you more than once about how ‘convenient’ that little fact was.

No, what truly threw you was how… unremarkable it seemed. For someone as larger-than-life as Hawks, you had half-expected some extravagant penthouse or a sprawling luxury condo with floor-to-ceiling windows and an eagle-shaped fountain in the lobby.

Instead, the address pointed to a nondescript building that could’ve belonged to anyone.

Sure, it was nice—undeniably nicer than your own complex, though that wasn’t exactly a high bar. Still, it was a far cry from what you’d imagined for the former Number Two Hero turned HPSC president.

In a strange way, it eased some of the anxiety swirling in your mind. It made him feel a little less like an untouchable enigma and a bit more like a regular human being—flawed, grounded, and maybe even relatable.

Or maybe that was just the lingering hangover talking.

As you approached the sleek glass doors, you caught sight of the intercom system mounted to the side. With a sigh, you pressed the button marked with his apartment number. The intercom crackled for a moment before his familiar voice came through.

"Well, look who’s here," Hawks drawled. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten cold feet.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning closer to the speaker. “Just buzz me up, Hawks.”

“Patience, Y/N,” he sang back, “a guy likes to know who he’s letting into his lair. Are you carrying any snacks, or am I going to have to whip something up for my esteemed guest?”

You glared at the intercom like it had just insulted your bloodline. “I didn’t bring snacks because I’m not staying long. Now buzz me in before I change my mind.”

A breezy laugh filtered through the speaker. “Feisty today, aren’t we? Alright, alright—consider yourself officially welcomed.”

The sharp buzz of the door unlocking echoed in your ears, and you pushed it open with a huff. "Asshole," you muttered under your breath.

You shuffled through the lobby, nodding awkwardly as you passed a couple of residents.

They looked completely normal—so normal, in fact, that it threw you off. You had half-expected anyone sharing a building with Hawks to be Hannibal Lecter levels of eccentric.

Turns out, they were just regular people living their lives. Who knew?

After a nerve-wracking elevator ride— made worse after you pressed the wrong floor not once, but twice—you finally found yourself standing in front of Hawks’ apartment door.

Your hand hovered a centimetre from the polished wood, hesitating in midair as if the frame itself radiated heat.

The longer you stood there, the more the crushing weight of realization sank in: this was a horrific idea.

What were you thinking? Confronting Hawks in his home? You might as well have walked into a lion’s den wearing a steak necklace. Your mind conjured every possible outcome, none of them good.

Would he twist your words, laugh off your concerns, or—worst of all— would he be angry?

Your fingers twitched, itching to knock, yet frozen by the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t a meeting with your boss; it was an exercise in self-inflicted torment.

You could leave, a small voice whispered in your mind. Turn around, go home, forget this ever happened. Maybe call in sick for the next month and binge-watch nature documentaries about animals that aren’t terrifying former heroes.

But no, you had already come this far. Turning back now would only add cowardice to your already heaping pile of bad decisions.

 You squared your shoulders, ignoring the way your palms had gone clammy. Stand your ground, you reminded yourself, though it felt more like an empty mantra than a rallying cry.

Taking one last deep breath, you steeled your nerves and knocked, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway.

There was no going back now.

You barely had time to pull your hand back before the door swung open, revealing Hawks in all his overconfident glory. His face lit up with an easy, beaming smile, the kind that made it impossible to tell if he was genuinely happy to see you or just thrilled to catch you off guard.

And damn it, as much as you hated to admit it—he looked good. Of course, he did.

His messy blond hair framed his sharp features like a work of art, and his casual outfit—a fitted black tee and sweatpants that somehow looked tailored—only emphasized his frustratingly effortless charm.

Even the scars decorating his face and arms made him look rugged and battle-tested rather than flawed. You scrunched your nose, the injustice of it all settling in your chest like a stubborn thorn.

If ever there was proof that God played favourites, Hawks was it.

“Hey, you,” he greeted, arms crossed lazily against his chest. His eyes gleamed as he added, “Thought maybe you got lost in the lobby—or decided to make an exit through the fire escape.”

"Of course I didn’t. I told you I need to discuss some things with you," you shot back, doing your best to sound intimidating.

You straightened your spine and put on your most commanding ‘tough guy’ expression. Though, from the way Hawks’ lips twitched, you might as well have been a puppy trying to growl at its owner.

"Ah, yes—the things," he replied lightly. "Gotta admit, you’ve got me curious. But judging by that death glare, I’m guessing I’ve already earned a spot in the doghouse. What’d I do this time?"

What haven’t you done. you thought bitterly, your narrowed eyes doing little to mask the storm brewing inside. As though plucking the thought straight from your head, Hawks let out a low snort, his expression shifting into something almost playful.

Without missing a beat, he pushed the door open further, leaning against the frame effortlessly. "Well, don’t just stand there plotting my demise. Come on in. I promise I don’t bite—unless asked nicely." His hand made a sweeping gesture inside. "Make yourself at home."

You didn’t give yourself a chance to second-guess your decision.

You forced yourself to meet Hawks’ gaze head-on before stepping past him with as much confidence as you could muster. Your stride was bold, even if every nerve in your body screamed at you to turn and bolt.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the air shifted. Your eyes swept over the interior, and a wave of surprise slapped you like a cold gust of wind.

The apartment was… sparse.

Meticulously neat, yes, but devoid of the warmth and personality that made a place feel lived-in. Instead, it had an impersonal, almost sterile quality. Like it had been plucked from the pages of a high-end catalogue and left untouched.

There was nothing that screamed Hawks here. No cluttered counters, no fancy decor, not even a glimpse of that relentless personality he carried with him everywhere else.

Hell, he didn’t even have a single poster of Endeavour (and you knew from his office that the guy was borderline obsessed).

It was efficient. Minimal. Functional.

It hit you then—maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought.

“You still with me?”

The words came soft and close, accompanied by the warmth of breath brushing against your neck. You nearly jumped out of your skin, spinning around with a startled gasp to find Hawks smirking at you.

“Jesus—what the hell, man?” you snapped, your hand flying to your chest in a futile attempt to steady your racing heart. “Okay, great place to start: personal space! Ever heard of it?”

Hawks leaned back slightly, hands raised in surrender, though the mischievous glint in his eyes remained intact. “Noted,” he replied, completely unbothered. “But, in my defense, you were zoning out pretty hard there. Thought I’d give you a nudge.”

“A nudge?” you huffed, glaring at him. “There’s a difference between a nudge and being a weirdo.”

“Fair point. Consider me properly scolded.” he said with a chuckle, not sounding even remotely sorry.

You swallowed hard, taking a few pointed steps back. It was now or never – and you needed to nip this in the bud now.

“Hawks. We need to talk about, well, this.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, your meaning as clear as you dared make it.

“This?” Hawks tilted his head as he reclined against the wall. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific, Y/N. If it’s about my outfit, I’ll warn you now—I’m not about to apologize for prioritizing comfort over fashion. These sweatpants are staying.”

You scowled, your irritation flaring at his easy deflection. “That’s obviously not what I’m talking about,” you snapped. “I mean this… dynamic. Whatever it is. It needs to stop.”

Hawks raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from playful to something colder. Something that sent a shiver down your spine. “Dynamic?” he echoed slowly. “Now that’s an interesting choice of words. Care to elaborate?”

You clenched your fists at your sides, fighting to keep your voice even. “You know exactly what I mean,” you said, your glare locking with his. “The way you act, the way you push my boundaries—it’s inappropriate, Hawks, and it’s got to stop.”

A moment of silence hung between you, thick and heavy. Then, Hawks let out a chuckle, his lips curling.

“That’s a serious accusation,” Hawks said smoothly, woven with something hard to place— interest? Amusement? “But alright, I’m listening. Lay it on me. What’s bothering you, Y/N?”

You inhaled deeply, trying to wrangle the chaotic jumble of emotions and half-formed thoughts into something coherent. The list of grievances threatening to spill from your lips was long—so long you could hardly see the end of it—but you decided to tackle the most pressing issue first.

“I want you to tell me what happened last night,” you said firmly. “I can’t remember anything after I drank that tea.”

Hawks cocked his head. He didn’t look fazed; in fact, his expression brightened as if you’d asked him a particularly fun trivia question.

“Well, that’s an easy one. You pretty much ditched me after that. Said you were heading home and stumbled off down the street like you were on a mission. Oh, and you almost walked headfirst into a lamppost. It was very on-brand.” he replied breezily

You blinked. Okay… that did sound like you. But the nagging suspicion gnawed at the edges of your mind, refusing to let go.

His story was too neat, too effortless, like a performance he had rehearsed for this exact moment. You swallowed hard, deciding to bite the bullet before your nerves could get the better of you.

“And—you weren’t, um…” Your voice faltered as heat crept up your neck. Grimacing, you forced the uncomfortable question out. “You weren’t in my room last night, were you?”

Hawks raised an eyebrow, his face flickering between surprise and something closer to mockery. “In your room?” he repeated, a soft laugh escaping him. “Y/N, I swear, that imagination of yours is something else.”

You jaw dropped indignantly, but Hawks was quick to cut off your retort.

“Wait, let me guess,” he added, taking a measured step closer. “Did you dream about me being in your room?” His voice dropped an octave, rich and velvety. “In your bed?”

His words hit like a bucket of cold water - dousing you in a wave of mortification so intense it almost burned. Without thinking, you took a hasty step back—then another—desperate to escape the suffocating heat of his gaze.

 Of course, in classic you fashion, your retreat ended with all the grace of a drunk flamingo as your legs buckled and you tumbled backward onto his plain, soulless sofa.

Perfect. Just the dramatic exit you were going for.

“No—no, no, no. Just no,” you stammered, your words tumbling out in a panicked rush as you fought to steady your breathing. “I just—I sent Daisuke a weird text. And I thought maybe—”

“Maybe I broke into your apartment and sent it?” Hawks finished smoothly, one brow arching as he approached you.

Before you could muster a protest, Hawks slid onto the couch with a casual ease that only he could pull off, as if the very act of invading your personal space was a natural extension of his charm.

Too close.

His arm draped over the back of the sofa, his fingers brushing your shoulder with the barest whisper of contact—a touch so light it sent an involuntary shiver skittering down your spine.

You froze, a lump lodging itself firmly in your throat as your pulse quickened.

The couch, once spacious, now felt suffocatingly small, like it was folding in around you with every second he lingered.

“Let me see this text,” Hawks murmured. He leaned in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of mint and coffee on his breath.

Your first instinct was to snap back, to tell him no and put an end to this conversation. But the way his eyes glistened - half amusement, half something you couldn’t place - made you hesitate.

He wasn’t just implying you were delusional; he was enjoying making you feel that way. And it worked. Doubt started coiling in your chest, his reaction forcing you to replay the accusation in your mind.

 You idiot. Of course, he hadn’t sent the text.

Saying it out loud had been a mistake, a momentary lapse in judgment born from your exhaustion and nerves. Hearing it spoken had only amplified how insane you sounded.

But now, the worst part—the part that made your stomach lurch—was the look on his face. The way his smirk curved just enough to suggest he knew.

That he suspected the truth.

That you had been dreaming about him.

“Okay. Fine,” you snapped, yanking your phone from your pocket. Your fingers fumbled briefly as you opened the offending message.

You needed to move past this conversation, to tackle the real issues—the ones Hawks couldn’t charm or weasel his way out of, no matter how clever he thought he was.

Without ceremony, you shoved the screen toward his face, holding it still as his pupils darted back and forth, scanning the text. His hand rose to his mouth, but not in shock or concern. No, the gesture was thoughtful—curious even—like a scholar pondering an intriguing puzzle.

A muffled hum escaped him, the kind that could mean anything from boredom to genuine interest. It made your insides twist uncomfortably, a fresh wave of anxiety creeping in.

“Well?” you demanded, your tone cutting through the charged air like a whip.

Hawks didn’t flinch. Instead, he lowered his hand from his mouth, his lips quirking into that familiar smile. “Weird? Nah. If anything, it seems justified—completely reasonable, actually, given the circumstances.”

Your eyes widened, practically bugging out of your head. “Justified?” you sputtered. “How is that justified?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered, leaning back against the couch like you weren’t two seconds away from imploding. “I mean, he did ditch you for some random bartender. Priorities, right?” His grin widened just enough to make you grit your teeth. “Not saying I condone the language, but hey, emotions run high. I get it.”

You stared at him, slack-jawed. Was he actually siding with you… or just playing mind games again?

“But I would never say something like that to Daisuke. He’s my best friend—I love the guy,” you insisted fervently.

Something shifted in Hawks’ demeanour — subtle, yet chilling.

The warmth drained from his expression, replaced by a hollow blankness that seemed to suck the air out of the room. His eyes dimmed, that darkness that both confused and terrified you returning. It was like watching the sun vanish behind thunderclouds.

“Doesn’t seem like he feels that way,” Hawks said, deceptively soft, like a velvety dagger slipping between your ribs. “Actually, it seems like he doesn’t care about you all that much.”

“That’s not true,” you mumbled weakly. Though, even as you said it, your voice wavered with creeping uncertainty.

Hawks nestled closer to you, bowing his head until his lips hovered close to your hairline. The air between you was buzzing, as though the room itself had become an accomplice to his quiet interrogation.

“Isn’t it?” he murmured calmly, almost pitying. “Think about it, Y/N. The way he didn’t bother checking on you after you went home. The way he so easily brushed you off last night. Does that sound like someone who’s got your back?”

Your mouth dried as you opened your mouth to respond, but the words had become lodged in your throat. You replayed Daisuke’s clipped tone on the phone earlier, his decision to take a break from your friendship, the uncharacteristic sharpness of his words.

Hawks’ insinuation, as cruel as it was, began to claw at the edges of your resolve.

“He was mad,” you managed to say, though your voice lacked the strength you wanted it to carry. “I screwed up. I said something awful, and he has every right to be upset.”

Hawks sighed, folding his arms across his chest. His lips curled into a faint smile—just enough to make your limbs stiffen with unease. “Sure, people get upset. But when they care about you, they don’t just walk away. They talk it out. They try to understand. Seems to me like he was looking for an excuse to step back.”

“Stop,” you said, your voice trembling as you shook your head. “That’s not… You don’t know him like I do.”

His smile grew, not in warmth but in something closer to satisfaction. “Maybe not. But I know people. And right now, you’re bending over backwards to defend someone who didn’t even bother defending you.” He paused, letting his words settle in the room like a stone dropped in water. “Maybe it’s time to ask yourself why.”

It felt like someone had driven a blade straight into your throat, every breath cutting deeper, every swallow dragging against the wound. Pain radiated through your chest, sharp and unrelenting, leaving you struggling to piece together your thoughts.

“You don’t have any right to say that,” you choked out, unable to meet his patronizing gaze. “Not after everything you’ve done—not after you’ve spent the last few months bullying me.”

“Bullying you?” Hawks repeated, his tone low, almost bemused, but laced with a flicker of something else. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your head snapped up, rage flaring in your chest despite the ache. “Don’t you dare play dumb. This little ‘mentorship’ has just been an excuse to push me around and make me feel stupid.” You hissed viciously.

Hawks sighed before his arm draped over your shoulders. Before you could react, he tugged you closer, pressing you snug against his side.

You let out a startled yelp, twisting and shoving against his hold, but his grip was unbreakable — like steel wrapped in silk, firm yet deceptively gentle.

“Why is it so hard for you to believe,” he murmured tenderly, “that I actually care about you?” His fingers brushed lightly against your arm - a touch that felt more possessive than comforting. “That everything I’ve done—all of it—has been for your benefit?”

This was bad. You were trapped— hopelessly trapped.

Once again, you had made the rookie mistake of underestimating Hawks, and now here you were, reaping the bitter fruits of your miscalculation.

"That's bullshit," you snarled, letting your body go limp. It was obvious that struggling was getting you nowhere. “You have no reason to care about me. I'm your employee—end of story. We’ve barely known each other six months."

Hawks’ lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a sneer but felt close enough to make your body stiffen. He leaned in, closing the already suffocating distance, his forehead just a breath away from yours.

“Are you sure about that?”

You blinked, confusion twisting your features. “What are you even talking about? Of course I’m sure.”

Hawks raised a hand, and for one terrifying moment, your breath hitched, the primal part of your brain screaming that he might strike. But instead, his fingers reached for a strand of your hair, twisting it lazily, almost… fondly.

“Think back, miss HeroScoop43.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “What the hell are—”

And then it hit you. Like a tsunami crashing down, the name slammed into your memory with startling clarity. HeroScoop43.

It was your screen name—your old screen name.

The one you used as a teenager when you spent hours lurking on Hero forums, posting endless ramblings about your favourite Pros.

How did he know that?

As though reading your mind, Hawks let out a low snort, his fingers giving your hair a light, teasing tug. You winced at the sting prickling your scalp, glaring up at him with as much venom as you could muster.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said playfully. “After the war, I used to keep tabs on those forums. Gotta stay in the loop, right? See how people were feeling about Pro-Heroes, society, the works.” His the corner of his lips twitched. “Most of it was so boring, though. Same tired debates, the same recycled hot takes. ‘Should Pro-Heroes be held accountable?’ Blah, blah, blah.”

You bristled, the words rolling off Hawks’ tongue stirring something distinctly unpleasant in your gut.

There was something deeply off-putting about hearing the Hero Commission president talk so dismissively about people’s thoughts on Pro-Heroes—something almost predatory in the way he separated ‘boring’ from ‘interesting’.

“But sometimes,” Hawks continued quietly, as if confiding a secret, “I’d stumble across a gem. Like your posts.”

Your spine went rigid.

“You had… opinions,” he said, a glint sparking in his eyes. “Passion. You didn’t just repeat what everyone else was saying. You stood out.”

Your stomach flipped violently, caught in a storm of conflicting emotions: horror—because the idea of Hawks reading your cringy teenage ramblings made you want to dissolve into the floor—and an odd twinge of… delight?

He noticed you.

As mortifying as the thought was, a tiny, stubborn part of you thrilled at the idea that someone, anyone, had actually cared about what you’d had to say.

Even if that someone was Hawks, and even if the context made your skin crawl.

“But… I don’t understand. How did you even figure out it was me? I never used my real name,” you said, unable to mask the curiosity in you voice.

Hawks threw his head back with a laugh, the sudden outburst making you flinch. The shift in his mood was jarring, like a flash of lightning on a clear day.

“Y/N,” he began, shaking his head like you’d just asked him to solve basic arithmetic. “You used your personal email address on your profile—the one with your full name in it. And let’s not forget your date of birth and city. You practically gift-wrapped the clues and handed them to me.”

You felt the overwhelming urge to facepalm.

Of course, you had been that careless—why wouldn’t your younger self make it stupidly easy for someone like Hawks to figure you out?

You inhaled slowly, shakily, each breath doing little to steady the hurricane of revelations Hawks had just unleashed. Your mind scrambled to keep up, piecing together fragments of disbelief, dread, and confusion.

“So,” you croaked, barely above a whisper, “when you hired me, it wasn’t about my qualifications… it was because of some dumb posts I made as a kid?”

Hawks’ hand, still in your hair, brushed deliberately against your scalp, drawing an involuntary shudder from your body.

“Well,” he began casually, “if I’m being honest, when your résumé landed on my desk, my first instinct was to chuck it in the ‘thanks but no thanks’ pile. I mean, a graduate student with zero field experience? Not exactly a hiring manager’s dream.”

You bristled at the jab, but Hawks didn’t let the moment linger. Instead, he leaned in just enough for your chest to touch his.

“But then I saw your name,” he continued silkily, “and let’s just say… it struck a chord. Figured it might be worth the gamble after all.”

His words were spoken calmly, but they pressed down on you, heavy and inescapable. The idea that your career—your entire role in the Hero Commission—boiled down to a nostalgic whim made your teeth clench.

You stared at him, the smug curve of his lips igniting something fiery and raw in your chest. “So, I’m just a gamble to you?” you spat.

Hawks tilted his head, his expression softening into that frustrating thing you couldn’t place. “No, Y/N, you’re an investment. One I believe in.” he replied.

The way he said it, like it was the simplest truth in the world, made you heart leap.

“I knew I couldn’t just take you under my wing right away—that would’ve raised too many eyebrows,” he confessed, as though letting you in on a secret only the two of you were privy to. “So, I had to play the long game. Start you off in one of the lower-branch departments, let you blend in for a while. Then, when the time was right, I’d make sure the higher-ups understood you were worth the trouble.”

He shrugged, like it was all part of a days work - like he hadn’t just admitted to pulling strings and manoeuvring your entire career.

“You make it sound like you’ve been planning this for years,” you said shakily. Your throat felt tight, like caught in a steel trap.

Hawks’ eyes twinkled just enough to make your pulse stumble over itself. “Funny how things work out, huh?”

You frowned, your mind burning with questions you weren’t sure you wanted answers to. “But why didn’t you just… I don’t know, message me back then? Or try to get my opinions when I was still posting? Why wait so long?”

For a beat, he stared at you like you’d just declared the sky was neon pink. His expression was so comically disbelieving that it almost knocked you off-balance.

Then, without warning, he reached out and flicked your forehead.

“Hey! What the hell, man?” you yelped, recoiling as you clapped a hand to the stinging spot.

Hawks leaned back, the picture of innocence. “Y/N,” he tutted with exaggerated patience, “do you seriously think it would’ve been appropriate for a grown man to slide into the DMs of a 15-year-old girl on some sketchy hero forum?”

Your mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, but no words came out. You felt like a fish caught on the wrong end of a very humiliating argument.

“Exactly,” he said, smug as ever, giving your forehead a light tap for good measure. “Glad we cleared that up.”

You scowled, shooting him a glare that you hoped screamed withering disdain. But as you held his gaze, the heat in your chest began to dim, replaced by something else—something softer, something treacherously close to hope.

Was it possible you had misjudged him?

You bit your lip, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them. “So… everything you did was because you wanted to hear my ideas?”

It felt ridiculous even as you said it. Yet, the more you replayed the memories—the teasing comments, following you around like a clingy shadow, the unnervingly precise attention he always seemed to pay you—the harder it was to dismiss.

What if all those moments you had viewed as him toying with you had been something else entirely? Encouragement, maybe? A roundabout way of mentoring?

The memory of his “mentorship” loomed large, though, twisting your thoughts into knots. Yes, he’d been overbearing, and yes, he had a knack for pushing you to the edge of your patience, but… hadn’t he also taken every opportunity to ensure your ideas were heard? To challenge your assumptions?

No, stop it. You shook your head, trying to dispel the thought before it could root itself too deeply.

This was Hawks, after all. The man could probably spin anything into a good story if it suited him. And yet, a small, nagging part of you whispered: What if he’s telling the truth?

He leaned back against the couch, loosening his grip on you ever so slightly. “Yup. Pretty much everything I’ve done since the day we met has been to set you up for success. You’ve got a good brain, Y/N—just needed a little push.”

A flicker of warmth bloomed in your chest, unbidden and wholly unwelcome.

You hated how much you wanted to believe him. Hated how easily his words could make you doubt yourself. Because if there was even a shred of truth to them, then maybe—just maybe—your months of frustration, anger, and humiliation hadn’t been as pointless as they seemed.

But that hope came with a heavy price: admitting you might have been wrong about him all along.

“Wow,” you muttered reluctantly. “I kind of feel like a jackass now. And an idiot.”

Hawks’ hand moved before you could anticipate it, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a gesture that was equal parts casual and intimate.

The touch was light, almost too light, but it sent a shockwave through you, nonetheless.

His golden eyes melted in that way that made your stomach drop like a sand-bag—whether from anxiety or something else entirely, you couldn’t say.

“You’re not an idiot, Y/N,” he assured. “You’ve just surrounded yourself with the wrong people. People who don’t get you. People who hold you back. People who… leave.”

The last word lingered in the air, heavy and pointed.

His thumb traced a featherlight line along your jaw, and you froze under the intensity of his gaze. It wasn’t aggressive, but it wasn’t kind either—it was something else entirely, something that made you feel both seen and cornered.

Before you could stop it, Daisuke’s face flashed in your mind.

The pain left by his words replayed like a broken record, cutting into the fragile confidence you were trying to piece together. “I can’t keep being your punching bag.”

You let out a strangled gasp as Hawks craned his neck until he was nearly touching your face with his own. “The truth is, you’ve been undervalued your whole life. And maybe… you’ve started to believe them. But I see you, Y/N. I’ve always seen you.”

You didn’t see it coming—though maybe you should have.

Maybe this was just another example of your naïveté, another instance of being blindsided because you couldn’t read between the lines.

In a blur of motion, Hawks’ mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, almost feral—a chaotic clash of teeth, muffled groans, and a tongue that was far too eager. Your shocked yelp dissolved into the unrelenting pressure of his lips against yours, drowning in the heat of it.

Your body stiffened, a jolt of panic surging through you as your brain scrambled to catch up. This was Hawks—your boss, your supposed mentor, the man you were convinced not even an hour ago was the root of all your problems. And now he was—

Your heart pounded in your chest like a war drum. You needed to stop this—right? Right?

As usual, Hawks was ten steps ahead of you.

You barely managed to think the word ‘stop’ before his hand snaked into your hair, his fingers tangling with possessive precision. The sharp tug forced a moan from your throat as he pinned you in place, deepening the kiss with a fervour that left no room for protest.

Every move felt purposeful, like he was unravelling you thread by thread, leaving you breathless and reeling.

The ferocity of it made your resolve waver. Should you be fighting harder? Was it even possible to pull away?

Somewhere in the haze, your hands twitched, caught between pushing him away and clutching for balance. Hawks didn’t pause, his lips relentless, his grip firm, as though daring you to even try.

You were exhausted—physically, emotionally, mentally.

Every muscle in your body ached, your head was still a foggy mess from the previous night, and the weight of everything that had transpired felt like it might crush you.

So, for the first time since you met him, you stopped fighting.

Your defences, painstakingly built over months, crumbled like sand against the tide. You weren’t sure if it was fatigue, confusion, or something darker that kept you rooted in place, but you didn’t push him away.

You didn’t protest.

You just… let it happen.

Chapter Text

The water cradled you as you sank to the bottom of the tub, the world above dissolving into muffled nothingness.

Your lungs burned, your skin was wrinkled, and the chill creeping into your bones warned that you’d been submerged too long. But you didn’t care. Every second you spent below was a second you didn’t have to think about it.

That fucking kiss.

Even now, hours after Hawks had claimed your mouth like it was something he owned, the memory haunted you. Your lips still buzzed with the ghost of his touch, the heat of his breath clinging to you like a brand.

Frankly, you were shocked he had even let you leave.

The look on his face after you had shoved him away had been… disturbing.

His fingers had clamped down on your arms, tight enough to make your bones ache, his grip teetering on the edge of bruising.

It wasn’t just an attempt to keep you still—it was raw desperation, as if letting you go would break him.

In that moment, you had been completely trapped. And then he had leaned in, burying his face into the curve of your neck.

It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t comforting. It was animalistic.

His breath came hot and uneven against your skin, each ragged exhale setting your nerves alight. His entire body seemed to tremble with restraint—or perhaps it was something far darker. He wasn’t just holding you. He was claiming you.

His grip, his breath, his proximity—they all screamed one thing: Mine.

You had been certain he was about to pull you back in. The tension in his body told you as much—the way his hands twitched, how his lips hovered perilously close to your pulse point, like he was seconds away from ripping it out with his teeth.

You knew it wasn’t just a kiss he was after this time. And if he crossed that line, there would be no coming back.

Your knee had twitched instinctively, ready to launch a counterattack on his groin that would render him a cautionary tale for men everywhere. One swift move, and Hawks would’ve joined the ranks of urban legends told in whispered tones at bars.

And yet… you hadn’t.

Instead, Hawks had been the one release you. His expression flicking back to his usual laidback mask so fast you nearly missed it. He swiped his thumb over your swollen lips, his touch a stark contrast to the hand that still burned on your arm.

His smile was infuriating - slow, smug, and self-satisfied - like he had just won the lottery. Then, with deliberate ease, he loosened his crushing grip.

Permission.

That’s what it felt like. He hadn’t let go because he was done, or because he had realized he’d crossed a line. No, he’d given you permission to pull away. Like your autonomy was a privilege he was graciously allowing—for now.

You didn’t wait to see if he would rescind it. The second his fingers slackened you bolted.

You didn’t even glance back as you tore through his apartment, opting for the stairs instead of the elevator, unwilling to risk being trapped for even a second longer.

The sprint home was a blur—a frenzied, panicked rush where your only goal was to put as much distance as possible between you and him.

But the real question clawed at the edges of your mind, waiting to pounce.

Why?

Why had you hesitated?

Why hadn’t you shoved him away the moment his lips touched yours, the moment his hands gripped you with that suffocating ferocity? Why hadn’t you fought harder?

What was wrong with you?

The questions swirled inside you now, sinking into your skin like the cold water around your body. You pressed your hands over your face, desperate to block out the echoes of his voice and the insidious pull of his gaze.

But it was useless.

Hawks was everywhere—not just in your job, but in every corner of your life.

You stared at the ceiling, water lapping gently at your skin, as the realization pressed down on your chest.

You had been so caught up in chasing success, in trying to claw your way up the career ladder, that you hadn’t realized how utterly alone you were.

Your family was miles away, in a different city, distant in more ways than just geography. Your coworkers? They barely acknowledged you, treating you more like office furniture than a person. And now, Daisuke—your only true friend in life—had cut you off.

“I can’t keep being your punching bag.”

You had no one.

Except Hawks.

The thought was like a punch to the gut - so painful it made breathing difficult. Hawks had become the only constant in your life.

Always there.

Always watching.

Always pulling you back, no matter how hard you tried to push him away. He was relentless, an immovable force you couldn’t shake.

Hawks didn’t just take up a portion of your existence; he had made himself the center, threading himself into places you hadn’t realized were empty until now.

And that thought—terrifying and inescapable—made your stomach twist. Because if Hawks was the only constant, then what did that say about you? About the life you had built?

Or worse—about the life he had quietly taken over?

After all, he was the only reason you even had a job in the first place. That reality twisted in your gut, unravelling a tangled web of feelings you hadn’t fully acknowledged until now.

Because, much to your shock, Hawks didn’t dislike you.

He didn’t find you pathetic, as you had feared on countless sleepless nights. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He wanted you. He thought you were special. Clever.

He had said those things with a conviction that made your chest tighten. He hadn’t just called you capable or useful. He had called you special.

The idea filled you with a strange, conflicting mix of pride and unease.

Pride, because you’d spent years yearning for someone to see your worth, to recognize the fire that burned behind your carefully constructed walls.

Unease, because the way Hawks had claimed those words—claimed you—felt less like a compliment and more like a promise.

And now, knowing his feelings weren’t exactly platonic only added a fresh layer of confusion.  

You should quit. Any sane person would. Cut ties, pack up, and run as far and fast as possible from the insanity Hawks had brought into your world.

But as you pulled yourself from the bath, water dripping from your skin and pooling at your feet, the lonely chill of your bathroom crept into your bones. You wrapped a towel around yourself, shivering—not from the cold, but from the uncomfortable truth worming its way into your thoughts.

You were starting to suspect that you might not be as sane as you’d like to believe.

The rest of the weekend passed by far too quickly.

You suspected it had something to do with your borderline catatonic state—a riveting schedule of staring at the ceiling, questioning your life choices, and occasionally remembering to eat.

And then there was the constant, inescapable ping of messages from him.

Most were harmless enough, at least on the surface. Your standard ‘good mornings’ and ‘how are yous,’ laced with his usual teasing undertone. He even sent a few pictures of stray cats he’d apparently crossed paths with.

You loved cats—but he shouldn’t have known that. It had to be a coincidence. Right?

Then there were the other messages. The ones that weren’t so harmless.

‘Had any more dreams about me? 😉’

‘Can’t wait to see you Monday. Unless you want me to swing by? I wouldn’t want you feeling lonely. 🐦’

When you didn’t respond, he delivered a final, ominous warning:

‘Y/N. Answer me.’

No smirks, no winks, no playful tone. Just your name, hanging heavy in the notification bar like a command you weren’t sure you wanted to disobey.

And damn it, you answered.

You responded to every silly, pointless, and downright invasive text, each reply carefully stripped of any warmth. Your responses were so dry they could have been used as kindling, but Hawks, predictably, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

‘Had any more dreams about me? 😉’
No.

‘Can’t wait to see you Monday. Unless you want me to swing by? I wouldn’t want you feeling lonely. 🐦’
I’m fine.

‘Y/N. Answer me.’
What do you want?

Yet every time you thought your curt replies might dissuade him, another message pinged through. It didn’t matter how short or dismissive your words were; he absorbed them like they were gospel. Each response seemed to feed some insatiable hunger, his replies coming back just as eager.

If anything, your attempts at indifference only seemed to amuse him more.

Your only saving grace was that he didn’t bring up the kiss. But the relief was hollow, doing little to soothe the storm brewing in your chest.

By the time Monday morning loomed on the horizon, you were practically sick with anxiety. The anticipation gnawed at you, twisting your stomach into impossible knots as the inevitability of your situation pressed down on your shoulders.

You couldn’t avoid it—couldn’t pretend nothing had happened. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in your mind that things between you and Hawks had changed irreparably.

And yet, some strange, masochistic part of you couldn’t stop wondering.

What would he do?

The question echoed in your mind as you walked into the Commission building that morning, each step feeling heavier than the last.

As you rounded the corner toward Hawks’ office, your steps faltered, your body seizing mid-motion.

There he was. Hawks stood in front of his office door, deep in conversation with Mera.

His usual easy grin was absent, replaced by a carefully neutral mask. It wasn’t a face you saw often, but when you did, it usually meant something important was unfolding—something you probably didn’t want to be caught in the middle of.

Mera, on the other hand, looked like he might collapse where he stood. His shoulders slumped, his suit slightly wrinkled, and his face was pinched with the kind of exhaustion that couldn’t be cured with a few extra hours of sleep. He had the air of someone desperately trying to stay afloat in a sea of chaos—and failing miserably.

You almost felt bad for him, caught in whatever game Hawks was undoubtedly playing.

Almost.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, torn between retreating around the corner and braving whatever lay ahead. But before you could decide, Hawks’ head turned sharply, his golden eyes zeroing in on you like a missile.

You froze in place, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered if you should have run when you had the chance. But before you could even plan your escape, his lips curved into a lazy smile.

“Ah, speak of the devil,” Hawks called out brightly.

Mera turned to follow his gaze, his sigh heavy with resignation. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple as though warding off a migraine.

You scowled. That… wasn’t a good sign.

“Good morning, Mera,” you said cautiously, approaching the two men as if they each had a live grenade in their hands. You pointedly ignored Hawks. “You look… well?”

The lie hung awkwardly in the air, and you immediately cringed at your own words. Mera looked like he needed a two-year vacation in a remote cabin far, far away from paperwork, heroes, and anything remotely related to the Commission. His bloodshot eyes and sagging posture screamed overworked and underappreciated, making your comment feel almost cruel.

Mera gave you a flat look, the kind of deadpan expression reserved for people who just couldn’t bother to pretend anymore. “Do I?” he asked dryly.

You opened your mouth, scrambling for some kind of response—a compliment, a deflection, anything—but before you could piece together a passable lie, Hawks stepped in. His hand landed on your shoulder, the squeeze just a fraction too firm to be friendly.

Your throat tightened, dry and uncomfortable, as though stuffed with cotton. Unease prickled at the base of your neck.

Maybe greeting Mera first hadn’t been your smartest move.

“Come on, Y/N, you don’t have to butter him up. Mera’s a realist—he knows he looks like hell.” He teased.

You stiffened under his grip, your eyes darting to Mera, who looked like he was two seconds away from keeling over.

“And whose fault is that?” He grumbled back with a withering glare.

“Hey now,” Hawks raised his free hand in mock surrender. “Let’s not start pointing fingers. That’s not very team-oriented, is it?”

Mera’s eye twitched, his patience clearly hanging by a frayed thread. He inhaled sharply through his nose, visibly reining in the urge to let loose. “Speaking of being team-oriented,” he said icily. “I’m glad you’re here, Y/N. Hawks was just in the midst of making a rather… unusual request on your behalf.”

Your neck whipped toward Hawks so quickly it was a miracle you didn’t pull a muscle. The word “unusual” rang ominously in your mind as your eyes locked onto his ever-so-pleased expression.

“What can I say? I’m always looking out for my team,” he chirped, his thumb still grazing your shoulder blade in a way that made your skin crawl—or maybe burn.

You weren’t sure anymore.

“A request? What kind of request?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as you shook Hawks’ hand away. Thankfully, he let it slide, slipping the offending limb into his pocket with a casual snort.

“Hawks is meeting with a high-ranking Pro Hero today, and he’s suggested you should be included in the discussion.” Mera explained.

“To take notes?” you deadpanned.

Hawks let out a light laugh, the sound soft but brimming with amusement. He leaned closer and nudged his shoulder against yours, nearly sending you jumping out of your skin. “Nope! Honestly, Y/N - have some faith in yourself, will you? I want your opinion on a few things.”

Your breath hitched at the blatant familiarity Hawks was showing—especially in front of Mera.

Was he insane? People would start to talk.

Though, much to your relief, Mera didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy massaging his temples and more than likely fantasizing about an early retirement.

“He claims it’ll be a valuable experience for you as his protégé,” Mera said dryly, his words weighted with skepticism. “Though, for the record, only select members of the Commission are usually allowed in meetings with Pro Heroes.”

Mera’s sharp glare cut to Hawks, his exhaustion momentarily giving way to a pointed scowl. Hawks, of course, remained unbothered. If anything, he looked delighted by the scrutiny, flashing a smile that bordered on insulting.

“Well, rules are meant to be bent. Besides, who better to tag along than my star pupil?”

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably at his words. What game was Hawks playing now? “I really don’t want to be a bother.”

Hawks didn’t miss a beat. “A bother?” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “Y/N, you wound me. I’m doing this for you. You’re practically my secret weapon. It’d be a shame to keep you hidden away in the shadows.”

Your eyes darted nervously to Mera, but he looked more annoyed than intrigued, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch. If he noticed anything unusual in Hawks’ tone—or the subtle, possessive way he angled himself toward you—he didn’t show it.

“Just don’t put too much pressure on her. And don’t even think about shirking off your responsibilities.” Mera grumbled, defeat slumping through his body.

Hawks waved off Mera’s warning with a careless flick of his hand. “Shirking? Me? Come on. I’m nothing if not dependable. Besides,” he turned to you, his eyes flashing, “Y/N and I are a duo.”

A duo?

You furrowed your brows. Last time you checked, duos usually involved some kind of mutual collaboration. This ‘partnership’, however, felt more like a one-sided hostage situation—with you as the unwilling accomplice to whatever scheme Hawks had cooked up.

“Uh—well, I guess if the Hero is okay with it,” you murmured, your eyes firmly glued to the floor, desperate to avoid the heat of Hawks’ gaze.

As much as you hated to admit it, the idea of working with a Pro Hero directly sent flurries of excitement fluttering through your body. If this opportunity had come your way before Hawks barged into your life, you would have jumped on it without hesitation.

But unfortunately, things weren’t that simple anymore.

“No problem there. Tsukuyomi and I go way back—he’ll probably be excited to finally meet you,” Hawks said, flashing you a look that could charm the wings off a butterfly.

You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicion flickering in your chest. Finally? Just what the hell had he been saying about you? And to Pro-Hero Tsukuyomi, of all people?

Hawks caught your expression and chuckled, low and easy, like you were the punchline of a joke only he found funny.

Of course, he didn’t elaborate.

Ass.

Before you could press him further, Mera cleared his throat loudly, dragging your attention back to the reality of the situation. “If we’re done with the theatrics, I’d like to remind you both that this is a professional conversation. Keep it that way,” he muttered, clearly too exhausted to deal with any of Hawks’ antics.

“Yes, sir,” you said quickly, blushing furiously. Great, now he had enough fodder to draw all kinds of conclusions.

(Would the conclusion be wrong, though?)

Hawks, predictably, shot Mera a lazy salute. “Professionalism is my middle name.”

Your stomach churned as Hawks turned back to you, his face drawn into something unreadable. For a moment, the weight of his gaze pinned you in place, making it impossible to breathe, let alone move.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to look away, focusing intently on the floor as if it held all the answers. But the gnawing unease refused to let go. It felt as though you were stepping into a game where everyone but you knew the rules.

And to make matters worse, you still hadn’t talked about that damn kiss.

“Well, you two better get a move on. Tsukuyomi’s already waiting,” Mera sighed, running a weary hand over his face. “I swear, I need to get my friggin’ head examined.”

You breathed in, steeling yourself. This was it—your chance to be alone with Hawks, to address the colossal, lingering issue that hung between you like a storm cloud.

But any hope of a confrontation was yanked out from under you as Hawks waved Mera away with his usual breezy charm, his hand firmly pressed against your back as he ushered you forward. “No time to dawdle,” he said, already steering you down the hall toward one of the Commission’s many meeting rooms.

The speed at which he moved left you no room to argue—or even think.

By the time you entered the room, the sterile quiet hit you like a wall. The faint hum of the overhead lights buzzed in your ears, amplifying the tension crackling in the air. The space felt charged, oppressive, as though the very walls were alive with anticipation.

And then there was him.

“Hawks, I wasn’t aware we would have a third party,” came a voice—a deep, resonant timbre that seemed to vibrate through your chest.

Your breath hitched. Sitting directly across from you, in all his bipedal bird-man glory, was Tsukuyomi.

The Tsukuyomi.

Your brain stuttered to a halt, your thoughts spinning like a malfunctioning fan as you took a seat.

He sat across the table with perfect posture, exuding a quiet yet unshakable confidence that seemed to fill the room. His costume—dark, brooding, and meticulously polished—looked even more imposing in person, as though he had stepped straight out of a manga panel.

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Your hands twitched, a desperate attempt to ground yourself, to remind yourself that you were supposed to be a professional. But that didn’t stop the stars from flickering in your eyes or the excited buzz threatening to burst free from your chest.

Oh my god, he’s even cooler in person.

And then your gaze shifted.

Hawks had taken the seat beside you,

His chair was so close to yours it bordered on comical, leaving barely a whisper of space between your bodies.

From an outside perspective, it must have looked ridiculous—like a puppy glued to its master’s side. The thought sent a flare of indignation through your chest, heat rushing to your face at the mental image.

Still, you didn’t move.

As much as the comparison offended you, as much as Hawks’ blatant disregard for your personal space set your nerves on edge, you couldn’t bring yourself to create distance.

You wanted to stay. Needed to stay.

This wasn’t just an opportunity to observe a Pro Hero in action—it was a chance to be part of something thrilling, something meaningful. Whatever this meeting entailed, you didn’t want to miss it. And no amount of Hawks’ overbearing presence was going to make you forfeit the moment.

“What?” Hawks broke the tension with a grin, his elbow nudging your side like you were co-stars in a buddy cop comedy. “Can’t I call my old protégé in to meet my new one?”

You hissed sharply through your teeth, your foot itching to stomp down on his.

“This is Y/N—the one I told you about.” He continued, unfazed by your glower.

You almost choked on your own saliva. Told him about? The words reverberated in your mind, sparking a surge of anxiety.

Just what exactly had Hawks been saying behind your back? You cast a nervous glance at Tsukuyomi, who tilted his beak slightly in your direction.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tsukuyomi,” you said, bowing your head as you struggled to keep your nerves in check. You buried your unease under a thick blanket of professionalism, forcing your voice to remain steady. Stay calm—Hawks can’t be petty enough to slander you… right?

“Thank you for all your hard work,” you added earnestly.

Tsukuyomi nodded, his expression giving nothing away. “The pleasure is mine. Hawks has spoken highly of you.”

Highly? Your brow furrowed slightly as you fought to keep your confusion from showing. That wasn’t exactly what you’d expected to hear. You risked a side glance at Hawks, who was watching the interaction with fond amusement.

“See?” Hawks chimed in, yawning as he leaned back in his chair - like a king surveying his court. “Told you you’d impress him.”

You forced a polite smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Um—thank you. That’s… flattering. But I’m sure Hawks has greatly exaggerated whatever he’s told you.” You glanced at Tsukuyomi, your tone careful, yet curious. “I didn’t realize you used to be his student.”

“It was a long time ago. He was my mentor during my internship when I was at UA. I owe him a great deal.” he replied.

Your heart stuttered. Mentor? Internship?

The words lodged themselves uncomfortably in your mind.

If Tsukuyomi had once been in your position, did that mean Hawks had acted like this with him too? The very idea of Hawks treating someone like Tsukuyomi the way he treated you—smirking, teasing, invading their space—flooded your system with waves of horror.

Of course, it was on behalf of Tsukuyomi. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

But deep in the darkest corners of your mind, where shame festered and doubts lingered, an insidious voice whispered, He said you were special—but he doesn’t think you’re special. You’re replaceable.

“Don’t look so shocked. What, you thought you were my only trainee? I’ve been doing this mentorship thing for a while, you know.” He laughed, the sound light but laced with amusement that cut far deeper than it should have. “Though I’ve gotta say—your jealousy is adorable.”

Your stomach dropped. Jealousy? The word hit like a slap, and you couldn’t stop the growl that escaped your throat. “I’m not jealous,” you snapped, shoving your chair back with more force than necessary, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.

The movement felt futile, though, as Hawks simply moved his own chair closer - his eyes glowing with intensity.

“Just wondering how Tsukuyomi managed to keep his sanity in check,” you murmured sharply, shooting a glance at the stoic Pro Hero.

Tsukuyomi hummed in what you could only assume was thoughtful consideration. “I admit Hawks has a rather… unique teaching style.” His spoke neutrally, but there was a faint edge of diplomacy, as if he was choosing his words carefully. His eyes flickered between the two of you—Hawks’ arm now casually draped over the back of your chair, his fingers brushing dangerously close to your shoulder.

When had he even moved it there?

“However, our relationship was certainly less…” He paused, as if searching for the right word, his eyebrows arching slightly. “Intimate.”

Your stomach sank like a stone, as the implication slammed down on you. Heat crept up your neck, and you shot Hawks a mortified glare. He simply smiled down at you, his head leaning towards yours with measured slowness.

“You don’t need to look so nervous, Y/N. Tsukuyomi knows all about our relationship.” he murmured, his breath tickling your ear.

The words hit like a slap. Your body tensed, every nerve blazing with panic. You felt the blood drain from your face as your mouth fell open, but no words came out. For a moment, the room seemed to tilt, and you were acutely aware of the way Hawks’ face glimmered with something unsettlingly smug.

“…What?” you croaked, barely managing to squeeze the word past the dryness in your throat.

Hawks chuckled softly, a deep, familiar sound that sent a fresh wave of terror rolling through you. “Relax, I just told him how well we work together. How we’ve been… getting closer.”

Closer

His eyes following you with every step. His voice, velvety and commanding, tugging at your strings like a master puppeteer.

Closer

Hawks grabbing your hips while you swayed drunkenly.

Closer.

Fingers tangled in your hair, lips devouring yours with a hunger that left you breathless, shaking.

Your eyes widened as the memories collided, one after the other, a rapid-fire reel of moments you desperately wanted to forget.

You turned sharply to Tsukuyomi, your heart pounding in your chest, desperate for a lifeline. Any hint—any sign—that he didn’t believe the twisted narrative Hawks had undoubtedly spun.

But Tsukuyomi’s expression was unreadable, his eyes were lidded and his beak tilted slightly downward, but it betrayed nothing—no judgment, no sympathy, no validation.

You felt the ground beneath you wobble as the silence stretched thin between the three of you.

“Hawks, perhaps you should clarify what you mean by ‘relationship.’ Misunderstandings can be… problematic.” Tsukuyomi said calmly.

You couldn’t tell whether Tsukuyomi’s words were meant to reassure you or reprimand Hawks. Either way, Hawks merely laughed again, waving his hand dismissively as if the tension in the room were nothing more than a passing breeze.

“Come on, Tsukuyomi - you know me better than that. I was just talking about the mentorship. Nothing inappropriate, of course.” Hawks said, his voice dripping with easy confidence.

You barely managed to suppress a strangled noise, your fingers curling into the fabric of your pants as you tried to regain some semblance of control. The way Hawks was grinning at you—like a cat playing with its prey—made your flesh itch.

Mentorship. Right. That was Hawks’ excuse for everything, wasn’t it?

“Hawks,” Tsukuyomi interjected, seeming to pick up on your distress. His arms crossed over his chest in disapproval. “Perhaps it’s time to move forward with the actual purpose of this meeting. It’s obvious that you’re making your trainee uncomfortable.”

Your body burned with embarrassment - a sickening cocktail of relief and mortification swirling inside you.

You wanted to cry, to scream, to throw yourself out the nearest window—anything to escape the suffocating humiliation. Leave it to Hawks to turn what could’ve been an awe-inspiring moment into a cringe-inducing spectacle.

Hawks, of course, was unfazed. “Aw, don’t look at me like that. She knows I’m just messing around. Don’t you, Y/N?”

You glared at him, your jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder your teeth didn’t crack.

Hawks either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because he kept going, his voice dropping into something softer—smoother. “She’s just a little sensitive is all.” He crooned, his foot brushing against your leg. The motion was taunting as he traced a line along your shin. “She knows how much I value her.”

The room seemed to shrink around you. Your heart pounded in your chest as you scrambled for a response, but the sensation of his shoe against your leg left you momentarily paralyzed.

Tsukuyomi’s knowing, birdlike eyes landed on Hawks, his brow furrowing. “Value her or not, professionalism should still be a priority,” he said firmly.

For the briefest moment, Hawks’ grin cracked, a flicker of something dark and primal flashing across his face. It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced with a casual shrug and a lopsided smile. “Of course. I’m sorry, Y/N. You just make it too easy sometimes.”

You clenched your fists under the table, your nails digging into your palms as you fought to keep your composure.

The tension in the room was palpable, hanging in the air like a bad smell. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat refusing to budge as all eyes turned to you.

“Let’s just move on,” you said quietly, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your ears. Anything—anything—to escape the weight of their gazes and the awkwardness threatening to strangle you.

Tsukuyomi nodded slowly. “Agreed. Let’s get to the matter at hand.”

The conversation shifted, blessedly veering toward safer ground—villains, Hero programs, and other familiar topics. You should have been able to breathe, to drown yourself in the normalcy of the discussion.

But you couldn’t.

Hawks’ foot remained, tracing slow patterns along your calf. Each glide of his shoe sent an unwanted prickle of awareness up your leg, like a secret only the two of you were in on.

It was subtle—just enough to go unnoticed by Tsukuyomi, thank god—but there was an undeniable intent behind it. Every light sweep against your skin carried an unspoken challenge, a quiet yet unnerving assertion of control.

Your breath faltered when his foot slid a fraction higher, brushing just beneath your knee.

A ripple of discomfort ran through you, and you held your breath, repressing the urge to spit in his face.

Hawks wasn’t merely teasing; he was pushing, inching closer to a line only he seemed determined to cross.

He wanted you to snap.

How foolish you’d been to think this meeting was anything more than a carefully orchestrated power play. A reminder of just how far he could make you fall if he decided to pull the rug out from under you.

Any joy, any spark of hope you’d clung to, fizzled out like a dying ember.

Even the excitement of being in Tsukuyomi’s presence—a moment that should have been a highlight of your career—dulled into muted nothingness.

Their voices blurred, fading into an indistinct hum, as if the room itself had dimmed. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their droning static drilling into your skull like a metronome. But none of it mattered.

All you could feel was Hawks.

“I think he liked you.”

You didn’t respond.

Your vision remained locked on Tsukuyomi’s now empty chair, hazy and unfocused, as if staring hard enough could bring him back.

It had been five minutes since the meeting ended—five minutes that stretched like an eternity.

Five minutes since Tsukuyomi had politely excused himself, his parting words calm and measured, though his lingering glance at you had been heavy with something that felt uncomfortably close to pity.

Five minutes since Hawks had finally pulled his foot away, leaving behind a phantom sensation that made your skin crawl.

And still, you hadn’t moved.

You sat frozen, your nails pressing into your palms as you replayed the scene over and over in your head. Each moment felt like a fresh wound.

Hawks, of course, didn’t seem to notice—or care.

“You’re really going to sit there and ignore me?” he asked, tilting his head. “After I went out of my way to give you such an incredible opportunity?”

The way he said it, like he was doing you some grand favour, made your nostrils flare. You refused to meet his gaze.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and smiled – though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, come on, Y/N. Tsukuyomi doesn’t meet with just anyone. You should be thanking me.”

There it was—that false benevolence, like he expected you to grovel for whatever scraps he had thrown your way. You couldn’t stand it anymore. Something inside you was about to break.

“I thought you said I had talent,” you mumbled, your voice cracking as it fought to be heard. “That I was smart.”

The words fell into the silence like steel sinking into deep water. For a moment, the room stilled. Hawks didn’t respond immediately, but you heard the sharp inhale he took.

Then, his footsteps echoed softly against the floor, retreating. You stiffened. Was he leaving?

But the sound of the lock clicking into place sent your heart plummeting.

What?

You barely had time to process the thought before Hawks was there, his front pressed against your back. As usual, his speed was seamless, borderline unnatural. Enough to make you wonder if his real quirk was teleportation.

His body curved over yours, boxing you in with a terrifying intimacy. Open palms came to rest over the top of your hands, pinning them to the table in front of you with an ease that stole the air from your lungs.

It was as if he had forged some medieval cage out of his body—a prison crafted solely for you.

You gasped as his chin settled on your shoulder, the warmth of his skin against yours sending a jolt of alarm down your spine. Every muscle in your body tensed, instincts screaming one word with a clarity you couldn’t ignore.

Danger.

“I did say that,” he whispered tenderly. His lips hovered so close to your ear that every syllable brushed against your skin like an unwelcome caress. “And I meant it.”

You swallowed hard, desperately trying to hold yourself together, to summon whatever courage you had left. But it was no use. Your body trembled. “Then why did you humiliate me like that? Why give me an opportunity—if you can even call it that—just to turn it into some kind of…”

The words caught in your throat, trapped in a web of anger, shame, and confusion. What was that meeting? A game? A punishment? You didn’t even know how to articulate it.

Hawks’ hands tightened ever so slightly over yours, his grip firm but not painful. “Some kind of what?” he prompted softly, almost eagerly.

You shook your head, frustration burning hot in your chest. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly.

To your surprise, Hawks sighed, the sound more weary than you expected. But before you could make sense of it, he dipped his head, his nose brushing the side of your neck.

Was he… sniffing you?

Your muscles locked up as alarm bells blared in your mind. “Hawks—what the fu—”

“Shhh. Don’t move.” His voice was soft, but the authority in it was undeniable, cutting through your protest like a knife.

Your body went rigid, pressed uncomfortably against him, as he leaned in closer, inhaling deeply. It wasn’t subtle – it was like he was savouring every molecule of your scent.

Jesus Christ.

He huffed against your neck again, slow and indulgent - almost reverent. Like a goddamn addict getting his fix.

Then, after what felt like an eternity of him just breathing you in, he finally spoke. “First of all,” he started lazily, “you’re the one who spent the whole meeting in some kind of trance. You could’ve pitched in at any moment.”

Your jaw dropped, words momentarily escaping you.

The sheer audacity of this bastard—it needed to be studied, catalogued, and preserved in a museum of shameless behaviour. “Because you were molesting me with your stupid, fancy shoe!” you snapped.

Hawks pressed his cheek against yours as his lips curled into a wicked grin. “Molesting, huh? If that’s what you call molesting, I’d love to hear what you’d call what we did on Saturday.”

Your stomach lurched.

Right. Saturday.

“Actually, I’d love to know what you would call it,” you hissed, gritting your teeth. “Because I’m pretty sure that wasn’t in our contract.”

Hawks chuckled as he removed his hands from yours only to wrap them around your upper body like a serpent. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he replied, “I didn’t realize we needed to put chemistry in writing. You can’t seriously tell me you weren’t feeling it, too.”

Before you could react, he pressed a slow kiss to the curve of your jaw. The heat of his lips seared into your skin like a brand, and your entire body jolted. You wrenched your head away, but his arms, unyielding as steel, kept you firmly in place.

You were trapped—again.

“I wasn’t feeling anything! I nearly had a heart attack. What if I’d reported you to the police? Or told a friend what you did?”

A soft snort vibrated against your skin, the low rumble sending an unwanted shiver through you.

“What friends?” Hawks murmured, the question dripping with condescension. His hand, deceptively gentle, slid from your arm to rest against your hip, fingers flexing slightly as though testing the softness of your flesh.

Your stomach twisted, heat prickling under your skin.

His question wasn’t just rhetorical—it was cruelly accurate, and the way he said it made it sting all the more. Before you could gather the strength to pull away or speak, his other hand brushed along your side, sliding up to rest just under your ribs.

“In any case, if you were really that upset... why’d you come in today?” His thumb traced a lazy circle against your hip, and you let out a gasp. “Now that you know what a pushy guy I am.”

You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you from moving. His heat seeped into you, making every nerve in your body scream.

You opened your mouth, desperate to fling back a retort, to defend yourself, to explain why you had come in today. But nothing came out. The knot in your chest grew tighter, and tears pricked in your eyes.

Hawks shifted behind you, his head lowering until his lips brushed against your neck. “You know what I think, Y/N?” he cooed, both mocking and tender. “I think you like it. I think you like me.”

His words sent a wave of rage through you, but you were frozen, your limbs unwilling to obey the commands your brain was screaming.

His grip on your hip softened, only to shift as his fingers splayed possessively along your waist. “You can keep telling yourself you don’t – if you really want to. But it’s not exactly a secret how much I like you.” His other hand trailed slowly up your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, before resting lightly against your shoulder. “So why fight it? We could make it official. I’ll even tell HR—being the responsible boss that I am.”

As if to seal his twisted proposition, he pressed a fleeting kiss to the corner of your mouth, his lips lingering just long enough to send a chill rippling down your spine.

You couldn’t breathe.

Your chest tightened, air refusing to fill your lungs, as though the room itself had closed in around you. A sickening swirl of panic and disbelief churned in your stomach, making your head swim. Your joints felt locked, stiff like they were rusting in place, and your vision blurred at the edges, threatening to tip you into darkness.

A small, fractured part of you felt a sliver of relief—at least he’d finally laid it all out, stripped away the mask, and voiced what had been lurking between the lines all along.

But the rest of you? The rest of you was terrified.

Terrified of what it meant. Terrified of what would happen next.

Because now, there was no denying it. No pretending this was just some misunderstanding or misguided attempt at mentorship. Hawks had made his intentions clear—crystal clear—and you were trapped in the aftermath.

You could stay. Let Hawks continue to blur the lines, to twist and manipulate, to keep you caged in this warped dynamic where his power overshadowed your autonomy.

You knew he would keep taking, keep pushing, until there was nothing left of the person you used to be.

Or you could walk away.

The thought sent a flicker of clarity through the storm in your mind.

For the first time in months, the answer felt agonizingly simple. There would be other jobs. Other opportunities. Ones that wouldn’t leave you questioning your sanity, your self-worth, or your safety.

But you knew leaving meant more than just quitting.

It meant burning the only bridge you had managed to build in this endless sea of isolation. It meant walking away from the Pro Hero you’d once admired, the person who had plucked you from obscurity and made you feel seen—if only to weaponize it against you later.

Could you really do it? Could you leave behind the only constant in your life, even if that constant was suffocating you?

Your bit your lip. This wasn’t a job anymore—it was survival. And deep down, you knew. If you stayed, you would lose more than just your career.

You would lose yourself.

The thought settled like an anchor in your chest, tethering you to the moment. You couldn’t let that happen. Not to him. Not to anyone.

You pushed yourself to your feet, legs wobbling like a newborn fawn, your knees threatening to give out beneath you. But you refused to let them. Clenching your fists, you forced your body to hold firm.

Surprisingly, Hawks didn’t stop you.

His hands fell to his sides, his gaze locked on yours as you turned to face him fully. The sharpness of his stare sent a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t look away.

You couldn’t.

“Thanks for the kind offer to be your little office pet,” you began, your voice trembling but growing stronger with each word, “but I’ll have to pass. I quit. I’m done.” You took a shaky breath, squaring your shoulders. “So go find someone else to harass.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, heavy and suffocating. And then, to your dismay, Hawks laughed.

But it wasn’t his usual playful chuckle or teasing snicker. No, this laugh teetered on the edge of something far darker—manic, unhinged, like you’d just delivered the punchline to the world’s cruellest joke. The sound boomed in the small room, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

“That’s your final decision, huh? You really want to keep playing this game, Y/N?” He whispered silkily.

Your throat clenched as he stepped closer, the space between you shrinking with every word.

“Alright,” he said, his grin spreading wider. “I’m always happy to indulge my girl. And, hey—can’t say I don’t enjoy it.”

His hand moved toward you, and instinct took over. You flinched hard, slamming your eyes shut as panic clawed at your chest. He was going to hit you—or choke you—or worse—

Instead, his fingers brushed your cheek, the touch almost painfully soft. Gentle, even. It made your skin burn more than if he had struck you.

“But, you know you’re going to lose, right?” His voice was low, almost affectionate, but the words were anything but. “You have to know that.”

Your eyes snapped open, locking onto his. The look he gave you wasn’t angry, wasn’t even smug—it was certain, like the conclusion had already been written in ink, and you were the last to see it.

That quiet, assured confidence chilled you more than any threat could have.

“No—I don’t,” you growled as you pushed past him. “I’ll email my resignation. Don’t expect two weeks’ notice either—keep my last paycheck. I don’t care.”

You kept your eyes forward, forcing yourself not to look back.

Because if you did—if you so much as glanced over your shoulder—you knew you’d falter. You’d crumble, cower, maybe even… give in.

Your hand was inches from the door handle when Hawks called out from behind.

“Remember, Y/N. You chose this.”

The words rooted you in place. Your fingers tightened around the handle, trembling, but you forced yourself to move, yanking the door open with a burst of defiance.

You stepped through without looking back, each step heavy, the air outside the room feeling colder, sharper. But his voice clung to you, burrowing under your skin, winding through your veins, and taking up residence in the corners of your mind.

You chose this.

Chapter Text

You once read that freedom is the oxygen of the soul.

Though found on a poorly designed Pinterest board, sandwiched between a minion meme and a quote in Comic Sans, the sentiment had struck a chord. Now, you finally understood why. You were free, and it felt like taking a deep, cleansing breath after being submerged underwater for too long.

When you stumbled into your apartment, still jittery and wiping away stubborn tears, you collapsed onto the floor in exhaustion. As you lay there, your gaze slowly swept across the room.

Dishes piled up in the sink, countertops littered with crumbs and stains, and a thin layer of dust coated everything, transforming your once cozy sanctuary into a tableau of neglect.

And there—oh god—was that mould creeping in the corner of the living room ceiling?

A fresh wave of shame crashed over you. How had you not noticed how bad things had gotten?

It wasn’t just the apartment, though. The disarray of your home mirrored the state of your life—chaotic, overwhelming and out of your control. But now? It was like someone had handed you a pair of glasses, and suddenly, everything was painfully clear.

No more excuses. No more letting things slide.

With a surge of motivation, you swiped away your tears, stood tall, and grabbed your laptop. It was time to take back control.

The first order of business was typing up your official resignation. And as your fingers flew over the keyboard, a devilish thought crept in.

Why hold back? Hawks wasn’t going to give you a reference anyway, so why not light the match and watch the bridge burn? If there was ever a time to embrace a little pettiness, this was it.

Subject: My Immediate Resignation

Dear Hawks,

This letter is to inform you of my resignation, effective immediately.

While there are numerous reasons for my decision, I’ll spare us both the extended pleasantries. Suffice it to say, this position has been nothing short of an "enlightening" experience, though not in any way one might hope for.

I've learned that mentorship under your guidance is a concept more theoretical than practical. And "professional boundaries" appear to be a foreign concept in your leadership playbook.

Your unique style of 'leadership' has been an education in itself. I can only hope your next protégé is equipped with the patience of a saint, a direct line to a therapist, and a penchant for navigating through unprecedented professional hazards.

Feel free to consider my final paycheck as severance for the "valuable lessons" I've endured. Perhaps frame this letter as a keepsake, a memento of someone who wouldn't kowtow to your ego.

Warmest regards (or perhaps not),

Y/N L/N

P.S. I wish your future underlings better luck—they'll need it.

A bitter satisfaction swelled in you as you read over the email one last time—it was a masterpiece, a perfect send-off. Imagining Hawks' reaction, his face contorting with fury as he paced his oversized office, brought a twisted smile to your face.

But as your finger hovered over the Send button, hesitation clawed at your resolve.

Despite everything, Hawks had shown you a perverse kind of favouritism. He had bent rules for you, opened doors no one else had.

Your heart clenched—were these feelings of gratitude? Resentment? Both?

With a heavy sigh, you deleted the scathing email. It was one thing to burn bridges, another to nuke them. Instead, you opted for a simpler, more dignified farewell:

Dear Hawks,

I am writing to formally resign from my position, effective immediately. While I appreciate the opportunities I’ve been given, I believe it’s time for me to pursue a new path that better aligns with my goals.

Thank you for your understanding.

Best regards,

Y/N L/N

No second-guessing this time. You pressed Send. The finality of it echoed in the quiet of your apartment as you closed your laptop with a definitive snap. It was done. You were officially unemployed, friendless, and adrift—but free. Free from Hawks, from the chaos of your old job, free to rediscover who you were meant to be.

...Right?

The silence that followed was thick, oppressive. Was freedom supposed to feel this hollow?

You inhaled sharply, blinking back the sting of fresh tears threatening to spill. Had your place always felt this big? This empty?

You shook your head, trying to snap yourself out of it.

Daisuke.

That was the plan, wasn't it? Clean up the mess at work, get your life in order, and then reach out to him. Your fingers clutched your phone like a lifeline, the screen lighting up with a new notification that made your heart skip a beat.

Hawks (Bird-Bitch):

That was such a formal email, Y/N. No need to be so serious with me. You’re breaking my heart here. <3

The pit of your stomach dropped as you read his words.

As usual, Hawks was mocking you - belittling your decision as if it were nothing more than a childish outburst. He probably expected you to come crawling back, apologetic and defeated.

But not this time.

With determination steeling your jaw, you typed a clear, final response:

You:

I am no longer your employee. Please don’t contact me again.

You hit send with a frustrated growl and blocked his number without a second thought. A part of you whispered doubts—had you been too rash? But you silenced it quickly, overwhelmed by a storm of anger. How could you have ever considered his feelings? This man had toyed with your life as if it were nothing more than a game to him.

You snorted, the sound sharp with bitter emotion. How ridiculous it was to think you could simply pick up the phone and text Daisuke now, as if nothing had happened. As if Hawks hadn’t completely upended your life.

You glanced around at the chaos of your apartment—the physical manifestation of the turmoil within. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. A starting point for taking back control, for healing.

With a deep breath, you rolled up your sleeves before gathering the neglected cleaning supplies from the closet. Your face hardened, your expression cold and resolute, like it had been carved from stone.

This wasn’t just about cleaning—it was about reclaiming something. Anything.

So, you got to work.

"Remember, guys—life begins at the end of your comfort zone!"

The chirpy voice of Bethany, the self-proclaimed guru of self-improvement, rang out from the television, her impossibly white teeth gleaming under the perfect studio lighting as she gestured earnestly toward the camera. Behind her was a suspiciously pristine, fake therapy office that featured a strategically placed bonsai tree and motivational posters that looked like they belonged in a dentist’s waiting room.

You glared at her, grabbed a corn chip, and flicked it at the screen with all the disdain you could muster. It hit her square on the forehead before bouncing pathetically to the floor.

"Easy for you to say, Bethany," you muttered darkly, wrapping your blanket tighter around yourself. With a dramatic huff, you burrowed deeper into the couch cushions, the fortress of snacks surrounding you your only solace.

The living room was a strange mix of newly-cleaned order and emotional chaos, the shadows in the corners exaggerated by the grainy glow of the television. The only thing breaking the silence of your self-imposed isolation was Bethany's voice, dripping with forced optimism.

Somehow, after hours of scrubbing, vacuuming, and Marie-Kondo-ing your way through every room, you had spiralled into the bizarre comfort of trashy self-help shows.

And Bethany’s Brain Session? Oh, it was the absolute worst.

Her tone, her perfect hair, her way-too-flawless posture—it all grated on you in a way that felt oddly personal. But instead of changing the channel, you stayed glued to her show, trading barbs with her like she could actually hear you.

Negative karma be damned—this was your therapy now.

"If you don’t force yourself to endure a little discomfort, how will you ever reach your goals?” she chirped, her flowery smile practically daring you to scream.

“Oh, I don’t know, Bethany,” you snapped, clutching a fresh corn chip like a dagger. “Maybe I’ll reach my goals by consuming a metric ton of junk food and swaddling myself like a burrito. Sound good?”

You hurled the chip at her again. It didn’t even make it to the screen this time, falling miserably onto the coffee table, but it still felt oddly satisfying.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind, you knew you weren’t mad at Bethany. You were mad at yourself—at Hawks—at the tangled mess your life had become. But right now? Right now, blaming Bethany and her ugly bonsai tree felt a hell of a lot easier.

Therapeutic, indeed.

Before you could launch another doomed corn chip at Bethany’s glowing face, your phone dinged, cutting through the silence like a needle popping a balloon. You flinched, your hand freezing mid-throw, as your heart leapt into your throat.

For a split second, panic gripped you. But then you remembered—he couldn’t reach you anymore. You had blocked him. The object of your fear, your frustration, and your very recent corn-chip therapy session was officially cut off.

It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

Still, you approached your phone like it might explode, your hand trembling as you reached for it. Slowly, cautiously, you turned it over and glanced at the screen.

Rent Due.

Oh. Right. You’d set that reminder for today.

The tension seeped out of you all at once. You groaned, tossing the phone onto the couch as you buried your face in your hands.

Because, of course, nothing says freedom like remembering you still owe your landlord a small fortune every month.

Luckily, your savings could stretch to cover the next couple of months—assuming you ate like a bird and treated electricity like a luxury reserved for royalty.

But after that you would be staring into the financial abyss, completely broke and with no safety net in sight.

And then there was the matter of your landlord. You winced at the thought. You hadn’t exactly informed her of the sudden, dramatic twist in your employment status. It wasn’t like you could just scrawl ‘unemployed and panicking’ on the memo line of your next rent check.

Great. Add ‘awkward landlord conversation’ to the ever-growing list of disasters waiting to happen.

You massaged your temples, trying to wrangle your thoughts into something resembling optimism. Everything would be fine. You just needed to find a new job—fast.

Everything is going to be peachy, you told yourself, the words hollow. Just start sending out resumes—

Your phone vibrated sharply, shattering your internal pep talk.

You stiffened, your earlier self-assurance dissolving as you picked up the device with trembling hands. An unknown number flashed on the screen, but the message that followed was unmistakable:

Unknown Number

Sent through some money for your rent. No need to thank me. I heard the unemployment line is rough ;) ~H

Nausea twisted your stomach into knots. Of course, Hawks had a burner phone.

But more alarming than the message itself was the sinister implication it carried, its claws digging deep into your psyche.

How did he know your rent was due today? Had he accessed your phone? Your emails? Or worse, had he sifted through your physical mail? Given the number of times he’d dropped you off at your apartment, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

Your mind raced with horrifying scenarios as a cold dread crept up your spine. The thought of Hawks rifling through your personal information was chilling.

You stared at the message again, your lips quivering. Paranoia bloomed, enveloping every rational thought in a dense fog of fear.

This was not normal. None of this was normal.

Your fingers trembled as you opened the banking app, half-convinced Hawks was bluffing—this must be some cruel charade, a twisted attempt to frighten you back into submission. But the reality hit with the cold weight of undeniable proof.

There it was.

A transaction from an anonymous account showed up glaringly on your screen: your rent paid in full, plus a little extra—mockingly resembling a gratuity for exemplary service. You gasped, the air catching in your throat as a sour wave of bile rose.

A ragged sob tore from your chest as you frantically typed a response, your hands shaking uncontrollably over the virtual keyboard.

You

 This has gone too far, Hawks. I'm serious. If you contact me again, I'm going to the police.

Your thumb hovered over the send button, your breaths shallow and rapid. Then, with a forced exhale, you pressed it and blocked the number—again.

The phone clattered onto the couch, its impact muffled, but you made no move to retrieve it. The room seemed to spin, the air simultaneously too thin and oppressively dense.

How could someone who once seemed so dazzling, so untouchable, morph into this? Into… whatever this was?

You needed to send the money back. You had to. Every rational thought screamed at you to follow through, to sever this thread of control he was trying to weave around you.

And yet—

Your fingers hovered over the transaction as an uncomfortable knot formed in your chest. Your thoughts betrayed you, drifting to the expenses looming on the horizon. Rent, bills, groceries—how long could your savings realistically hold out while you scrambled to find another job?

You bit down on your lip, the taste of iron grounding you momentarily.

Surely, returning the funds was the ethical choice—the only choice. But pragmatism weighed heavily on you, suffocating your better judgement.

After all, wasn’t Hawks the only one truly losing out here? Accepting this money didn’t grant him any real power over you; rather, it afforded you the breathing space needed to regroup and reclaim your life.

Perhaps, you mused darkly, this unsolicited aid could be the very thing that allowed you to save enough to break your lease, to relocate to somewhere Hawks could never find you—somewhere beyond the reach of his influence.

Fuelled by a grim resolve, you transferred the tainted funds to your landlord, decisively closing any avenue for second-guessing.

The decision was irrevocable. The die was cast. If Hawks insisted on playing this perverse game, then so be it—you’d play, but on your terms.

“Remember, you can never outrun the consequences of your own actions!”

You grabbed a throw pillow and hurled it at the screen. “Shut up, Bethany.”

As it turned out, navigating the job market without the former Number Two Hero pulling strings based on some ancient, cringe-worthy forum posts was no easy feat.

Who would've guessed?

A week of ceaselessly firing off applications both online and in person had yielded nothing but a slew of soulless rejection emails and an echoing void where callbacks should have been. Each new rejection was a hammer blow to what was left of your ego, which by now felt as fragile as porcelain.

Yet amid the onslaught of professional rebuffs, there was one peculiar relief: the unnerving silence from Hawks.

Since his last disturbing message, your life had become a constant over-the-shoulder glance, a relentless re-checking of locks, and a compulsive monitoring of your phone for any hint of him. Surprisingly, and somewhat bewilderingly, there had been nothing. No texts, no eerie midnight calls, no shadows flitting just out of sight.

He seemed to have vanished into thin air.

This unexpected reprieve left you caught between nervousness and gratitude. You knew Hawks well enough to understand that his silence was hardly a white flag; he wasn’t the type to give up easily. His absence loomed like the calm before a storm, yet you couldn’t help but feel thankful for the break, however temporary it might be.

But lingering on his absence wasn’t an option, not when more pressing concerns demanded your attention—like the mysterious bag that had appeared on your doorstep.

It had been three hours since you first noticed it, and you had spent the entire morning in a silent standoff with the plastic intruder.

You tried to dismiss it, rationalizing that maybe a neighbour had mistakenly had something delivered to your door. Periodically, you peered out, half-expecting to see someone come to retrieve it, but it remained there—a persistent reminder of your current vulnerability.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, you wiped sweat from your brow, running through potential explanations in a futile attempt to calm your nerves. Could it be an accidental delivery? A strange peace offering from estranged relatives? Or could a disgruntled coworker be plotting some petty form of revenge for your abrupt resignation?

Your heart skipped as a more chilling thought surfaced, one you had tried to ignore: Hawks. The pieces fit too well, and the realization tightened your stomach with dread.

Accepting his rent payment had been a mistake. It must have painted you as some damsel in distress—too stubborn to ask directly for help, yet vulnerable enough to need it. You chided yourself for the oversight.

Given his notoriety, you wouldn’t have expected Hawks to risk lurking around your apartment, yet here you were, contemplating whether his infatuation might lead him to brave potential fan encounters just to unsettle you.

With a resigned sigh, you decided to confront the issue head-on.

Darting outside, you snatched the plastic bag by its handles and hurried back to the safety of your kitchen. As you set the mysterious package on the counter, its unexpected weight hinted ominously at its contents.

Definitely not flowers, then.

You glared at the bag, half-hoping it would crack under your intense scrutiny and confess its contents. As expected, it sat there eerily silent, indifferent to your growing anxiety.

"Hawks, if you've sent me body parts, I'm unleashing the mother of all Twitter threads to expose you..." you muttered shakily.

With a tentative hand, you steeled yourself and peered inside the bag. Your pulse raced as you braced for the worst.

Well…. it wasn’t severed hands.

Instead, what you found inside was perhaps the most benign of packages—a bag of groceries.

You almost banged your head against the fridge in frustration. "You idiot, Y/N," you chided yourself. It must have been Mrs. Matsudo from downstairs who left it there after you mentioned your job loss in the elevator a couple of days ago.

Known for her neighbourly generosity, Mrs. Matsudo probably thought a few essentials would help ease your situation. And here you were, scrutinizing the polite gesture like a psych ward patient.

Feeling like the world’s biggest jackass, you sighed heavily as you began unpacking the bag, your heart sinking as you noted the lettuce now wilting, its edges browning after hours of sitting in the stuffy hallway. It was a thoughtful gesture that had been mistreated by your paranoia.

As you stored the perishables in the fridge, a glint of something at the bottom of the bag caught your eye.

Curious, you reached in and pulled out a cylindrical tin, adorned with an elegant red floral pattern that wrapped smoothly around its surface. The intricate design was pleasing to the touch, with a subtle texture that invited your fingers to trace its contours.

Excited, you popped open the lid and peered inside. A rich, earthy aroma greeted you, instantly soothing your senses. You smiled, delighted. It was a tin of tea leaves—perhaps a subtle hint from Mrs. Matsudo about finding moments of tranquillity.

You breathed in deeply, trying to identify the blend. It wasn’t Ceylon or English Breakfast; the herbal scent hinted at something crafted for relaxation, likely intended for evening sipping.

You glanced at the clock. It was only midday, yet the emptiness of your schedule weighed on you, momentarily dimming your delight in the thoughtful gift. With a sigh, you decided there was no reason to wait.

Might as well drown my sorrows in tea.

You set about boiling the kettle and steeping the leaves, the simple ritual bringing a small comfort as the fragrance of the tea slowly filled your kitchen.

It was a pleasant distraction from your unsuccessful job hunt – and your dwindling funds.

Once the tea was ready, you poured it into a mug, inspecting the tin for any brewing instructions.

Your brow furrowed when you found none—not a single word to hint at the optimal preparation of this unfamiliar blend. With a resigned shrug, you stirred in some honey, hoping it would balance the flavours effectively.

Curled up on your couch, you took a tentative sip and let out a satisfied moan. The tea was unexpectedly delightful, though it carried a slightly bitter edge and a peculiar aftertaste that lingered a bit too long on your tongue. Nevertheless, it was soothing, each sip drawing you further into a relaxed state, away from the pressures that had been mounting around you.

Your anxieties dissolved as if carried away by a gentle stream, and a serene calm settled over your mind.

Why had you been so worried? Hawks wouldn’t harm you—not really. He liked you, didn't he? (After all, he seemed to be the only one left who did).

As the softness of the couch cradled you, your eyelids began to feel impossibly heavy, each blink a struggle against the pull of sleep. A little nap couldn’t hurt, you reasoned with a sigh, succumbing to the comforting lull.

Job hunting could wait a bit longer; right now, all your body craved was rest.

Chapter Text

Your eyes felt as though they had been stitched shut by invisible threads. Heavy. Reluctant. Dragging them open felt like peeling apart layers of molasses.

Colours bled together—soft golds and muted greys—shifting in and out of focus, as though the air itself rippled and bent around you.

Morning? Evening?

Time seemed irrelevant, unreachable; its edges smeared like paint on a wet canvas.

Your body wasn’t yours. Limbs weighed down with lead, nerves dulled to static. Sensations came and went, distant and dreamlike, like echoes through water. The plush fabric beneath you—the couch, you dimly realized—pressed into your skin.

Too much. Not enough.

A numb ache throbbed at the base of your skull, each pulse sending ripples of discomfort through your fogged mind. You groaned, the sound low and scratchy, as if someone else had made it. Even that small noise felt detached, foreign.

You tried to sit up. A desperate, instinctive need to orient yourself, to move. But your muscles rebelled. Wading through tar would have been easier. Another groan escaped, weak and rasping, scraping against your throat like broken glass.

Had you been asleep for minutes? Hours? Days?

Seconds scattered, fractured like torn pages in a storm, slipping away before you could grasp them.

Your gaze drifted sluggishly to the coffee table, catching on the empty mug perched precariously near the edge.

The tea.

Fragments of memory surfaced. The warmth of it spreading through your chest. That bitter aftertaste, clinging to your tongue like a ghost.

Hadn’t you just been drinking it? Or had that been… earlier? Another day?

Your brows furrowed, the effort sharp and jarring against the haze, when a new sensation broke through: fingers.

They combed gently through your hair, brushing against your scalp with a tenderness so out of place it sent a shiver crawling over your skin.

“Don’t move,” a voice whispered, low and coaxing. Soft as silk, sharp as a knife.

Your heart jolted, the faintest flicker of panic sparking weakly in your chest. The voice was familiar—too familiar. It grated against your awareness, cutting through the fog like a razor-thin blade.

Blinking sluggishly, you willed your vision to sharpen, to bring the looming figure above you into focus. The world swayed, lines smudged and indistinct, like a broken television stuck between channels.

Golden eyes. Tousled hair.

Hawks.

A shudder rippled through you, feeble and fleeting. He was here—here, in your home, his presence far too close, too casual.

“You seem pretty knocked around,” Hawks murmured, deceptively light as his hand shifted to your forehead. “Must be a nasty bug.”

His palm was cool against your fevered skin, a relief so startling your instincts wavered. You almost leaned into the touch—almost—before the reality of it snapped back like a rubber band.

Words tangled in your throat, clumping together like cotton. All you could manage was a weak, watery glare, sharp as a butter knife but wielded with all the force you had left.

“Don’t give me that look,” Hawks chided with a chuckle. “I came to check on you. Noticed your door was unlocked when you didn’t answer. We really need to talk about your idea of security, sweetheart. It’s a dangerous world out there.”

You wanted to snap, to tell him that the only danger you needed protection from was him. But your body betrayed you, your limbs refusing to cooperate as he moved with unnerving ease.

His hands slipped beneath your arms before you could comprehend the action.

“Up we go,” Hawks murmured, lifting you like you weighed nothing at all.

The room tilted, spinning wildly as he hoisted you into his lap. Your head lolled uselessly against his chest, his warmth pressing into you like an iron rod.

Your muscles were jelly, your strength melted away entirely. Despite the storm of emotions raging beneath the surface, your body slumped against him, limp and uncooperative.

“You have no idea how worried I’ve been,” Hawks whispered, his breath chilling against your ear. “Blocking me twice? That’s some next-level pettiness, don’t you think? And after I was kind enough to pay your rent, too.”

Rent. The word echoed in your mind.

You tried to muster a response, to lash out, to do anything—but the heaviness dragged you under. Your limbs were anchors, your thoughts a tangle of static and fractured clarity.

Hawks sighed, the sound soft and almost pitying. “Just look at you. This little tantrum of yours has done more harm than good. It was kind of cute for a while, I’ll admit. But believe it or not…” His voice dropped, his tone darkening. “I don’t enjoy watching you suffer.”

A flicker of rage pooled in your chest – the urge to spit in his face growing increasingly powerful. But your mouth was too dry, almost barren. So instead, your lips twitched into what you hoped was a scowl.

“Go’way,” you slurred, the words scraping painfully from your throat like shards of broken glass.

Hawks chuckled softly, the sound warm and rich, a stark contrast to the icy dread curling in your stomach. “There it is,” he said, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “That spark I like so much. You always know how to keep me on my toes.”

“Says you,” you managed weakly, your voice trembling with exhaustion.

He smiled, his golden eyes gleaming. “Fair point. But with the state you’re in…” His arms tightened slightly, his body encasing you like a cage. “You really shouldn’t be left alone, should you?”

Before you could respond, he leaned down, pressing a feather-light kiss to the side of your head.

It didn’t feel kind.

Your breath hitched as a white-hot burn of anger surged through you.

“You’unbelievable,” you mumbled, your tongue heavy and uncooperative.

“Unbelievable, sure,” he replied, his voice tinged with amusement. “But you’re still here, aren’t you? Maybe you should stop fighting and let me take care of you. At least until you’re back on your feet.”

You could feel yourself slipping, the edges of your consciousness blurring, softening. Every muscle ached, your fever dragging you deeper, away from the chaos, toward the dark.

“No,” you rasped, each word a battle. “I ca’do it. Alone.”

Hawks’ tone softened, dipping into something quieter, almost mournful. “I know,” he murmured, his fingers trailing lightly along your arm. “You’ve always been like that. Stubborn. Always trying to handle things on your own, even when it’s killing you. I get it. I do.”

His voice dropped lower, carrying a weight that made your stomach churn. “We’re the same, you know. People take from us. Use us. Leave us to pick up the pieces.”

“Not… same,” you hissed, bile rising in your throat.

He tilted his head, his smirk faint but sharp. “Sure, Y/N. Keep telling yourself that.”

His chest rose and fell steadily against your back, the rhythm maddeningly soothing. Your shame deepened, sharp and unbearable, as your eyelids drooped despite your fight to stay awake.

“There you go,” Hawks whispered, his voice wrapping around you like a lullaby. “Get some rest. I’ll be right here. All night.”

The last thing you felt before the fever dragged you under was the gentle press of his fingers intertwining with yours.

You were in water—floating, drifting. The surface rippled around you, soft as silk, cool as moonlight. It cradled you, held you.

Where were you going?

You didn’t know, but you hoped it was far. Far away from your failures, from your weakness, from everything.

The water shifted, subtle currents pulling at your limbs, turning you weightless and pliant. A faint hum vibrated through the space, resonating deep in your chest. It was a presence. Familiar. Comforting, almost.

Then came warmth.

It wasn’t the water. It was behind you, surrounding you, seeping into your skin. Hands.

You knew these hands.

Fingers brushed your shoulders, leaving trails of heat in their wake. They moved down, tracing the curve of your arms, your sides, the sensation tickling your skin pleasantly.

“Almost done. Then we can get you back to bed. Sound good?”

It was Hawks.

You blinked, your head lolling slightly. You couldn’t see him. Was he behind you?

“’kay,” you mumbled, the word slipping out on a sigh. Your lips felt thick, tingly almost, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“Good girl. Knew you’d listen.”

You felt his fingers drift to your hips, steady and tender, as he positioned you over his lap. Something hard pressed into your thigh — sending a ripple of confusion through you.

Oh.

He was naked. You were naked too, weren’t you?

You shifted slightly at the strange sensation pushing against your leg, an involuntary reaction more than anything.

A low growl rumbled against your ear, deep and guttural, sending a shiver skittering down your spine. “Careful there, sweetheart. You keep squirming like that, and I might start thinking you want our first time to be right here, in the tub.”

You just hummed, too distracted by the pleasant feeling of the water and hands caressing your skin to respond.

Strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His face pressed into your soaked shoulder, and you felt the warmth of his breath ghost over your skin. Hawks sighed deeply, the sound equal parts contentment and something heavier, something possessive.

“Don’t overthink it, sweetheart,” he murmured, carrying a practiced ease. “I’ll make it special—perfect, even. You deserve that much.” His lips brushed lightly against your collarbone.

His arms tightened slightly, as though he was anchoring you—or maybe himself. “Funny, isn’t it? Letting someone in like this. Never thought it’d happen for me, either. Always kept people at a safe distance, kept things...simple.” He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your back. “But you—” His voice dipped, growing softer, almost reverent. “You’re different. You make me want things I didn’t know I could want.”

You nodded absently, the words swirling around you like the steam rising from the bath, half-heard and half-forgotten. You wondered if you could hitch a ride on a boat and sail away.

“I like boats,” you mumbled, the connection as fleeting as a bubble popping on the surface of the water.

Hawks froze for a beat, then let out a low, amused chuckle. “Boats, huh?” he said, his lips quirking into a smirk you couldn’t see but could feel in the way his voice curled around the words. “Guess we are in the same boat, after all. Just don’t go jumping overboard, yeah? I’ve got you.”

“I won’t. Not strong enough to make it back to shore,” you mumbled quietly, like a secret the water might carry away.

Hawks drew you closer until your back pressed flush against his chest. The heat of his body soaked into your skin, and you couldn’t ignore the hard, insistent press of him against the curve of your backside.

A low, throaty moan escaped him, raw and unguarded.

“You don’t have to be,” he crooned. “I’ll be strong enough for both of us. That’s what I do, right? Carry the weight, make it look easy.”

There was a brief pause, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, before he added, quieter, “Just promise you’ll be there to hold me at the end of the day. That’s all I need from you.”

The words floated somewhere beyond your grasp, their depth lost in the fog clouding your mind. Boats. Weren’t you talking about boats?

“’Kay,” you muttered, your response a lazy echo, thoughtless and drifting.

Whatever had taken hold of you wasn’t just a simple flu—it was something far worse.

You were undeniably, horribly ill.

Time unravelled into a blurry mess as you drifted in and out of consciousness, each waking moment punctuated by the oppressive weight of fever and exhaustion. Hours melted together into an unbroken chain of disorientation.

But one thing remained constant: Hawks.

Each time your eyes fluttered open, he was there. His presence was as unrelenting as the fever scorching through your body. With infuriating patience, he coaxed water or spoonfuls of soup past your lips, his voice deceptively gentle as he urged you to eat, to drink.

“Easy now,” he murmured, brushing damp strands of hair away from your clammy forehead. “This is for your own good.”

You tried to scowl, your expression as limp and ineffective as your swiping hands.

You wanted to push him away, to snap at him to leave, but even summoning that much strength felt like trying to move mountains.

If he noticed your weak protests, he didn’t show it. Instead, his touch remained calm, maddeningly tender as he adjusted your pillows or pulled the blanket higher around your shoulders. At some point, you realized he’d moved you to your bed. When that had happened—or how—you couldn’t remember.

All you could do was glare at him, your narrowed eyes a pale shadow of the defiance you felt. But if your hostility affected him, he didn’t let it show. He moved through your space with an ease that set your teeth on edge, as though he belonged there, as though tending to you was the most natural thing in the world.

The worst part, though, was the dreams—or perhaps the fevered blur between dreams and reality.

You could distinctly remember Hawks spooning you, his arms wrapped around you with an intimacy that made your skin crawl. His lips, soft and too close, pressed kisses against your neck, your forehead, murmuring words you couldn’t quite grasp but knew you didn’t want to hear.

But then there was… the cheese? You were almost certain he’d thrown a slice of it at your head at some point.

The fever played cruel tricks, leaving you trapped in a loop of second-guessing, unable to tell where the nightmares ended and reality began.

One thing, however, was irrefutable: Hawks was always there. Too close. Too present. Far too comfortable in your space.

(A tiny, treacherous part of you, buried so deep it felt alien, couldn’t help but notice the attention. No one had ever cared for you like this before—not when you were sick. If they’d cared at all)

It was the fever. That had to be it. The virus was messing with your head.

Right?

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you awoke with a semblance of clarity. The fog clinging to your thoughts had thinned, enough for the sharp edges of reality to pierce through.

The room was dark. Quiet. Empty.

You blinked, your eyes adjusting slowly to the shadows. To your growing horror, you realized you were searching for him—your gaze darting to every corner, your ears straining for the sound of his voice, his movements.

What the hell was wrong with you?

The thought struck like a bolt of lightning, jolting you upright. The effort sent your head spinning, and the sheets clung to your damp skin as they slipped to your waist. You froze, staring down at yourself.

You were wearing different clothes.

An oversized shirt—soft and unfamiliar—and nothing but your underwear.

Your breath hitched, panic bubbling in your chest. Heat prickled at the back of your neck as shame and fury twisted into a knot in your stomach.

That bastard.

He’d changed you.

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, hard enough to draw the sharp taste of copper. How dare he? The violation, the audacity, the sheer gall of it—it was too much.

You squeezed your eyes shut, fists balling in the fabric of the shirt as nausea churned in your gut.

You’d never felt smaller, more humiliated in your entire life.

You hadn’t asked for his help. Hell, you would’ve rather suffered alone, would’ve clawed your way to the bathroom on your own strength—or lack thereof—than let him take it upon himself to do this.

And yet, here he was.

Once again, Hawks had bulldozed over your boundaries like they were nothing more than suggestions.

Your jaw clenched, trembling with the effort to keep yourself together. You wouldn’t cry. Not over this. Not over him.

With a sharp inhale, you forced yourself to your feet. Your muscles screamed in protest, and the room spun violently, but you ignored it, staggering forward with a single-minded determination.

The first step sent you crashing to your knees.

Pain jolted through you, but it was nothing compared to the blistering humiliation coursing through your veins. Hot tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away furiously, biting back the sob clawing its way up your throat.

No. You needed to be strong.

Every movement was slow and agonizing as you dragged yourself upright, your legs trembling beneath you. With one hand braced against the wall, you shuffled forward, each step a small, defiant victory.

When you reached the living room, daylight poured through the windows, golden and unrelenting. It stabbed at your aching head, making your skull pound like a war drum.

Your vision blurred, your surroundings swimming, but you could make out the shape of him.

Hawks.

He was sprawled across your couch, shirtless, his laptop balanced on his thighs. He looked utterly at home, like he belonged there. Like this was his space, not yours.

Your gaze dropped to the shirt you were wearing, realization curling in your stomach like poison.

That creep.

“Hawks,” you rasped, your voice thin but laced with steel. “What the hell are you still doing here?”

You forced yourself to shove aside the crawling disgust over the shirt draped over your body.
Priorities. There were bigger battles to fight.

Hawks’ head snapped up, his golden eyes widening in what looked like genuine surprise. As if he hadn’t been the one to invade your space. As if he had any right to act shocked—here, in your apartment, sprawled out on your couch like he owned it.

His brows furrowed, caught somewhere between concern and exasperation, as he tossed his laptop aside carelessly. “Whoa, hold up. You shouldn’t be on your feet yet,” he said in that coaxing, too-smooth tone, like he was trying to soothe a cornered animal. Rising in one fluid motion, he began to close the distance between you. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed before you hurt yourself.”

You swayed, gripping the wall like a lifeline, anxiety spiking as he approached. But you refused to give him the satisfaction of watching you crumble. Gritting your teeth, you forced a shaky step backward, willing yourself to stay upright. Falling now would feel like surrender.

“No,” you snapped, your voice raw but steady enough to halt him mid-step. Trembling, you jabbed a finger in his direction, glaring through the haze clouding your vision. “What are you still doing here? I said, get out. Now.”

The words hung in the air, daring him to defy you.

For a moment, Hawks just stared, his expression unreadable. Then, his lips twitched upward, the faintest hint of amusement softening the lines of his face. “Intimidation’s a tough sell when you’re holding onto that wall like it’s the only thing keeping you upright,” he quipped.

Your glare deepened, and you dug your nails into your palms, the sting anchoring you. “Get out,” you rasped again. “Or I swear I’ll call the cops.”

His smirk widened as he leaned casually against the edge of the couch, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “Yeah, yeah, call the cops,” he drawled lazily. “File a report, if you want. But maybe save it for after you’ve had some water and medicine. You look like death warmed over, sweetheart.”

“And you look like an ass,” you shot back shakily.

He chuckled, the sound strong and rich. “See? Even your insults are weak. Definitely still sick.” Straightening, he added, “Tell you what—I’ll make you some tea. Maybe a little something to eat while I’m at it.”

His nonchalance made your blood boil. “No. Get. Out,” you spat, each word sharpened to a blade.

Hawks sighed, long and exaggerated, as if you were the one being unreasonable. “Okay,” he murmured, “take two.”

Before you could react, he blurred across the room, and suddenly your world flipped upside down—literally.

“What the hell?!” you shrieked, your voice muffled against his back as you found yourself slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Put me down, you jackass!”

“Shhh,” he teased, his tone light and infuriatingly smug. “Be a good girl, or no treats for you.”

You froze, mortification igniting in your chest like wildfire. “I’m not a dog, you asshole!”

“And yet you’re barking orders at me,” he retorted, patting your thigh as if to underscore his point. “Come on, Y/N. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“Like hell I won’t!” You swung a weak fist against his back, but it was like punching steel—completely ineffective.

Hawks only chuckled mockingly. “Oh, feisty. Maybe there’s still a little fight left in you.”

Your knee twitched, ready to retaliate, but the world spun again. Before you could process it, you were dropped unceremoniously into a dining chair, your legs folding beneath you like jelly.

Hawks crouched down, bringing his face level with yours. The shift in his expression—from playful to something sharper, darker—made your breath hitch.

“I don’t mind a little teasing,” he murmured, his voice low and measured. “In fact, I enjoy it. But let’s not forget—I’ve been trained to handle opponents a hell of a lot stronger than you. So, maybe don’t push your luck.”

A cold wave of realization washed over you. For all his smiles and teasing, Hawks was a predator in every sense of the word. And right now, you were cornered prey.

His eyes roved over your face, studying you intently. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him, because the edges of his mouth curved into a faint smirk. Straightening, he reached out to pat your cheek—lightly, almost mockingly.

“Good talk,” he said, before turning on his heel and sauntering toward the kitchen as if nothing had happened.

Alone again, your body sagged against the chair, trembling with the effort to hold yourself together. Each breath came in shallow gasps as you fought to tamp down the overwhelming wave of fear and humiliation crashing over you.

This was more than bad. This was a waking nightmare.

You were sick. Vulnerable. Trapped in your own home with a man who seemed to think your boundaries were optional, your protests amusing.

Whatever his intentions, one thing was chillingly clear: Hawks wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

Your eyes darted around the room, scanning frantically for your phone. But it was nowhere to be found. Your heart plummeted, sinking into the pit of your stomach like a stone dropped into dark waters.

He’d taken it. Of course, he had.

The realization hit you like a cold wind, sharp and biting. A fresh wave of dread settled over you, tightening its grip as the implications unfurled. You had no landline. No backup plan. No way to call for help.

Screaming? That might draw your neighbors’ attention. Maybe, just maybe, someone would hear and call the police.

But what if it only made Hawks angry?

The thought clawed its way through you, cold and unrelenting. You couldn’t predict what he would do. Would his wrath turn toward the neighbors—or worse, toward you?

The truth was raw and inescapable: you didn’t know what Hawks was capable of anymore. And that terrified you more than anything else.

Your gaze flicked across the room, desperately searching for another option. Something. Anything. That’s when your eyes locked onto his laptop, perched on the coffee table.

A spark of hope ignited in your chest. There’s an idea. If you could just get to it—

“Alrighty! One cup of tea and some soup for my favorite patient,” Hawks’ sing-song voice rang out from the kitchen.

You froze, the small ember of hope extinguished instantly. Your moment of opportunity slipped away, vanishing like smoke on the wind.

Dammit.

He entered the room with an infuriating ease, balancing a tray like he was hosting a casual brunch. The steaming bowl of soup, the mug of tea, the neatly folded napkin—each detail felt like a calculated mockery.

Hawks set the tray on the table in front of you with deliberate precision, his movements frustratingly unhurried. You stared at it numbly, the bitter taste of frustration rising in your throat.

Don’t even think about it.

In your current state, you wouldn’t have made it halfway to the coffee table before collapsing. Hawks would’ve caught you red-handed, and the fallout would’ve been catastrophic.

Still, the sting of defeat lingered, sharp and unforgiving.

“Come on, eat up,” Hawks said, his voice breaking through your spiralling thoughts. A spoonful of soup hovered suddenly under your nose, its warmth curling into the air.

You jerked back, the movement scraping your chair against the floor. “What the hell?”

Hawks didn’t flinch, tilting his head with a lazy smile. “Relax, I’m not gonna spill it on you. Unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

“I can feed myself.”

“Sure you can, champ,” he replied, still holding the spoon steady. “But you look one sneeze away from keeling over. Let me help.”

Pride clawed at you, screaming for you to refuse. But your arms felt like dead weights, and your body betrayed you, slumping with exhaustion. With a resigned huff, you leaned forward and took the smallest sip.

The soup was warm, soothing against your throat—and utterly humiliating.

“Not bad, huh?” Hawks grinned, practically preening. “I’ve been perfecting my soup game the past couple of days. It was the only thing you could keep down.”

Your stomach twisted—not from the soup, but from his words. You swallowed another reluctant spoonful, barely processing the taste as his statement sank in.

A couple of days?

You froze mid-sip, nearly choking on a piece of carrot. Coughing violently, you struggled to get the words out. “A couple of days?!”

Hawks was unfazed, leaning in to pat your back with rhythmic circles. “Yep. Nearly three, now,” he said, smiling as though he’d accomplished something remarkable. “You’ve been pretty out of it. Don’t worry, I’ve had everything under control.”

Three days. The number echoed in your head, impossible to grasp.

Your mind reeled, horror clawing its way to the surface. Three days meant he had been taking care of everything—feeding you, hydrating you.

Bathing you?

Instinctively, you sniffed your arm. The faint scent of sweat lingered, but it wasn’t unbearable. Not three-days-without-a-shower bad. Your breath caught as the implications crystallized.

Oh god. He really had attended to your every need.

What if he hadn’t been here?

The question slammed into you with the weight of a collapsing building. Three days without water could have been lethal. If Hawks hadn’t taken it upon himself to stay, who else would have checked on you?

No one.

You didn’t have family. No close friends. Not even a nosy neighbor who might’ve noticed you hadn’t left your apartment.

Not even Daisuke.

And as much as you hated the thought, the flicker of gratitude that stirred in your chest was undeniable.

No. Not gratitude. Resentment.

Hawks shouldn’t have been here. But the alternative...

You swallowed hard, your gaze darting back to his face. He was watching you closely, his expression unreadable, caught somewhere between amusement and concern. He inclined his head, as though he were already anticipating your reaction.

“I told you,” he said soft, yet firm. “I’ll always look out for you. Even when you’re being a stubborn brat.”

The jab stung, and a retort bubbled to your lips. But the truth sat on your shoulders like a dumbbell you couldn’t lift. As twisted as it was, Hawks had saved your life.

The thought burned like acid in your brain.

“Can I have another bite, please?” you muttered, barely more than a whisper.

Hawks’ smirk softened. “Of course, sweetheart,” he said, lifting another spoonful to your lips. “There’s my good girl.”

Your stomach lurched at the words. Not from disgust—but from something far worse. Something you didn’t want to name.

The meal passed in uneasy silence, each spoonful a bitter reminder of your dependence. The soup soothed the ache in your throat, but the presence of the man feeding you left a far heavier discomfort in its wake.

When the bowl was empty, Hawks reclined in his chair, setting the spoon down with a satisfied hum.

“Don’t get used to this,” you muttered weakly, though there was no fire behind the words.

“Too late,” he replied with a grin, reaching out to brush his fingers through your hair. “I’m already hooked.”

You flinched away from his touch, your skin crawling despite the gentleness of his gesture. “Hawks, I’m serious,” you managed, your voice trembling under the weight of exhaustion. “Look, I… I appreciate you taking care of me these past few days, but I think I should just go to the hospital now. You’ve done enough.”

Your words wavered, barely holding their ground, but you pushed through, leaning into a tone of placation. Butter him up. Stroke his ego. That was the plan—your only plan.

Maybe, just maybe, you could use his arrogance against him.

But Hawks’ smile didn’t falter. “The hospital?” he echoed slowly, his tone laced with mockery. “And rack up a bill I know you can’t afford? Or…” He tilted his head, his smirk sharpening like a blade. “Were you planning to ask me to cover that too?”

The insinuation sent a prickling heat racing under your skin. “I never asked you to pay my rent!” you snapped, the effort making your head throb painfully.

“But you didn’t send it back,” he countered, smooth and effortless, like he’d already anticipated your argument. He rested an elbow on the table, his golden eyes locking onto yours with the intensity of a hunter cornering its prey. “If you really didn’t want my help, Y/N, you could’ve just hit ‘refund.’ But you didn’t. And that tells me everything I need to know.”

You opened your mouth, searching for a rebuttal, but nothing came. The truth loomed, undeniable beneath the layers of frustration and shame.

He was right.

You hadn’t sent it back. You’d justified it to yourself in a dozen different ways—survival, practicality, necessity—but none of that changed the fact that you’d accepted it.

Your jaw tightened as you turned your head away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “Where’s my phone?” you asked, your voice brittle.

“Your phone?” he repeated, the picture of innocence. He tapped a finger against his chin, feigning thought. “Hmm, can’t say I’ve seen it.”

Your nostrils flared. “Hawks…”

“Hey, hey, don’t be like that, grumpy.” His hands went up in mock surrender, his tone infuriatingly casual. “You probably dropped it somewhere around here. We can look for it when you’re feeling better.”

Suspicion flared in your chest, but it was dulled by the fatigue that pulled at you like a weight tied around your ankles. You wanted to press the issue, to call him out for the obvious lie, but the effort felt monumental.

You sighed, slumping further into your chair. “Whatever,” you muttered, your voice thick with exhaustion. “Stick around if you want. But as soon as I’m better, you’re going home. Got it?”

Hawks snorted, the sound low and amused, like he was in on a joke you weren’t privy to. “Home. Sure thing.”

Something in the way he said it made your stomach twist uneasily, like the punchline was hovering just out of reach.

He gestured to the mug of tea with a casual nod of his chin. “Speaking of home,” he began cheerfully, “I told the Commission I’d be working remotely for a bit. Family issues, you know how it is.”

Family issues? The sheer audacity made your jaw clench.

He leaned casually against the table, watching as you swayed unsteadily in your seat. “How about you sip that tea while you help me out, huh? Since you’re feeling so much better and all.” His brow arched, a teasing edge creeping into his expression.

“Help you with what?” you asked, your voice thick and sluggish, though curiosity flickered faintly at the edges of your exhaustion.

“Come on, Y/N. It’s only been a week since you ‘quit.’ Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten everything I taught you. That’d hurt my feelings.”

The words stunned you into silence. You gripped the table tighter, grounding yourself against the surreal weight of his implication. “Wait… you want me to work on Commission stuff? With you?”

“Well, might as well put those smarts to good use. I’ve got a backlog, and you’ve always been so good at keeping me on track.” He leaned back, propping his cheek lazily in his hand.

Your head spun, a tangled mess of resentment, confusion, and something dangerously close to relief. He still wanted your input? After everything?

You swallowed hard, torn between conflicting emotions.

As much as you didn’t want to spend another second tethered to Hawks’ orbit, after a week of nothing but reading rejection emails and wallowing, you craved some semblance of normalcy—some mental stimulation, even if your brain currently felt like putty.

“Um… yeah. Okay,” you murmured, hesitant but unable to hide the flicker of curiosity creeping into your voice.

Hawks’ grin spread like wildfire, his satisfaction palpable. “That’s my girl. Now, let’s move you over.”

“What do you—”

The question barely left your lips before Hawks swooped in, effortlessly scooping you into his arms.

At least this time, he carried you bridal-style instead of tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Still, your immediate reaction was a startled yelp.

“I want to walk!” you protested, squirming weakly in his hold.

“Nope. Not happening. Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not about to risk you face-planting just to spare your pride.”

Your cheeks flamed with indignation, and you glared up at him. “I’m not that weak.”

“Uh-huh,” he snorted as he adjusted you in his arms. “And I’m not that reckless. So let’s compromise—you stay put, and I keep you from cracking your pretty head open. Sound good?”

You grumbled a string of obscenities under your breath but stilled, resigning yourself to the humiliation. It was fine. You needed rest. The sooner you recovered, the sooner Hawks would leave.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

The mantra of just get better, just get better did little to stop the flush of embarrassment that burned through you with each step Hawks took, cradling you like a fragile doll. The humiliation only deepened when he finally reached the couch and—of course—took his sweet time settling you down.

His hands lingered far too long, brushing against your bare thighs as he nestled you into the cushions with obsessive precision.

“Do you mind?” you hissed lowly.

“Not one bit,” Hawks chirped, entirely unbothered. His hands withdrew, but not before a deliberate stroke over your knee, as if savouring your discomfort. “Just making sure you’re nice and comfy.”

Your jaw tightened as a fresh wave of anger swelled in your chest, but it collided with the exhaustion dragging you down like quicksand. The room spun faintly, your limbs feeling like they were made of lead.

God, you were tired—so tired. Everything around you felt disjointed, as if viewed through frosted glass. Even your emotions, raw and frayed, struggled to find solid footing.

You barely reacted when Hawks placed a steaming mug of tea in your hands, the ceramic warm against your palms.

“Drink up—I know how much you love this stuff,” he said conversationally, like this was some kind of cozy date. “I’ve always been more of a coffee guy. Keeps me sharp. Can’t say no to that kick.”

He plopped down beside you, his laptop perched casually on his lap. His body language was so relaxed, so at home, it made your teeth ache.

“Figures you’d be a coffee lover. Freakin’ workaholic,” you slurred, forcing out the words through the haze clouding your thoughts.

Hawks chuckled, the sound soft and rich. “What can I say? Gotta stay one step ahead.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, irritation flickering like a weak ember. But your energy fizzled before you could fan it into anything more.

Instead, you brought the mug to your lips, blowing on the surface before taking a cautious sip. The tea was familiar, its unique flavour warming your throat as it trickled down.

Wait…

This was the same tea as before—yesterday? Three days ago? Who could even tell anymore?

A quiet hum of appreciation escaped you despite yourself. The warmth settled in your chest, soothing in a way that felt almost cruel given the circumstances.

“That good, huh?”

Hawks’ voice was low, warm, and far too close. You turned your head, startled, only to find his face mere inches from yours.

His golden eyes bore into yours with a softness that stole your breath, an intimacy that felt far too personal. His gaze held you captive, and for a moment, you couldn’t look away.

“Uh-huh,” you managed shakily. Too tired. Too dizzy. Too… cozy.

Hawks’ lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, and he cocked his head as if studying you, as if you were something precious. “You know, Y/N, you’re starting to look like you need another nap,” he murmured. “Guess you’re not feeling as well as you thought, huh?”

You blinked sluggishly, his words swimming through the fog in your mind. Nap? No, that wasn’t right. You wanted to stay awake, to help him. That was the deal.

“Wait,” you mumbled, the words heavy on your tongue. “I can help… wanna help with the Commission stuff…”

Your words trailed off, your eyelids drooping as the tea’s warmth seeped deeper into your body like a weighted blanket.

“You’re so cute,” Hawks murmured, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “But don’t worry about all that right now. There’ll be plenty of time to play sidekick when you’re better.”

The word sidekick stirred something bittersweet in your chest, a flutter you couldn’t suppress no matter how hard you tried.

You wanted to argue, to insist you were fine, but your head lolled against the couch cushion. Each passing second drained what little energy you had left.

Before you knew it, Hawks’ hands were on you again, easing you down gently. Your head came to rest on his lap, firm and unexpectedly solid.

Huh. I thought it’d be bony—like a chicken.

His fingers carded through your hair, the repetitive motion almost hypnotic. Despite yourself, you relaxed into the pool of heat radiating from his thighs.

“You’re so quiet now,” Hawks mumbled, his voice a low hum that vibrated through you. “I like you like this—peaceful. Happy.”

A weak sound slipped from your throat, half protest, half resignation. You wanted to fight, to pull away, but your body refused to cooperate. The jaws of fatigue pinned you in place, and his touch—dammit, his touch—felt good in a way that made shame coil tight in your chest.

“Shhh,” he cooed, his lips brushing against your temple. The intimacy of the gesture sent a jolt of panic skittering through you, but all you could muster was a feeble whimper. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

He pressed another kiss, this time to the shell of your ear, his breath warm and far too close.

“Do you feel it?” Hawks whispered, his hand sliding down, grazing the curve of your neck before settling on your shoulder. His fingers brushed slow, deliberate circles into your skin. “How much better it is when you don’t fight me? When you just let me take care of you?”

Your breath caught, a cold shiver racing down your spine. Every fiber of your being screamed to lash out, to shout—but the fog was too thick, the lethargy too overwhelming. Even your anger felt muted, buried under layers of exhaustion and despair.

“It’s okay,” Hawks hummed, his voice soothing, insidious.

The words wrapped around you like a vice, sinking deep into your bones. His hand drifted back up, cradling your cheek with a gentleness that felt mocking, his thumb brushing against your fevered skin.

“I promise,” he hushed, his lips ghosting over your forehead in a feather-light kiss. “This won’t last forever. You’ll thank me when it’s all over.”

Your eyelids fluttered shut, his voice and warmth dragging you down into the darkness, deeper and deeper.

Chapter Text

The wall of backs stretched endlessly before you, a sea of turned shoulders retreating further and further beyond your reach.

You knew this place—your hometown.

Even after all these years, its features were etched into your mind like an old photograph. The familiar fields stretched wide and unbroken, disappearing into a blurry, indistinct sky.

It was both horrible and beautiful.

Every figure turned away from you was someone you knew. Friends, acquaintances, lovers, ghosts of connections both cherished and fractured. Each back was a quiet condemnation, a reminder of the reasons they had left—some because of you, some despite you.

You tried not to look too long at the shapes of your parents among them. Their backs had been turned for as long as you could remember.

Maybe they always had been.

Closer to you, Daisuke stood apart from the crowd, a faint figure painted with sharper edges. His back wasn’t as distant as the others, but the weight of its direction still felt the same—heavy, inevitable.

He was close enough to reach, yet impossibly far.

The ache in your chest grew sharper. You wanted to call out, to demand that he turn around, but the words stayed lodged in your throat. Your feet felt rooted to the ground, stuck in the soft soil of memory and regret.

The sky blurred further, the horizon smearing into streaks of colour. Still, you stared after Daisuke, the closest of them all, willing him to stop—to turn. But he didn’t.

None of them did.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?”

His voice was silky, almost tender, but you didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, you kept your eyes fixed on Daisuke’s retreating form.

“What does?” you whispered.

“Not having a home—a real one,” he replied. “People who love you enough to let you be selfish for once.”

His hand hovered close to yours, a breath away, as though asking for permission he didn’t need. When you didn’t respond, didn’t pull away, he closed the gap, his fingers curling around yours. The grip was firm - comforting and terrifying all at once.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I know what that feels like,” he continued, like a thread drawing you closer to something you didn’t want to face. “To want something so badly it hurts, but never feeling like you’re allowed to reach for it.”

When you didn’t reply, his fingers tightened around yours, the pressure just shy of painful. “You don’t have to look at me,” he said, soft but insistent. “But you can’t ignore this forever. You’ll see—you’ll understand.”

You weren’t sure you wanted to understand.

Living with Hawks was, to put it lightly, strange.

Of course, you had expected some level of weirdness—after all, the man had spent the better part of half a year proving himself to be an enigma.

Too clever, too powerful, too relentless.

Hawks thrived on unpredictability as though it were woven into his DNA. But you had thought—naively, perhaps—that you understood him, or at least enough to anticipate his next moves.

Turns out, you couldn’t have been more wrong.

You had braced yourself for the worst. Somewhere in the feverish haze of your scattered thoughts, you’d expected him to take advantage of the situation—to exploit your weakness, to finally claim you in a way there was no coming back from.

After all, wasn’t that what he was after?

But as usual, Hawks had surprised you.

Instead of acting on whatever unspoken tension lingered in the air, he behaved as if nothing had changed. As if you were still his diligent, loyal employee, desperate for his approval, and he was your talented, if inappropriately affectionate, boss.

It was unsettling, almost more so than the alternative.

Still, as the days blurred together in your fuzzy state, Hawks was a constant presence. He was everywhere and nowhere all at once, popping up like an apparition just as you thought you might have a moment of peace.

Attempts to reason with him, to convince him to leave, were swiftly dismantled with a pat on your head or one of his insufferable quips.

“Relax,” he’d say with that breezy smile. “You’d miss me if I left.”

And the worst part? You would start to wonder if he was right.

(How long could you realistically last in this state, alone and vulnerable?)

When Hawks left your apartment—for groceries, for clothes, or perhaps to do whatever it is ex-birdmen do in their free time—you made silent vows. The moment the door clicked shut, you would tear the place apart to find your phone (and your mysteriously vanished laptop) or drag your ailing body to the nearest hospital.

But reality always betrayed you.

Your resolve crumbled the second he was gone. Exhaustion pulled at you like an anchor in the sea, your limbs too heavy, your eyes too leaden to keep open for more than a few pitiful minutes.

By the time you woke, he was always back.

And when you opened your eyes, more often than not, he was already there, his hand stroking your hair like he was trying to soothe a restless animal. You couldn’t help but wonder if he had some kind of fixation—or worse, a fetish – on your damn hair. The thought made your skin crawl, but most of the time, you lacked the strength to swat him away.

Still, there were worse indignities to endure. The most humiliating by far were the unavoidable realities of being human—like bathroom breaks.

You hated to admit it, but without Hawks’ assistance, you might have been left to stew in your own mess. That mortifying possibility was enough to keep your protests muted, though the shame lingered like a bruise.

To his credit, Hawks maintained an eerie semblance of respect when it came to those moments.

He would carry you to the bathroom with ease, set you down gently, and then step back, hovering just outside the door. His only lingering touch was a quick, almost casual pat on your lower back before retreating to give you privacy.

It was a small mercy, proof that he hadn’t gone entirely off the rails. Not yet. But the line between helpful and invasive was becoming thinner with each passing day.

Case in point: his growing eagerness to share your bed.

At first, Hawks claimed the couch as his base of operations. He had even helped himself to your spare linens, folding them neatly over the cushions like he was playing the role of the perfect houseguest. His work laptop and a pile of documents sprawled across the coffee table served as visual proof of his attempt to balance ‘caretaking’ with his job as Hero Commission president.

And for the first few days, you had begrudgingly accepted this arrangement.

But as the one-week milestone passed—one week of being a prisoner in your own body—his behaviour began to shift.

Slowly. Subtly.

Adjusting your pillows. Fluffing your blankets. Hovering during your bedtime routine to remind you to hydrate or urging you to take another sip of tea.

Annoying but practical.

Until it wasn’t.

His hand began to linger on your shoulder after tucking you in. His gaze burned a little too long as he stood at the foot of your bed. There was something in the air, something suffocating about his presence.

And then, one night, he simply didn’t leave.

“It’s just easier this way,” Hawks said casually, slipping under the covers like it was the most natural thing in the world. “In case you need something in the middle of the night.”

You nearly choked.

“Wh-no! Absolutely not!” you sputtered, pushing at his torso weakly.

He didn’t even flinch. Instead, he draped an arm lazily over your midsection, the weight of it foreign but, much to your horror, not entirely unpleasant. “Don’t be rude,” he murmured. “That couch is a death trap for my back, and this is the only bed in the apartment. Think of it like a sleepover.”

“A sleepover?” you hissed, your face heating as you tried to squirm away from the warmth of his body pressing into yours. His hold tightened just enough to keep you still, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “If your back hurts so much, go sleep in your own apartment.”

“Aw, come on. What if I get lonely? Plus”—he shifted closer, his warmth seeping into you—“your bed smells nicer than mine.”

You groaned, exasperated. “That’s because it’s my bed. Go home.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you knew they were hollow. Somewhere between losing your job and being violently, miserably sick, your resolve had weakened.

“You know I can’t leave you like this,” Hawks sighed, his tone softening to something almost tender. “Not when you’re still recovering. Just let me stay—no funny business, promise.”

The voice of suspicion whispered in your ear, but exhaustion drowned it out.

You were so, so tired.

Bone-deep fatigue dragged at you, making it almost impossible to argue back.

You wanted to fight. You wanted to tell him to get the hell out, to reclaim the shrinking space that still felt like yours. But your limbs wouldn’t cooperate, and the words on your tongue felt distant, as though they belonged to someone else.

Still, you managed a weak hiss, your voice barely a shadow of your usual fire. “If I feel anything poking into me tonight, I swear I’m gonna rip it off.”

The sound of his chuckle sent an unwelcome ripple through your core. It wasn’t fair, how it curled around you like a warm breeze, softening the edges of your anger.

“Trust me, Y/N,” Hawks purred, his voice far too close, far too intimate. “You won’t feel anything.”

His words slipped past your defences, wrapping around your drowsy mind like silk. Somewhere, buried beneath the fog, the rational part of you was screaming. But the rest of you was too drained to listen. Your muscles softened against the mattress, your body surrendering to the pull of sleep even as your thoughts churned sluggishly.

Why was he still here? Why did you let him stay?

You told yourself it was the exhaustion, the fever, the lingering kiss of sickness that dulled your protests.

But part of you knew better.

Part of you felt the twisted comfort in his presence—the steady warmth of his body against your back, the low rhythm of his breathing lulling you into a daze.

It wasn’t right. None of this was right. And yet, the fight in you flickered like a candle’s last gasp before it went out.

As your eyelids fluttered shut, you thought you felt his fingers graze your hip, feather-light but purposeful. Or maybe it was just the flu playing tricks on you. The line between reality and the fog was blurring, slipping further and further from your grasp.

And just like that, the battle ended—not with a roar, but with a sigh.

You didn’t even realize you’d already lost.

When you stirred in the early hours of the morning, the room was shrouded in that peculiar, pre-dawn dimness where the world felt suspended in a muted grey. The air was heavy, thick with silence, wrapping around you like a fragile cocoon on the verge of tearing.

The quiet was broken by the soft rustling of sheets beside you.

Hawks was still there.

His arm was draped snugly around your waist, the plane of his hand positioned possessively across your hip. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of your pyjamas, leaving your skin tingling in its wake. His breath came in steady, rhythmic puffs against the nape of your neck, each exhale soft yet overwhelming, stirring the wisps of hair clinging to your damp skin.

His chest was flush against your back, a wall of heat that pinned you in place. His knee nudged further between your legs, settling against the soft flesh of your inner thigh, an intrusion that felt intentional despite his slumber.

You were trapped.

In a lover’s embrace.

But this wasn’t love.

Your breath hitched as you stared at the uneven stripes of light filtering through the blinds, the creeping sunlight doing little to warm the chill that clung to you.

Your body burned, but inside, you felt hollow—brittle, like a china doll that might shatter at the slightest touch.

And yet, when his arm tightened, his finger digging into you slightly, a flicker of something dangerously close to comfort rippled through you. The sensation grounded you, even as it choked you.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, hot and unrelenting.

Before you could stop them, they spilled over, carving damp trails down your flushed cheeks. Silent at first, but then came the sobs—soft, broken sounds that felt like they belonged to someone else.

Sick. Alone. Scared.

The words etched themselves into your mind, each one cutting deeper than the last. Nothing made sense anymore—not the room, not the strange fragments of memory that floated in and out of focus, not the warmth of the man tangled around you.

Hawks stirred at the sound, his arm stiffening for a moment before pulling you even closer. His body shifted, and his breath, warm and steady, ghosted across the shell of your ear.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured groggily. “Y/N, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

His voice was soft, the concern in it so painfully genuine that it only made you cry harder. You hiccupped, the sound raw and ragged, as Hawks propped himself up on one elbow, his weight shifting above you. His free hand came up to your cheek, brushing away the tears with a gentleness that felt almost cruel.

“Talk to me. What’s going on?” he urged, his thumb trailing softly along your cheekbone.

You wanted to answer, to tell him about the gnawing ache that wasn’t just in your body but somewhere deeper, somewhere unreachable. But your throat closed around the words, and all you could manage was a weak shake of your head.

Hawks frowned, his brow furrowing in a way that made you feel even smaller. His hand moved to your forehead, resting there for a moment before brushing back the damp strands of hair sticking to your skin. “Your temperature feels fine,” he assured soothingly. “That’s good. That’s really good.”

“‘M’okay,” you rasped.

Though you both knew it was a lie.

Hawks sighed, the sound heavy with frustration or worry—or maybe both. His fingers drifted from your face to your shoulder, tracing small, absentminded circles as he studied you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “You don’t have to lie to me, Y/N. Come on, tell me what’s going on. We can figure it out together.”

Together.

Together.

“How long… till m’better?”

Hawks’ expression softened, his eyes almost pitying.

“It’s just a nasty flu,” he said quietly. “You were already pretty run-down when it hit, so your body’s just taking its time. Stress doesn’t help either, and you’ve had plenty of that lately.”

“Doesn’t feel like… the flu,” you muttered, your words slurring as the haze threatened to pull you under again.

His lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Your temperature hasn’t spiked dangerously, which is a good sign. Trust me, I’ve been keeping a close eye on it. It’s probably just a bug your body hasn’t handled before.” His voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. “You’re tough. You’ll bounce back.”

You weren’t convinced, but the energy to argue had long since left you. Instead, you latched onto the only distraction your muddled mind could grasp.

“Can I have m’phone?” you croaked.

Hawks didn’t answer immediately. Rather, he leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your brow. His lips were warm, tender in a way that made your stomach twist uncomfortably. “Still haven’t seen it,” he whispered against your skin. “But don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll keep looking while you get some rest.”

Liar.

The word burned in your mind, but before you could summon the strength to say it aloud, Hawks settled back down beside you. His arm looped around your waist once more, pulling you flush against his chest.

His hand found your ribs, his fingers tracing them possessively as he rested his chin against your shoulder.

The steady rhythm of his breathing lulled you against your will.

“No—no. I’m doing it myself,” you growled, though the sound was terribly pathetic.

Pathetic or not, you didn’t care.

Every ounce of your dwindling strength was laser-focused on batting away the hands currently trying to hoist you from the bed.

Hawks’ touch was persistent, but so was your determination. With one last desperate wiggle, you managed to slip free of his grip, only to promptly collapse backward into the mattress in an unceremonious heap.

Still, a flicker of triumph flared in your chest. You caught the soft curse that slipped past Hawks’ lips, and despite your pitiful state, it felt like a win.

Hawks let out an exaggerated sigh, dragging a hand down his face in a show of exasperation. His lips, however, betrayed him, quirking upward with the faintest trace of amusement. “Y/N,” he drawled, “this little game of yours is getting less cute by the second. It’s been a week - you need a bath.”

You glared up at him from your crumpled position, defiance burning hotter than the dwindling embers of your strength.

You were a grown woman. And he was a grown man—a man you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, was attracted to you.

Yes, you had conceded and let him share your bed. (Not because you wanted him there, of course)

But there were limits to what you’d tolerate, and you would sooner let mould flourish in your armpits than let him bathe you.

“And I will take a bath. Alone. I’m feeling better than this morning.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

You were feeling better—better enough to string together coherent sentences, at least.

Your mind had clawed its way free from the almost dreamlike state of the last few days, though your body still felt like a marionette with its strings cut.

Hawks arched an unimpressed eyebrow, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned against the bedpost. “Sure, but you can still barely hold yourself up. What happens if you fall face-first into the bathwater? That’s a pretty embarrassing thing to put on your headstone, don’t you think?”

You huffed. “I’ll take my chances! I’m not letting you be there when I’m naked.”

Hawks’ lips quirked into a smirk. “Y/N, you do realize I’ve already seen you naked, right? You were in no condition to argue about it then, and you’re barely in better shape now.”

The reminder made your skin burn hotter than the fever had. You sat up—or tried to—only to slump back against the bed with a sharp glare. “I don’t care. That was different. I wasn’t awake to tell you to get the hell out.”

“Fair point,” Hawks mused. “But I’d still prefer to avoid the whole ‘unconscious, drowning in the tub’ scenario. Unless you want me to add lifeguard to my already impressive résumé.”

You groaned, throwing your arm over your eyes to block out his infuriating expression. “Hawks, I swear—”

“Relax, sweetheart. I’m just trying to help. But if you’re dead set on doing this alone…” He let the words hang in the air, trailing off as if to give you a chance to reconsider.

“Good,” you bit out, lifting your arm just enough to meet his gaze. “Then go away.”

But Hawks didn’t budge. Instead, he crouched down, leveling his gaze with yours, and the teasing glint in his eyes dimmed slightly. “I’m serious, Y/N. You can’t afford to push yourself too hard right now. Let me be there, just in case.”

The softness in his voice caught you off guard, and for a moment, you almost believed him.

But then you remembered who you were dealing with—Hawks, the insufferable, self-assured, smug bastard who always managed to get under your skin.

(Who may or may not be holding you.. sort of prisoner in your home. Maybe?)

“No,” you said firmly, “I’ll be fine. Alone.”

He sighed dramatically, standing back up with a shrug. “Alright, alright. Have it your way. But if I hear even the smallest splash, I’m coming in. Clothes or no clothes.”

You shot him a murderous look, but he just winked, sauntering out of the room like he’d won the argument.

Even though you got what you wanted, it felt like he did win.

But there wasn’t time to dwell on it. You had a mission to accomplish.

Getting to the tub, however, turned out to be a far greater challenge than anticipated.

Each step felt heavy - as if gravity itself had doubled its hold on you. Sweat gathered at your temples and trickled down your spine, and by the time you reached the bathroom, you were practically panting.

You leaned against the wall for support, your legs trembling like you’d just crossed the Silk Road on foot.

Pathetic, you thought bitterly, wiping your damp brow. It was a humbling realization, how something as simple as walking across your apartment had reduced you to this.

Still, the small victory of leaving your bed without Hawks swooping in to ‘rescue’ you fuelled your determination. Even if every inch of progress felt like a marathon, you’d prove you could do this alone.

One step at a time.

Once the bathroom door clicked shut behind you, sealing you off from Hawks and his ever-watchful gaze, you allowed yourself to sink onto the cool tiles. Relief coursed through you as the chill seeped into your overheated skin, momentarily soothing the persistent ache in your muscles.

You stayed there for what felt like ages, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. Its uneven texture became your distraction, each tiny blemish a world of its own.

Your thoughts wandered, sluggish and disjointed, until they landed on an absurd notion: What does Hawks’ bathroom look like?

It was definitely nicer than yours—you were certain of it. Probably spotless, sleek, and obnoxiously modern, with towels that matched his feather motif. A far cry from your mismatched hand towels and perpetually leaky faucet.

The ridiculousness of the thought almost made you smile, but before you could dwell on it further, a sharp knock at the door startled you.

“Y/N?” Hawks’ voice came through, tinged with concern. “You okay in there? I don’t hear any water running.”

Panic flickered in your chest. You scrambled for a response, your brain foggy and slow. “Uh—yeah! Just… powdering my nose?”

The words left your mouth before you could think them through, and you winced. Who powders their nose before a bath?

For a second, there was silence. Then, from the other side of the door, came the unmistakable sound of a faint snort.

You resisted the urge to groan, pressing your palms against your face instead. Smooth. Real smooth.

Dragging your heavy limbs across the bathroom, you reached the tub and turned the faucet. The sound of rushing water filled the room, and you watched as it began to rise, steam dancing in the air.

For a moment, the rhythmic splash was relaxing—almost enough to drown out the nagging sensation prickling at the back of your neck.

Hawks hadn’t said anything else, but you couldn’t shake the feeling he was still there. Just beyond the door.

Listening. Watching.

A shiver rolled down your spine, though it had nothing to do with the sickness still burning low in your veins. The thought made your stomach churn.

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head as though you could exorcise the thought.

No. Don’t let him ruin this.

Refusing to let Hawks’ lurking presence rob you of a moment’s peace, you stripped off your clothes, peeling the damp fabric from your clammy skin. Each movement was slow, deliberate, as though shedding the layers could rid you of the sticky discomfort that had taken root in your body—and mind.

The sound of the faucet drowned out everything else, its steady cadence grounding you as you stepped closer to the tub.

For the first time in days, you allowed yourself to imagine what it might feel like to unwind, even if only for a few fleeting moments. And as you finally sank into the warm, soothing embrace of the bathwater, a low, unbidden moan of bliss escaped your lips.

God, this was heaven.

The heat seeped into your aching muscles, melting away the tension that had been holding your body hostage. Your head lolled back against the cool edge of the tub, a contrast that only heightened the euphoria spreading through you. For a moment, the fever and exhaustion that had clouded your every thought were a distant memory.

You wanted to track down whoever invented baths and propose marriage, even if they were long dead.

(Though Hawks probably wouldn’t allow it, you thought bitterly. He’d find a way to argue with a ghost. And win)

You stayed in the bath for what felt like an eternity, scrubbing away the days of filth, lathering soap over your skin until you felt like a human again—or at least something close to it.

Eventually, you gave up even pretending to be productive and simply sank into the water, letting it cradle you for what felt like hours.

The bathwater turned cool, and your skin pruned, the sharp edge of relaxation giving way to a subtle ache. But you didn’t care. If it meant extending this rare moment of solitude, you would have stayed forever.

That fragile peace shattered with the soft groan of hinges. The door creaked open.

Your heart lurched as your head snapped toward the sound. Water sloshed against the sides of the tub when you spotted Hawks in the doorway, one hand on the knob, smiling breezily.

“Hawks!” you yelped, your voice high-pitched and panicked as you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, shielding yourself like some bashful ingénue caught in a scandalous novel.

He didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed locked on you, darkened in a way that sent a shudder up your back. He leaned against the doorframe, utterly unbothered by your reaction.

Those eyes— so piercing—roamed unapologetically over your form. Every curve, every dip of your frame, even the tiny imperfections, the ones you tried to ignore, seemed to hold his attention.

A weaker woman might have been flattered by the almost reverent gaze; the way he studied you like a masterpiece in a museum. But you weren’t that woman. You were stronger than that—or at least, that’s what you told yourself as you shoved down the unsettling flutter low in your abdomen.

“Lunch is ready,” Hawks all but purred. “Or – I guess breakfast, for you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, the casual motion somehow dripping with an effortless seduction that made your breath hitch despite yourself.

You swallowed hard as your stomach flipped, a frustrating mix of annoyance and… something else.

What was wrong with you?

“Did you really have to come in here to tell me that?” you snapped as you crossed your arms tighter over your chest, shielding the soft mounds of your breasts.

Hawks’ grin widened with ease. His eyes flicked, slow and teasing, to the arms concealing you, lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl—and flush.

STOP IT.

“What? It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before.” he hummed playfully

The words grated against your nerves, and the casual smirk he wore only fanned the flames of your irritation.

You clenched your fists under the water, the urge to dunk his head in the bath and hold it there growing stronger by the second.

“You really weren’t taught any manners as a kid, were you?”

The retort slipped out before you could think better of it. A careless jab, born of frustration.

But the effect was immediate.

Hawks’ expression froze, the teasing glint in his eyes extinguished in an instant. His face shuttered closed, his usual air of breezy confidence replaced by something cold and distant. It was like watching the sun disappear behind a storm cloud.

Shit.

The air between you grew taut, your breath catching as the weight of your words sank in. You’d forgotten—or perhaps conveniently ignored—the reality of his past.

Ever since his explosive battle with Dabi and the whirlwind press conference that followed, Hawks’ childhood had become public knowledge. It wasn’t something he ever chose to elaborate on—most people, to their credit, knew better than to pry.

And yet, with one careless comment, you had thrown it back in his face.

“I didn’t have much of a chance to learn,” he said quietly. There was no anger, no venom—just a quiet finality that felt even worse. His eyes shifted away from you, landing somewhere beyond the room, as though retreating into a place you couldn’t follow.

Your chest tightened with guilt. You hadn’t meant to hit a nerve, but you had, and the silence that followed was louder than any argument.

Hawks exhaled softly, straightening his posture. “Come out when you’re ready. I’ll keep your plate warm.”

“Hawks, I—” you started, your voice breaking under the apology bubbling in your throat, but he didn’t wait for you to finish.

He turned and slipped out of the bathroom, the soft click of the door closing behind him cutting through the stillness like a razor.

You stared at the door. His sudden retreat leaving you alone with your remorse and the fading warmth of the bathwater.

Donned in a nightgown that could only be described as a fashion relic from the Victorian era—or perhaps the uniform of a grandmother determined to scare off suitors—you shuffled your way to the living room.

The hem, trimmed with unnecessary frills, swished around your ankles, and the course fabric carried all the charm of a moth-eaten quilt. The high neckline and oversized sleeves practically screamed, No premarital handholding.

The outfit was no accident. It was a calculated move, a tactical choice.

Dressing in anything remotely flattering was out of the question; you weren’t about to risk Hawks drawing conclusions about your ‘feelings.’

Because this wasn’t about anything romantic. This was about apologizing for your careless comment—nothing more.

The thought made you scoff under your breath, the sound almost bitter. In hindsight, the entire endeavour was laughable.

Hawks had never apologized for anything he said, had he?

Dragging yourself from the bath to the bedroom and rifling through your clothes until you found something appropriately ugly had been no easy task.

Every motion felt like wading through thick mud, each movement draining what little energy you had left. But you had done it, forcing yourself into the drab nightgown as though it were armor against misunderstanding.

Damn your stupid, bleeding heart.

When you finally made it to the kitchen, your vision blurred slightly at the edges, and your body trembled. It felt like the entire journey had been uphill. The only thing keeping you upright was the pleasant aroma that wafted through the air—sautéed meat, caramelized vegetables, and just a hint of something spicy.

Thankfully, you had graduated from soup. And god help you, Hawks’ cooking was phenomenal.

Not that you’d ever admit it, of course. Even as your stomach growled in approval, you braced yourself against the doorway, glaring inward as if willing yourself not to be swayed by the comforting domesticity of it all.

You had a purpose, and no amount of delicious food was going to distract you from saying your piece.

Squinting against the fog of exhaustion, you scanned the room, urging your drooping eyes to stay functional for just a little longer. Where was he—oh.

Your heart sank a little when you finally spotted him. Hawks wasn’t at the table, ready to greet you with his usual charm and affection. Rather, he was perched on the couch, laptop balanced on his thighs, his fingers flying over the keys. His gaze was firmly fixed on the screen, his entire posture screaming I’m ignoring you.

Your plate sat on the dining table, steaming and untouched. Alone.

Okay. So he was sulking.

You hadn’t even known Hawks could sulk. It was almost comical, the thought of someone so effortlessly powerful retreating into brooding silence.

And yet, here he was, the very picture of avoidance.

It was jarring. Every meal since he’d arrived, Hawks had sat with you. If your arms were semi-functional, he’d let you feed yourself, though always with a faintly mocking comment about your ‘technique.’ If not, he’d insist on doing it for you, spoonful by spoonful, with a patience that bordered on infuriating.

But now? Nothing. He hadn’t even waited for you.

Not that he ever ate with you. You had told yourself it was probably because he didn’t want to risk catching whatever plague had taken up residence in your body.

(Though, considering the fact he spooned you last night, that excuse was flimsy at best)

Feeling suddenly unsure—which was ridiculous, because this was your apartment—you shuffled to the dining table and sank heavily into a chair. The wood creaked faintly beneath you as you took a few deep breaths, willing the dizziness to pass.

Behind you, the steady clack of Hawks’ typing continued, unbroken and indifferent.

Fine. This is what I wanted, you reminded yourself. Hawks keeping his distance, not hovering like some overbearing mother hen. This was good. Great, even.

If only the guilt swirling in your chest would take the hint and leave you alone, too.

With what little dignity you could scrape together, you carefully reached for the chopsticks, wrapping your trembling fingers around them. For a fleeting moment, you thought you’d managed it—until they slipped from your grasp and clattered noisily against the table.

The sound was humiliating, echoing louder in your ears than it had any right to. Your cheeks burned as you flicked your eyes toward Hawks.

No reaction. Not even a smirk. At least he wasn’t mocking you—small mercies.

(You tried to ignore the ache in your chest)

 Giving up on the task of holding the damn utensils, you propped your chin in your hand and let your eyes bore into the back of Hawks’ head.

Maybe, just maybe, you had a latent telekinetic quirk that had been dormant all these years. If you concentrated hard enough, perhaps you could ignite his hair. It was a far-fetched fantasy, but you’d take anything over the underwhelming reality of your actual quirk.

Your eyes began to sting from the sheer intensity of your glaring before you finally got a reaction.

“Do you need something?” Hawks sighed as his fingers paused mid-keystroke, though his eyes stayed glued to the screen.

You clutched at the fabric of your gloriously hideous nightgown, the slightly scratchy material grounding you as you took a deep breath. Keep it light. You didn’t want this to spiral into another awkward silence—or worse.

“Do you ever eat?”

That got his attention. He froze, his typing coming to an abrupt halt as his head tilted just slightly in your direction. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Encouraged, you sat up a little straighter.

For a moment, he said nothing, the tension stretching just long enough to make you fidget.

Then, finally, he spoke, his tone clipped but not entirely devoid of warmth. “I’ve been known to indulge from time to time,” he said evenly.

There it was—the faintest edge of teasing creeping into his voice, softening the cold front.

You let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding, the relief washing over you in waves. Encouraged, you set your jaw and nodded with newfound determination. “Come eat with me. I can’t finish this by myself.”

You nudged your untouched plate toward the centre of the table and gestured to the chair across from you.

Hawks blinked at you, his surprise momentarily breaking through the mask of indifference he’d been wearing. His eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. For a second, you almost felt smug—until his expression quickly shifted to one of suspicion.

“You wouldn’t be up to something, would you?” he asked slowly.

The corners of his mouth twitched like he was trying to suppress a smirk, as if the very idea of you scheming amused him more than it worried him.

Typical Hawks—half a step ahead, always.

Feeling cornered, you rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly, avoiding Hawks’ piercing gaze. “Ah—okay, you got me,” you admitted, forcing a chuckle that felt painfully awkward. “I guess I just wanted to… apologize for what happened in the bathroom.”

There. The words were out. Rip the bandage off and move on.

Hawks reclined back on the couch, his expression unreadable as he studied you. For a man who usually harnessed his emotions—or lack thereof—as a weapon, the way his golden eyes searched yours made your stomach flip.

“You’re apologizing? For the bathroom?” he asked after a moment.

You swallowed hard, nodding as you fidgeted in your chair. “Yeah. It was a low blow, and I shouldn’t have said it. I wasn’t thinking. I just… I’m sorry.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Hawks cocked his head, his messy hair catching the soft glow of the overhead light, and a slow smile curved his lips. But it wasn’t his usual grin—it was softer, quieter.

Almost... adoring.

“Well, that’s new,” he finally said, the playful edge in his voice tempered by something warmer. “You, apologizing to me. I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

 “Don’t push it, birdbrain. I’m already regretting it.” You huffed, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction.

Hawks chuckled and for a brief moment, the air between you felt lighter. “You’re full of surprises, Y/N. But hey, I’ll take the apology. No hard feelings.”

You were horrified by the way your body seemed to melt with relief, the way your shoulders loosened, and your breathing evened out.

The realization hit like a sucker punch: in a single week of living together, Hawks had worked his way past your defences.

How had this happened? Just a few days ago, the idea of him barging into your apartment, worming his way into your life, would’ve been laughable—a nightmare scenario. But now, he was your lifeline, your only access to the things keeping you alive.

The thought made your chest tighten. How much more would you change if you didn’t recover soon? How far would you let him weave himself into your existence?

“Okay,” you whispered, turning your attention back to your plate.

You didn’t dare look up as you heard him shift, the soft creak of the couch signalling his movement. You didn’t raise your head, not even when the sound of footsteps stopped directly across from you and the chair scraped against the floor.

He was actually taking you up on your offer.

Dammit. You hadn’t thought he’d accept.

The soft rustle of fabric and the faint clink of his chopsticks drew your eyes against your better judgment.

There he was, leaning back slightly, a strand of blond hair falling lazily across his brow as he plucked a piece of chicken from your plate.

“Gotta say,” Hawks drawled, popping the bite into his mouth with a flourish. “This is the first time a girl’s invited me to lunch. You really know how to treat a guy right.”

His grin was mischievous, the corners of his lips twitching upward as he happily munched on the stolen poultry.

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing the mix of irritation and mortification bubbling up in your chest. Hawks was acting normal again, his usual blend of charm and teasing, so there was no reason for you to keep up the polite facade.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

“You’re the one who cooked it,” you muttered, glaring as his chopsticks darted toward your plate again, this time snatching a piece of carrot. “Besides, I seriously doubt that’s true. I’ve seen your fangirls. They’re practically feral, even after you retired.”

Hawks chuckled, his eyes beaming as he leaned forward, resting his chin in one hand. “Ah, you noticed, huh? Can’t blame ‘em. Guess I’ve got that ‘bad boy turned domestic’ charm working for me now.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of your skull. “More like ‘former-birdman squatting in someone else’s apartment.’ Super charming.”

He smirked, undeterred. “Hey, I’m a guest, not a squatter. Big difference.” He snagged another piece of food—this time a chunk of rice—and held it up like he was making a toast. “And for the record, fangirls or not, you’re the only one who’s had the guts to share their food with me.”

You crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes. “Because you made it. It’s just common courtesy.”

Hawks leaned back in his chair, twirling his chopsticks between his fingers with infuriating grace. “Details, details. What matters is, here we are. Sharing a meal. Making memories.” He tilted his head, his gaze flickering over you, lingering a beat too long. “Kinda sweet when you think about it, huh?”

Your stomach twisted. Was he joking? Teasing? Or was there something sharper, something deliberate beneath the playful veneer?

“Sweet’s not the word I’d use,” you muttered, doing your best to ignore the gnawing hunger in your stomach.

The tremble in your hands betrayed you, though, and as much as you hated to admit it, today was shaping up to be one of those days. The kind where even feeding yourself felt like climbing a mountain.

You loathed these days.

Hawk reclined in his chair, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Oh? What would you call it then? After that adorable little apology, practically begging me to join you, I’d say you’re just a step away from serenading me with love songs.”

Your eyes snapped to his, and you scowled. “I didn’t beg—”

“Sure you didn’t,” he cut you off smoothly, his gaze drifting down to your nightgown. His grin widened, bright and playful, but there was a glint in his eyes that sent a shiver down your spine. “And look at you! You even got dressed up for me. Gotta say, Y/N, this whole ‘chic grandma’ look really suits you.”

You flushed, glaring daggers at him. “I didn’t get dressed up for you, you narcissist,” you snapped. “This is just what I threw on.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short,” Hawks teased, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the table. “The elegance. The sophistication. The way the fabric screams, ‘I’m ready for bingo night.’ Truly, it’s a statement.”

You groaned, fighting the urge to bury your face in your hands. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not when I’m having this much fun. And hey, if you’re not gonna eat, someone’s gotta make sure this masterpiece doesn’t go to waste.”

You huffed, the combination of his mockery and your own weakness fraying your patience. “I’d eat if my hands weren’t…” You trailed off, glancing at your trembling fingers. The words felt like admitting defeat.

Hawks’ expression softened—just barely—and he slid your plate a little closer to you before picking up your chopsticks. “Guess I’ll just have to step in, huh?” His tone was light, but his movements were oddly gentle as he held up a piece of chicken, offering it to you. “Open up, sweetheart.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re getting a kick out of this. Aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted with a bright smile.

You hesitated, your pride warring with your hunger. Eventually, though, hunger won. With a sigh, you opened your mouth, and Hawks’ face softened as he slipped the food between your lips.

He hummed. “See? Not so bad, right?”

You chewed slowly, glaring at him all the while. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Hawks agreed. “But at least I’m feeding you. That’s gotta count for something.”

For a while, the two of you carried on in a not entirely uncomfortable silence. Hawks fed you bite by bite, taking his own food in between, his smile never faltering. The occasional hum of approval from him punctuated the otherwise quiet room.

Eventually, your stomach clenched, filled to the brim with the spoils of Hawks’ culinary skills.

You turned your head away from the bite he offered, shaking your head lightly. “Um—no thanks, that’s it for me.”

He cocked his head, the faintest furrow creasing his brow. “Come on, just a few more bites,” he coaxed, the chopsticks hovering stubbornly in front of your closed lips. “You need the energy.”

“Wh—no,” you protested. “I’m full.”

The change was instant, but chilling.

Hawks’ smile faltered, and for a brief moment, a shadow flickered across his face—a darkness you had tried desperately to ignore but could never fully escape. His eyes now held an edge of something sharper, something that made your stomach flip.

The fullness in your belly twisted into nausea.

“I said a few more bites,” Hawks repeated softly - a velvet thread wrapped around steel. “You haven’t had as much as I’d like you to.”

The implication in his words made your skin crawl, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a physical force. Your voice wavered, but you managed to hold your ground. “Well, I’ve had as much as I’d like to.”

For a moment, the tension hung heavy between you, his eyes locked onto yours in a silent battle of wills. Then, slowly, the shadow lifted, replaced by that practiced smirk that never quite reached his eyes.

Fake.

“Stubborn as ever,” he said lightly, though the steel in his voice lingered like the ghost of a storm. “Alright, I’ll let it slide—this time.” He pulled the chopsticks away, but not without brushing the back of his hand against your cheek as he did.

You didn’t even flinch. Not because you were okay with it, but because you were too drained, too tangled up in the strangeness of the day to muster a reaction.

“You’re not my dad,” you spat petulantly.

Hawks paused, his eyes flickering before his lips quirked into a faint smile. “I’m sure not. Because I actually care about you.”

The words hit like a spear, sharp and sudden, piercing straight through your chest. The effect was instant, visceral. “That’s… not true,” But it was true. “You don’t know anything about my family. I’ve never told you about them, and I sure as hell never posted about them online.”

Hawks smiled, his expression as calm as ever, but his face glowed with a knowing light. “I used to be a double agent, remember?” he said, his voice dropping to a near purr, like he was letting you in on some great secret. “I’m good at reading between the lines. And you, Y/N? You’re pretty much an open book.”

Your heart lurched at his words, at the way he said it like it was a fact—unchallenged, unshakeable. Like he had already dissected every fragment of your life and laid it bare before him.

“You don’t know me,” you hissed, though the defiance in your tone felt hollow even to your own ears.

“Maybe not as much as I’d like,” he admitted, his smile sharp, predatory. “But I know enough.”

It felt like the wind had been knocked from your lungs, a gut-punch of a reaction that left you reeling.

This… this wasn’t fair.

You’d just swallowed your pride and apologized for throwing his family in his face—something you hadn’t even done intentionally—and here he was, turning the tables, rubbing his assumptions in yours.

Assumptions that, infuriatingly, weren’t even wrong.

“Why do you always do this?” you snapped - your words trembling, though whether from anger or exhaustion, you couldn’t tell. “Why do you make it so hard to like you?”

His sharp smile slipped, just for a moment, replaced by something unreadable, but you were too riled up to care.

“I was trying to be friendly, Hawks. Because you’ve been looking after me—even though I never asked you to—and here you are, being an ass just because I didn’t finish my lunch!” The words tumbled out in a frustrated rush, your chest heaving with the effort it took to get them out.

He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he sighed, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, like he was carefully considering his next move. When he finally spoke, his voice was muted and calm, like he was trying to soothe a skittish animal.

“Y/N. You’re tired. You’re sick. And you’re lashing out because you don’t want to admit you need me.” he said, almost lazily, leaning back in his chair like your outburst hadn’t just rocked the room.

The condescension in his tone sent a fresh wave of heat rushing to your face—not embarrassment, but anger.

Hot, burning, righteous anger.

“That’s not true!” you hissed, fists balling at your sides. “I’m lashing out because you’re impossible to deal with! You don’t listen, you twist my words, and you—”

“And I’m the reason you’re not face-down in a hospital bed right now,” Hawks interjected smoothly, cutting through your words like a knife. His voice remained steady, frustratingly so, but there was a hardness beneath it, a quiet reminder of who held the reins in this thing.

The truth of it stung, but you refused to let it show. Stubbornly, you glared at him, your nails digging into your palms as you fought to keep your composure.

“I never asked for your help,” you repeated, each word biting with unspoken frustration.

Hawks’ smile returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You didn’t have to,” he stated with finality. “That’s what I’m here for, sweetheart. To take care of you—even when you think you don’t want me to.”

Your belly twisted at the pet name, the way he said it like a promise and a threat all at once. You swallowed hard, ignoring the burn in your throat as you forced out a retort.

“I swear, the second I get better—”

The words cut off mid-sentence, snagging painfully in your throat. You froze, your mind catching up a second too late to stop your mouth from running.

God, you’d nearly said it out loud—that you planned to pack up and disappear the moment you were well enough to do so.

Hawks’ eyes narrowed. The tension in the air thickened, stifling.

“Why don’t you finish that sentence, hm?” His voice was gentle, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of danger beneath it.

Panic rose in your chest as you scrambled for an excuse, a lifeline, anything to steer the conversation away from the landmine you’d almost stepped on.

And then, mercifully, his phone buzzed.

The sharp trill cut through the suffocating silence, and his attention shifted as he pulled it from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, his lips pressing into a thin line of annoyance. Whoever was on the other end of that call had just become your personal hero.

Clicking his tongue, Hawks gestured lazily to the untouched cup of tea in front of you. “Drink it,” he said curtly. “I need to take this.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the tension snapped. Your chest loosened, and you slumped forward in your chair, the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding rushing out in a shaky exhale.

That was dangerous. He was dangerous.

And you were an idiot for forgetting that.

“Fuck this,” you muttered under your breath, your gaze dropping to the steaming cup of tea in front of you. “And fuck you.”

With a surge of petty rebellion, you grabbed the mug and tipped it over the unfortunate pot plant sitting innocently beside you. The tea soaked into the soil, its delicate fragrance mingling with the earthy scent of damp dirt. The plant trembled slightly under the assault, its fate sealed to a slow, miserable death.

You slammed the empty cup back onto the table with a force that made your weak muscles tremble, the ache biting into your arms. You bit back a hiss of pain, unwilling to let even this small act of defiance feel like a loss.

It was stupid—especially since you actually liked that tea—but doing the exact opposite of what Hawks had instructed felt weirdly satisfying. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A flicker of control in a situation where you had so little.

Even if, deep down, you knew it was in vain.

You stared at the plant, the leaves already wilting in silent betrayal, and sighed bitterly, “Sorry, buddy. Collateral damage.”

Your moment of guilt was cut short when Hawks re-entered the room, his face drawn into a scowl of pure irritation.

For one nerve-wracking second, you froze, waiting for his sharp gaze to flick toward the empty mug or the slowly dying plant. But his annoyance, thankfully, didn’t seem directed at you.

Relief bloomed in your chest, tempered by the quick realization that he likely hadn’t noticed your little act of rebellion.

Your hands fidgeted under the table, wringing together as you waited for him to speak. Hawks always loved venting to you, after all. Whether you cared or not was entirely irrelevant to him.

“Damn useless bastards can’t survive even a week without me,” he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. The words seemed more for himself than you, his golden eyes distant as he paced toward the table.

“What bastards? What’s going on?” you asked, half-curious, half-dreading the answer.

Hawks’ gaze snapped to you, and the sharpness in his eyes softened just a fraction. “The Commission. They’re calling me in. Apparently, no one else can handle this latest mess.” he said with a scoff, running a hand through his tousled hair.

You bit your tongue, swallowing the bitter retort that threatened to spill out as memories of your own job—your dream job, the one you had lost—came flooding back.

God, if you were even half as talented or connected as Hawks, you’d be jumping at the chance to take charge, to prove yourself. And here he was, grumbling about having to leave you alone for a few hours—

Oh.

Oh.

The realization hit like a cold splash of water.

“Um—when do you have to go in?” you asked carefully, fighting to keep the flicker of eagerness from your voice.

Hawks sighed, the sound dramatic and exaggerated, as if he’d just been tasked with saving the world single-handedly. He reached out and stroked your hair absently, the gesture so casual it made your skin prickle. “Today,” he said, his tone laden with mock suffering. “Right now, actually. It’s pretty urgent.”

You suppressed the urge to lean away from his touch, focusing instead on the implication of his words. Right now. The thought sent a jolt of anticipation through your chest.

“And, uh, how long will you be gone?” you pressed, trying not to sound too invested.

Hawks finally dropped his hand from your hair, leaning back with an easy shrug. “A few hours at most,” he replied nonchalantly. “I’ll be back before you even wake up from your nap.”

You bit back a retort, your jaw tightening. Nap. He said it like sleeping the day away was your default state—as if you were some hibernating sloth rather than a human recovering from the flu.

Hawks’ eyes flicked to your empty cup, his lips curving into a smile. “Come on,” he said, standing and reaching for you, “let’s get you tucked in. You can sleep on the couch today.”

Your nerves flared with irritation, but you swallowed it down, playing along as he effortlessly scooped you into his arms. He carried you toward the sofa like it was nothing, the faint scent of his cologne invading your senses, his grip firm but annoyingly gentle.

This was good. Perfect, actually.

You let your body stay limp in his hold, masking the small flare of energy that had begun to pulse in your veins. For once, you didn’t feel the all-too-familiar tug of exhaustion clawing at you after eating.

Maybe—just maybe—you were finally getting better.

He set you down on the couch with obsessive care, arranging the pillows and tucking the blanket around you like you were some fragile artifact. His sharp eyes scanned your face, and for a moment, you thought he might see through the feigned compliance.

But then he smirked, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Be good while I’m gone,” he whispered.

You forced a small, sleepy nod, letting your eyelids droop for added effect.

Hawks lingered for a moment, his sharp gaze sweeping over you with an affection that make your body quiver.

Finally, he seemed satisfied, grabbing his coat and heading toward the door.

You kept your expression neutral, your breathing steady and slow, even as your pulse thrummed with anticipation.

The door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing like a starting pistol.

Your heart raced, adrenaline flooding your veins as your mind snapped to life.

A few hours.

It wasn’t much, but it was everything.

And it would have to be enough.