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