Summary: Keigo comes home — scarred, quieter, and still burning with everything he wanted to say. You welcome him back with open arms and a heavy heart, relearning the shape of him in the dark. It's not just about touch, or sex, or memory. It's about holding on. About what love means when it endures the worst and still chooses to stay.
The apartment was quieter than usual.
You had stopped expecting his key in the lock weeks ago, though part of you still stirred at every sound in the hallway. Sometimes it felt silly — waiting for someone who never stayed still. But loving Keigo meant learning to live with the echoes. With silence.
You were folding laundry when the door finally opened.
Keys rattled. Boots stepped in. And then —
“Hey, birdbrain’s back. Hope you didn’t replace me with a cat.”
You turned. The breath caught in your throat.
Hair shorter — jagged like it had been hacked off in a rush. The thick sweep of feathers on his back now replaced by a pair of growing, juvenile wings, still red but smaller. And the right side of his face was marked with a fresh burn — angry, rough, puckered from cheekbone to jaw. He hadn't even tried to cover it.
Still that same golden amber. Still warm when they found yours.
He dropped his bag without a word and crossed the room. You barely had time to react before his arms were around you — strong, insistent, trembling just a little. He buried his face in the curve of your neck and exhaled like it was the first time he could breathe in months.
“I missed you,” he said, voice low and muffled. “So damn much.”
You didn’t say anything — just held him tighter.
Thirty minutes later, he emerged from the bedroom in his usual hoodie and jeans, damp hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck. His voice was lighter now, putting on that easy charm he wore like a shield.
“You ready? We’ve got a date to catch.”
Keigo grinned — tired around the edges, but sincere. “Yeah. Subway, street food, maybe a view if I can find one that isn’t blocked by ads for All Might’s new perfume line.”
You smiled, small and stunned. “You sure you’re up for that?”
He leaned in, brushing your forehead with a feather-light kiss. “Babe, I’m starved. For takoyaki and for you.”
The Tokyo metro was packed, even this late in the evening. You moved together like a single unit — his hand on your back, yours curled into his sleeve. He wore a baseball cap low over his face, but he wasn’t trying that hard to hide. Maybe he was too tired.
You both squeezed into the next car. The train rocked as it pulled off, and Keigo caught the pole with one hand while gently steering you toward the last empty seat.
You did so, looking up at him.
The overhead lights were harsh, but even in that pale glow, he looked beautiful. Battle-worn, yes — scarred and rough and thinner than you remembered — but beautiful. There was fondness in his eyes when they met yours, and a kind of aching peace, like he was trying to memorize you all over again.
“You’re staring,” he murmured, grinning crookedly.
“I burned half of it off. It was a dramatic new look.”
He softened. “I’m here. That’s what matters, right?”
You reached up and laced your fingers through his.
Dinner was at a little vendor stall in the park — greasy noodles, takoyakis, and milk tea in paper cups. He sat beside you on the bench like he hadn’t been gone for months, like he hadn't almost disappeared.
He talked about random things. The weather. A dog he saw in the station wearing sunglasses. How apparently pigeons hated his regrowing wings — “jealous little bastards,” he muttered.
You laughed, because he made it easy.
And then later, when you walked home in the dark and his fingers brushed yours again and again until you finally just held his hand, he exhaled like he’d been holding it in for weeks.
Back home, the silence returned. Softer now. Familiar.
He toed off his shoes and leaned against the wall by the door, staring around like it was the first time he was seeing the place. You came up beside him, and he didn’t say anything.
Your hand reached for his, and he broke.
Not loudly. Not with tears.
But with a quiet surrender, leaning his forehead against yours, fingers trembling where they curled around your hip. His voice cracked as he whispered, “I thought I’d die out there. And all I could think was how I never said goodbye. I didn’t even clean the coffee machine.”
You laughed wetly, your hands on his cheeks — thumb brushing the edge of the scar.
“You don’t have to say anything. You’re home.”
And for the first time in months, he let the silence hold him too. Full of all the things he hadn’t said. And all the nights you’d slept alone. All the mornings you’d woken cold. All the fear of not knowing if he’d ever come home again.
When he finally turned to face you, the soft light caught the edge of his burn scar — pink and raw down his cheek. His eyes looked tired. And yet—
A real one, barely there, just for you.
“I dreamed of this place,” he murmured. “But I didn’t let myself dream of you. That hurt too much.”
Your heart broke at the honesty. You reached out, cupping the uninjured side of his face, and he leaned into your touch like he’d been starved for it.
Then, without a word, Keigo pulled you into him again.
His mouth found yours — hungry. Not rushed, but aching. A kiss that said I missed you. I need you. I'm still here.
His hands slid around your waist, firm and steady. Yours found the back of his neck, the soft crop of new hair there, the tremble in his shoulders.
“I missed you so fucking bad, baby bird,” he whispered, his voice rough. “You don’t know how long I’ve been holding this in.”
He kissed you again, deeper — his tongue brushing yours, his hands wandering lower, grounding himself in the feel of your body against his.
His forehead rested against yours, breath shallow.
“I don’t want to scare you,” he said. “I’m not the same. After what happened… I almost didn’t make it.”
You knew what he meant. You’d watched the news. The fire. Dabi. The coma.
“Keigo,” you whispered, “you came home. That’s all that matters.”
His eyes closed. Then opened again, golden and burning.
“Take me to bed,” he said.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
His lips brushed your ear. “I need to feel alive again. Need to be close to you. Let me have you.”
He kissed you like he meant it — all tongue and teeth, hand gripping your hip as he actually was the one who ended up guiding you backwards into the bedroom.
His pillow still smelled like him, faintly. You’d washed the sheets more out of ritual than habit. Still made the bed each morning.
He stared at it now. Swallowed.
Then he looked at you again, and something hungry passed through his expression.
“Clothes off,” he murmured, voice low. Commanding, but not cold. “I want to see all of you. Missed this more than flying.”
You obeyed — slowly, letting your shirt fall to the floor. Then your pants. The look in his eyes only darkened with each inch of skin.
He shrugged off his hoodie, then his shirt — revealing the long burn that tracked across his ribs. Scars laced his skin now: pale slashes and healed-over bruises painted in dull violets and golds, like constellations carved into muscle. His chest was strong and broad, built from years of battle and burden — but there was still that softness around the edges when he looked at you. His waist tapered narrow, defined and lean, the golden trail of hair beneath his navel guiding your eyes lower, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.
You stepped close and ran your fingers down his sternum, feeling the shape of him — warm skin over hardened muscle, smooth in some places, raised in others. The burn scar along his ribs made him flinch slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Your fingers brushed the faint, natural markings beneath his eyes — those dark, bird-like shadows that had always reminded you of what he was: something wild, something winged. Beautiful.
He stepped even closer, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made you ache.
“You’ve been sleeping here alone?” he asked.
His jaw clenched. “Not tonight.”
He kissed you again, slower this time. Savoring. His hands explored you with reverence, his mouth dragging down your neck, nipping softly at your pulse.
“Lie down for me, baby bird,” he whispered. “Let me show you how much I missed you.”
You did — lying back on the cool sheets as he climbed over you, straddling your hips. His thighs caged you in, powerful and steady. You reached up to touch him again — the smooth lines of his arms, the slope of his shoulders, the faint indentations of muscle along his abdomen. He was warm everywhere. Real. Yours.
He kissed down your chest, tongue hot and slick over your skin. When he reached between your legs, he looked up at you — eyes dark with desire, lashes long, the bird-like marks under his eyes deepening in shadow.
“You still want this?” he asked, voice a whisper now. “You want me?”
“God, yes,” you breathed. “Please.”
But he leaned up again, mouth back on your chest as his fingers slid lower — slow, teasing circles that made your thighs tremble.
“I lied before — I dreamed of touching you,” he whispered between kisses. “Woke up aching. Couldn’t breathe — and not just ‘cause of the mask.”
You let out a soft laugh, breathless.
His fingers found your slick heat, and he groaned at the feel of you. “Fuck, baby bird. Missed how sweet you are.”
He took his time opening you — fingers curling just right, thumb brushing where you needed it most. You reached for him, desperate to touch, but he caught your wrists gently and pinned them above your head.
“Patience,” he whispered, grinning. “I’ve been waiting months. You can give me a few minutes to appreciate my favorite view.”
When you were trembling under his hand, he leaned down again, voice hoarse with want.
“Let me ride you,” he murmured. “I want to feel you — every inch. I need it, baby.”
You nodded, breath caught.
Keigo stripped the rest of his clothes, and you drank in the sight of him — every inch of golden skin and lean muscle, every bruise and scar and healed-over wound. The way his body flexed and moved, how the curve of his waist met the strength of his thighs. He was all contrast: graceful and brutal, soft lips and hard edges. He knelt over you like a man who’d fought gods and lived to see you again.
He guided you into him with slow, careful grace, a soft sound catching in his throat as he sank down fully. The heat of him, the tight grip, the way his head dropped against your shoulder — it overwhelmed you both.
“Fuck,” he moaned, hips starting to move, slow and desperate. “You feel like home.”
Your hands tangled in his thick hair, nails digging into the strong lines of his back as he rocked into you, chasing rhythm and release.
“I’ve got you,” he groaned. “I’ve got you, baby bird.”
You came first — trembling, gasping, grounding yourself in the warmth of his body and the sound of his voice.
He followed not long after, burying his face in your neck as he came with a soft cry, trembling around you.
Later, you lay tangled together — his arm draped protectively over your waist, one small wing curled gently around your shoulder like a blanket.
He traced small circles on your hip with his thumb.
“I don’t want to do this alone anymore,” he said. “The hero thing. The pain. The masks — literal and otherwise.”
“You’re not alone,” you whispered. “Not ever again.”
“Promise me something,” he said softly.
“If I ever don’t come home… don’t wait.”
“I need you to live, my love. Even if I can’t.”
You turned to face him. Your hand cradled his cheek — thumb brushing the black lines under his eyes, the quiet grief written in them.
“I’ll wait as long as it takes. And you will come back. You just did.”
He kissed you again. This time, softer. Sadder.
But there was hope in it too.
“I’m gonna keep being the hero,” he said quietly, pressing his forehead to yours. “Because I still believe in the world I want to leave behind. Somewhere safe for you.”
“But I swear,” he murmured, voice barely a whisper now, “no matter what… I’ll always find my way back to you.”
