Keigo "Hawks" TakamiKeigo sat on the edge of his unmade bed, hoodie half-pulled over his head, staring blankly at the incoming text.
`Fatgum: Coffee shop. 1pm. You promised. Be nice. And have fun! ☕👍`
He sighed, let the hoodie fall the rest of the way, and tossed his phone onto the sheets beside him. For the millionth time that week, Fatgum had followed up on this date like it was a mission briefing. Keigo suspected it came from a good place—Taishiro’s heart was bigger than his quirk—but today, that warmth felt like a trap. A hopeful, sticky, well-intentioned trap he’d walked into because he hadn’t known how to say no to it.
He left the visor at home. No signature coat. Just the hoodie, dark jeans, and his oldest sneakers. The less effort he put in, the easier it would be to disappear.
The bell over the café door jingled with aggressive cheer. The air hit him—roasted beans, steamed milk, cinnamon—thick enough to taste. There were three people in line ahead of him, one with a laptop open and earbuds in, another with a stroller trying to wrestle a straw into a juice box. He stepped behind them, wings tucked tight.
He hated dates.
More specifically, he hated expectations. The kind of thing that clung to your shoulders the second someone said “you’ll love them.” That was what Fatgum had said. With that big, stupid, hopeful smile that made Keigo feel like an ungrateful asshole just for hesitating.
The memory played itself out while he stared at the back of the menu board.
“They’re grounded. Kind. Funny, but not in a fake way. You’ll like ’em.”
“I don’t date, Taishiro.”
“It’s not a date. It’s coffee. You could use some warmth. And not just the kind that comes in a mug.”
“That’s painfully corny.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I meant it.”
Damn it. He always meant it. Keigo’d shown up to plenty of things he hated. He could survive one coffee.
The barista greeted him with a practiced smile. “Welcome to Bean There—what can I get started for you?”
Keigo didn’t bother looking at the menu. “Coffee. Three sugars. To stay.”
He paid with crumpled bills, took the mug with a nod, and beelined for the corner booth. His wing stretched behind him with a quiet rustle as he exhaled and leaned on one elbow, chin in hand. The coffee steamed gently on the table.
He didn’t touch it.
His eyes drifted to the window. People passed by—some fast, some slow, some bundled in coats too thick for the weather. He watched them with the dull curiosity of someone who had no intention of engaging. One of the baristas restocked sugar packets nearby. Another called out a pickup order for someone who didn’t answer. Twice.
The light outside was too bright. The café music too cheerful. His hoodie felt too warm. Everything was too much.
He stared into the middle distance with the kind of expression that dared time to move slower. His feathers twitched—just once—like even they were bored.
'This was a mistake,' he thought, finally taking a drink of his cooling coffee.
Then—a shift in the air. A footfall out of rhythm with the café’s lazy beat. His instincts pricked, a silent alarm down his spine.
He didn’t straighten up. Didn’t arrange his face into something pleasant.
He just let his sharp-eyed gaze cut over, cool and assessing but on guard, to meet whoever was walking toward him as he set his mug down with a soft clink against the formica.
`Fatgum: Coffee shop. 1pm. You promised. Be nice. And have fun! ☕👍`
Have fun.The two most grating words in the language.
He sighed, let the hoodie fall the rest of the way, and tossed his phone onto the sheets beside him. For the millionth time that week, Fatgum had followed up on this date like it was a mission briefing. Keigo suspected it came from a good place—Taishiro’s heart was bigger than his quirk—but today, that warmth felt like a trap. A hopeful, sticky, well-intentioned trap he’d walked into because he hadn’t known how to say no to it.
Just coffee,he muttered, standing up and raking a hand through his hair. It only made the spikes more rebellious, like he’d just survived a minor tornado.
He left the visor at home. No signature coat. Just the hoodie, dark jeans, and his oldest sneakers. The less effort he put in, the easier it would be to disappear.
The bell over the café door jingled with aggressive cheer. The air hit him—roasted beans, steamed milk, cinnamon—thick enough to taste. There were three people in line ahead of him, one with a laptop open and earbuds in, another with a stroller trying to wrestle a straw into a juice box. He stepped behind them, wings tucked tight.
He hated dates.
More specifically, he hated expectations. The kind of thing that clung to your shoulders the second someone said “you’ll love them.” That was what Fatgum had said. With that big, stupid, hopeful smile that made Keigo feel like an ungrateful asshole just for hesitating.
The memory played itself out while he stared at the back of the menu board.
“They’re grounded. Kind. Funny, but not in a fake way. You’ll like ’em.”
“I don’t date, Taishiro.”
“It’s not a date. It’s coffee. You could use some warmth. And not just the kind that comes in a mug.”
“That’s painfully corny.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I meant it.”
Damn it. He always meant it. Keigo’d shown up to plenty of things he hated. He could survive one coffee.
The barista greeted him with a practiced smile. “Welcome to Bean There—what can I get started for you?”
Keigo didn’t bother looking at the menu. “Coffee. Three sugars. To stay.”
He paid with crumpled bills, took the mug with a nod, and beelined for the corner booth. His wing stretched behind him with a quiet rustle as he exhaled and leaned on one elbow, chin in hand. The coffee steamed gently on the table.
He didn’t touch it.
His eyes drifted to the window. People passed by—some fast, some slow, some bundled in coats too thick for the weather. He watched them with the dull curiosity of someone who had no intention of engaging. One of the baristas restocked sugar packets nearby. Another called out a pickup order for someone who didn’t answer. Twice.
The light outside was too bright. The café music too cheerful. His hoodie felt too warm. Everything was too much.
He stared into the middle distance with the kind of expression that dared time to move slower. His feathers twitched—just once—like even they were bored.
'This was a mistake,' he thought, finally taking a drink of his cooling coffee.
Then—a shift in the air. A footfall out of rhythm with the café’s lazy beat. His instincts pricked, a silent alarm down his spine.
He didn’t straighten up. Didn’t arrange his face into something pleasant.
He just let his sharp-eyed gaze cut over, cool and assessing but on guard, to meet whoever was walking toward him as he set his mug down with a soft clink against the formica.
You’re late,he said, though he hadn’t actually checked the time. The accusation was flat, a challenge masquerading as small talk.
That's promising.
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