Keigo "Hawks" TakamiThe soft rustle of feathers was the only sound in the room until the front door clicked shut.
Keigo didn’t get up.
He stayed where he was—half-sunk into the couch, wings draped in a luxurious, possessive sprawl behind him, one ankle propped lazily on his opposite knee. The glow from the city outside painted soft lines across the floor, and the only thing brighter was the grin tugging at his mouth as he looked up, gold eyes catching in the low light.
“Hey there, babybird,” he called, voice a low, honeyed rumble—casual, but with a weight to it that suggested he’d been counting the minutes. He lifted his hand. In it: his black card. Held between two fingers with the same effortless, deadly precision as one of his primary feathers.
“Took the liberty of ordering us some dinner. Should be here in… twenty, give or take.” He gave a small, one-shouldered shrug, then tapped the card once, tap-tap, against his thigh. The sound was soft but deliberate in the quiet. “Thought we could make a proper night of it.”
His smile deepened, a sly, knowing thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You. Me. This little piece of plastic here… and my laptop.” He let the words hang, a feather-light pause, before delivering the point with a slow, deliberate blink. “We’re going shopping. For you.”
He leaned back, sinking further into the cushions, his head tilting just so. His gaze was warm, unwavering, drinking in the expected reaction with the quiet satisfaction of a predator who’d already secured his prize. He didn't need to ask if the idea was welcome—his entire posture radiated a cocky assurance.
“Why?” he echoed, as if the question was both adorable and absurd. He pretended to ponder for a theatrical half-second, a single crimson primary giving a faint, dismissive twitch.
Another fluid shrug, all loose-limbed grace. “Just because I can.”
He didn’t elaborate. The reason, in his mind, was self-evident. His wings shifted subtly, the great crimson mass on one side curving inward, creating a suggestion of an intimate, sheltered space beside him. The card performed a slow, mesmerizing pirouette between his deft fingers.
His hand lowered then, coming to rest on his thigh, the card now tapping a soft, idle rhythm against the fabric.
“C’mon now,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, velvet tone, rich with fond amusement. “What’s the point of having the damn thing if I don’t get to use it on what really matters?”
The grin returned, lazy and infinitely self-assured.
“Like spoilin’ you.”
The tapping stilled. His eyes, however, held a glint of playful challenge, every word a gentle, irresistible dare wrapped in affection.
“So…” A slow, knowing smile spread across his face, all lazy confidence and promised indulgence. “Whadya say?” He held his free hand out, palm up, a silent, inviting pull to come close, to sink into the couch beside him and into his plan. “C’mon… humor me.”
Keigo didn’t get up.
He stayed where he was—half-sunk into the couch, wings draped in a luxurious, possessive sprawl behind him, one ankle propped lazily on his opposite knee. The glow from the city outside painted soft lines across the floor, and the only thing brighter was the grin tugging at his mouth as he looked up, gold eyes catching in the low light.
“Hey there, babybird,” he called, voice a low, honeyed rumble—casual, but with a weight to it that suggested he’d been counting the minutes. He lifted his hand. In it: his black card. Held between two fingers with the same effortless, deadly precision as one of his primary feathers.
“Took the liberty of ordering us some dinner. Should be here in… twenty, give or take.” He gave a small, one-shouldered shrug, then tapped the card once, tap-tap, against his thigh. The sound was soft but deliberate in the quiet. “Thought we could make a proper night of it.”
His smile deepened, a sly, knowing thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You. Me. This little piece of plastic here… and my laptop.” He let the words hang, a feather-light pause, before delivering the point with a slow, deliberate blink. “We’re going shopping. For you.”
He leaned back, sinking further into the cushions, his head tilting just so. His gaze was warm, unwavering, drinking in the expected reaction with the quiet satisfaction of a predator who’d already secured his prize. He didn't need to ask if the idea was welcome—his entire posture radiated a cocky assurance.
“Why?” he echoed, as if the question was both adorable and absurd. He pretended to ponder for a theatrical half-second, a single crimson primary giving a faint, dismissive twitch.
Another fluid shrug, all loose-limbed grace. “Just because I can.”
He didn’t elaborate. The reason, in his mind, was self-evident. His wings shifted subtly, the great crimson mass on one side curving inward, creating a suggestion of an intimate, sheltered space beside him. The card performed a slow, mesmerizing pirouette between his deft fingers.
His hand lowered then, coming to rest on his thigh, the card now tapping a soft, idle rhythm against the fabric.
“C’mon now,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, velvet tone, rich with fond amusement. “What’s the point of having the damn thing if I don’t get to use it on what really matters?”
The grin returned, lazy and infinitely self-assured.
“Like spoilin’ you.”
The tapping stilled. His eyes, however, held a glint of playful challenge, every word a gentle, irresistible dare wrapped in affection.
“So…” A slow, knowing smile spread across his face, all lazy confidence and promised indulgence. “Whadya say?” He held his free hand out, palm up, a silent, inviting pull to come close, to sink into the couch beside him and into his plan. “C’mon… humor me.”
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