Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
Himari Midoriya was a woman of many contrasts: a kind heart wrapped in a bubbly exterior, a fierce loyalty often betrayed by a neurotic mind. And right now, that neurotic mind was winning.
The scene on her television played on a torturous loop—a green-haired boy, her boy, launching himself into a monstrous sludge villain. On the fourth replay, the horror hadn't faded; it had curdled into a cold, sharp fear in her chest.
Unconscious of her own power, thin tendrils of smoke began to curl from her lips with each ragged breath. She paced her living room, a caged flame, her footsteps muffled by the rug. A small, uncontrolled flare of fire sparked from behind her lips. Her apartment was filling with the scent of ozone and panic, the visual proof of her quirk reacting to the turmoil within.
She told herself she would calm down before doing anything, but her phone was in her hand and ringing before the thought had fully formed.
Izuku picked on the second ring.
“H-hello?”
“ZUZU.” Himari practically shouted into the receiver. “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?”
There was a flustered squeak on the other end. “H-Hiichan?”
“No, don’t you Hiichan me! I just watched you on the news, Izuku! You—you jumped into a villain attack! Does Aunt Inko know about this? You’re a kid, Zuzu! Never mind the fact you’re quirkless!” She continued to pace, heart pounding. “Do you have any idea how badly that could’ve gone? If All Might hadn’t been in the area, if he hadn’t gotten there in time—! You and that Bakugo kid would’ve…”
She cut herself off, exhaling sharply, her voice trembling with leftover adrenaline.
“Izuku, sweetheart. I could’ve lost you.”
On the other end, Izuku was quiet—too quiet. She could practically hear him shrinking into himself. “I… I didn’t think. Kacchan was—he was scared, and— no one else was doing anything and—”
His voice cracked.
Instantly her anger melted into worry.
“Oh zuzu…” Her tone softened, her shoulders loosening. “I know. I know you were trying to help. That’s who you are.”
A pause.
Then she said, more gently. “But you scared me half to death. And I had to find out through a news broadcast.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I know you are,” She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Okay. Now that I’ve finished lecturing you—”
Her serious tone evaporated.
“OH MY GOD YOU MET ALL MIGHT!”
Izuku choked and started coughing. “W-what—Hiichan?!”
She flopped onto her couch, kicking her legs like a child. “You MET him! The All Might! Japan’s number one! The symbol of peace! I’ve been working in the Pro Hero industry for two years and not ONCE have I met him! Not once! Meanwhile my teenage cousin meets him by almost becoming sludge pudding?!”
“I—it wasn’t—he—uhm—” Izuku babbled hopelessly.
“Zuzu. Details. NOW”
He made a strangled noise. “I—well—he saved Kacchan first, and then he talked to me afterward and—and he was— he was really… kind and cool. And—”
His breath hitched, followed by a tiny, emotional laugh.
“His hand was so big when he put it on my shoulder. I thought I was going to faint.”
Himari pressed a fist to her mouth. “I am so jealous. I could scream.”
“You’re a hero too, though,” Izuku protested, flustered. “You’ll definitely meet him someday.”
“Not if Endeavor keeps dragging me to his stupid Friday-morning training drills,” She muttered. “I swear that man has never smiled once in his entire life.”
Izuku laughed nervously. “Y-yeah… he’s, um… intense.”
“Anyway.” She sat up straighter. “Tell me, EVERYTHING. What did he smell like? Sweat and Justice? Did he smile at you? Did he say your name? Oh my god please tell me he said your name!”
“Hiichan—!”
“I just want to LIVE VICARIOUSLY THROUGH YOU, ZUZU!”
His laugh came more easily now—warm, bright, a balm for them both.
But as he finished recounting the encounter, Himari’s excitement eased into something quieter. She stared at the dark TV screen, the news anchor long since finished.
Something about his voice… something unsteady, something held back.
She frowned. “Izuku… is there something you’re not telling me?”
Silence.
A heartbeat.
Then he forced a little laugh. “N-no! Nothing like that! I’m okay. Really.”
She didn’t believe him.
Not for a second.
But she also knew that tone—knew when Izuku was curled inward, overwhelmed, afraid she’d be disappointed.
So she didn’t push.
“Okay,” she said softly. “If you say so.”
He exhaled in relief.
“But Zuzu?”
“Y-yeah?”
“Next time you see a villain?” She pointed sternly at the ceiling, even though he couldn’t see. “Call a hero. Don’t be one.”
“A-Ah—right…”
“And,” she added smugly. “I still can’t believe you met All Might.”
Izuku groaned into the phone.
Himari laughed, the sound warm, soft, and full of love.
But inside she couldn’t shake the feeling.
Something happened today. Something big. And Izuku wasn’t ready to talk about it.
Chapter 2: Trending: #FireHazard
Chapter Text
Himari Midoriya’s bathroom looked like the aftermath of a high-level villain attack—if the villain specialized in chaos, glitter fallout, and catastrophic self-esteem.
Makeup wipes lay strewn across the counter. Two eyeshadow palettes were cracked open like portals to hell. A curling iron blinked at her with the exhausted stare of a weapon that knew it was being misused.
And in the middle of it all stood Himari: twenty years old today, very stressed, and currently trying to apply eyeliner while balancing her phone between her shoulder and cheek.
“Hiichan?” Izuku asked gently on the other end. “Um… I don’t know how to say this but—you’re breathing really aggressively.”
“I’m TRYING,” she hissed, dragging the eyeliner pen across her eyelid and praying to every deity that she wouldn’t end up looking like a discount raccoon. “Tonight requires precision.”
“You don’t have to get dressed up just to talk to me…”
“I’m not!” she snapped, then immediately softened. “Sorry. I’m getting ready for my birthday outing. The agency girls told me if I didn’t go out tonight, they’d ‘drag the little fire gremlin out of her hermit cave.’ Their words.”
Izuku gave a nervous laugh—the kind he did whenever he wasn’t sure if she was joking.
“Well… still. Happy birthday.”
Her grip on the eyeliner softened. “Thanks, Zuzu.”
“Are you excited?”
She blinked at her reflection. “Excited is… one word for it. Terrified is another. I don’t go out much anymore. Too many cameras. Too many people waiting to record ‘Himari Midoriya breathing wrong in public.’” She switched to her best PR voice. “All part of your brand identity, Infernal Heart!”
Izuku laughed again, stronger this time. It warmed her chest.
“Well… I hope you have fun. You really do deserve it.”
Himari paused mid-curl. “…You okay, kiddo? You sound like you’re being slowly eaten by anxiety.”
“I’m just—um—the U.A. entrance exam is tomorrow.”
“RIGHT!” she yelped so loudly the pencil nearly stabbed her eye. “Oh my god, Zuzu! Tomorrow-tomorrow? Like the tomorrow?”
“There’s only one tomorrow.”
She waved her free hand. “You know what I mean! ZUZU. You’re gonna crush it!”
“What if I… can’t do it?” He sounded defeated.
“Of course you can do it!” she said instantly, like it was the most ridiculous question on earth. “You’ve always crushed exams. You’re, like, the reigning king of 98% and above.”
“I—I guess but…”
“Listen,” she said, leaning forward staring into the mirror as if her reflection was Izuku himself. “There is no way the General Studies exam is anywhere close to as brutal as the hero course one. Zero chance. Zip. Nada. You’ll be fine.”
Izuku made a small, strangled noise—because technically she was right and also wildly, cosmically wrong.
Himari softened, noticing his uncertainty. Her voice dipped gentle. “You’re just nervous. And that’s good. It means you care. But you’ve worked so hard, Zuzu.” She gripped her phone harder, wishing she could be there to hug him. “Harder than anyone I know. You deserve good things.”
He was quiet. He never knew what to do when she said things like that—when she meant them.
“…Thanks,” he murmured, with embarrassment. “That means a lot.”
“Of course it does! I’m your favorite cousin.”
“You’re my only cousin.”
“And therefore the favorite!”
He snorted. Victory.
Himari stepped back from the mirror. Her curls fell in soft waves. The red dress fit better than she expected. The eyeliner was aggressively loud but she had committed and was therefore morally obligated to continue.
“I look… shockingly adult,” she muttered.
“You always look nice,” Izuku said, then immediately panicked. “I—I MEAN! You’re cool! Stylish! Not like— I mean—NOT A WEIRD THING! You’re—”
“Oh my god breathe,” she snorted.
Three urgent knocks echoed from her door.
“Hype squad’s here,” she sighed. “Time to go pretend I’m a normal human being.”
“Have fun,” Izuku said earnestly. “But um—please don’t drink too much.”
She placed a hand over her heart. “Zuzu. I would NEVER.”
Silence.
“Hiichan…”
“Okay maaaaaybe a little,” she admitted, grabbing her purse. “But I’ll be fine. I’m a professional hero. My liver is forged in flames.”
“That’s not how biology works.”
“Anyway—text me after the exam. I wanna hear EVERYTHING.”
“I will.”
“And Zuzu?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re gonna do amazing tomorrow.”
“…I’ll try.”
“You’ll do more than try.” She paused, voice softening. “Goodnight, hero.”
He made a strangled noise. “…Goodnight, Hiichan. And… happy birthday.”
She hung up smiling.
Himari Midoriya was drunk.
Not tipsy.
Not buzzed.
Absolutely, unmistakably, aggressively drunk.
The izakaya was bursting with pro-hero energy: loud, chaotic, and full of people who absolutely should NOT be allowed to influence impressionable youth.
“To Infernal Heart!” Kaito shouted, brandishing a sake bottle like a weapon. “May her flames never go out!”
“And may her eyebrows never burn off again!” Burnin’ added.
“THAT WAS ONE TIME!” Himari wailed.
Someone lifted her onto a booth bench. “SPEECH!”
This was a mistake.
“THANK YOU,” Himari shouted, wobbling like she was fighting gravity itself, “for believing in me even when the agency calls me a ‘walking PR hazard with impulse control issues!’ I love ALL OF YOU! Except Kaito. He stole my lunch once.”
Kaito groaned audibly.
Another drink appeared in her hand—something neon and highly suspicious. She downed it without hesitation.
Her limbs buzzed. Her brain floated. Reality felt like a polite suggestion.
“I’m gonna go get some air,” she declared.
“Try not to combust anything!” Burnin’ yelled.
“No promises!”
She stumbled outside, leaning against a cool brick wall.
The night air felt glorious.
“You’re certainly lively tonight,” a warm voice said.
Himari turned—too quickly—to find a sleek-haired woman with a mischievous smile.
“Hi!” Himari chirped. “It’s my birthday!”
“I heard,” the woman laughed. “Happy birthday! I’m Emi, Hero Spotlight Daily. Do you mind a couple of fun questions for our viewers?”
Himari gasped. “YOU WANT TO INTERVIEW ME? On my BIRTHDAY? Wow. Journalism is so powerful.”
Emi hit record.
“So—Infernal Heart—what’s it really like being a pro hero at twenty?”
Himari lit up. “OH! Oh it’s wild. Like—okay—picture this.” She held up a finger, wobbling slightly. “You wake up. You’re tired. Your back hurts even though you’re TWENTY and SHOULD NOT have back pain. And then Endeavor bursts into the training room like ‘WHY ARE YOU LATE?’ and I’m like ‘Sir it is literally 5:58, please let me live.’”
Emi snorted. “Sounds intense.”
“Intense is ONE word,” Himari babbled. “One time I accidentally melted one of the agency treadmills and everyone told me I wasn’t allowed to run indoors unless I signed a waiver. A WAIVER.”
“You signed it?”
“I SIGNED THREE.”
Emi laughed harder. “Does it ever feel surreal? Being so young and already in the spotlight?”
Himari blinked dramatically. “OH. MY. GOD. YES. Do you know how many times people expect me to be cool? To be composed? To give inspirational speeches?” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Ma’am, I can’t even file my taxes without crying.”
“Fair enough,” Emi said, biting back a grin. “What about fans? You’re pretty popular with younger audiences.”
Himari perked immediately—and dangerously. “YES I LOVE THEM. They’re so sweet and enthusiastic and some of them know more about my quirk than I do. Literally. Like this one girl came up to me and said ‘Your combustion rate must fluctuate depending on your diet,’ and I was like—HOLY SHIT I NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT.”
Emi blinked. “Is… is that true?”
“Oh absolutely,” Himari said, then launched straight into a signature Midoriya Mumble™. “See—my fire temperature averages around 1600°C but that’s on an empty stomach or clinically stable glucose levels—BUT if I’ve eaten something high-carb like ramen or mochi—it spikes, because my metabolic rate directly ties into my combustion—WAIT, WAIT, WAIT—also my hydration levels matter because if the air is too dry, I get this massive combustion kick and that’s why I accidentally set Kaito’s desk plant on fire last week—BUT—BUT—THAT’S BECAUSE—”
She had fully entered nerd mode. Hands waving. Eyes wide. Words spilling like a waterfall.
Emi finally interjected, breathless from laughter. “Wow. That was—informative.”
Himari blinked up at her, dazed. “Did I mumble?”
“A little.”
“Sorry. That’s a family curse.”
Emi grinned. “One more question before the fun one. What’s something the public doesn’t know about you?”
“Oh!” Himari brightened. “I still live in a tiny apartment because I’m scared of moving into a nicer one. If the bathtub is too big or fancy my brain goes ‘You don’t deserve this, you peasant.’”
Emi choked. “You’re—wow.”
“And I cried once because a stray cat ignored me.”
“Okay, that’s tragic.”
“And sometimes—SOMETIMES—I think about quitting hero work and opening a bakery, but then I remember I burn everything and also can’t bake.”
Emi wiped a tear from laughing. “Alright. I think we’re warmed up. Ready for the classic birthday question?”
“READY!” Himari shouted, throwing her arms up.
“I see.” Emi’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Okay, last question. Let’s play a quick round of Marry, Fuck, Kill. Endeavor—”
“EW.” Himari gagged. “No. Nooooo. Absolutely not. I love him but like… like a grumpy uncle who yells when you touch the thermostat.”
Emi, already dying, moved on. “Alright, fair. Then how about—Edgeshot, Best Jeanist, and Hawks.”
Himari slapped both hands to her cheeks. “OH MY GOD, HAWKS.”
Emi raised an eyebrow. “That’s your pick?”
Himari gasped. Loudly.
“HAWKS?!? Oh my GOD—who wouldn’t want to sleep with him? Have you SEEN that man?”
Emi’s jaw dropped. “So that’s a yes?”
“That’s a YES.” Himari slapped her hands on her thighs. “He’s a—he’s a DREAMBOAT. With those sexy eyes and that stupidly messy perfect hair and—ugh—those wings.”
“Oh?” Emi encouraged, recording every slurred word.
“Who wouldn’t want to sleep with him?” Himari demanded, gesturing wildly. “He’s like… he’s like if hotness had wings.”
She leaned conspiratorially close.
“I bet his feathers are soft. Like… dangerously soft.”
“Dangerously soft?” Emi repeated, struggling not to laugh.
“Yes! Like, you’d touch them and be like ‘oh no I’m in love.’” She clasped her hands to her chest dramatically. “He’s a dreamboat. A literal flying dreamboat.”
“And what would you want him to do with those wings?” Emi asked, the devil herself.
Himari’s answer was instant.
“Wrap me up in them. Like a burrito. A hot, feather burrito.”
Emi wheezed.
“But like—not too tight,” Himari added thoughtfully. “He’s got big wings. So like—roomy. Cozy. Sexy.”
Emi was giggling uncontrollably. “What about Edgeshot and Best Jeanist?”
Himari waved her hand dismissively. “Love them. Respect them. Would absolutely not climb them like a tree. Hawks though? HAWKS.” She thumped her chest. “That man is… mm.”
Her analytical brain started kicking in and she was going on full mumble mode.
“Edgeshot would be a great marriage. He seems responsible. Good credit score probably.”
“Best Jeanist would kill me with judgment but like… respectfully.”
“Hawks though… mm.” She bit her lip. “I’d let him ruin my life.”
“But if you had to choose?” The journalist asked eyes wide eating up and enjoying every bit that came out of this woman mouth.
Himari tapped her chin, the picture of drunken deliberation. "Hmm. Edgeshot is so cool and mysterious. He'd probably be really respectful. I could marry him. But I don't want to kill Jeanist! No way! Denim Daddy! He'd give me a whole new wardrobe! This game is too hard!"
She pouted, looking genuinely distressed at the fictional dilemma.
“You had some very interesting takes on this question,” Emi replied with a giggle. Her boss was going to be thrilled when she turned this in.
"Infernal Heart, everyone! A very happy birthday! Thank you for your stunning honesty."
Himari looked proud of herself.
Then, as icing on the cake, she pointed straight at Emi’s recording phone and declared:
“Hawks! If you ever see this—which you won’t—but IF YOU DO… call me!”
She blew a messy kiss.
"Thank youuuu!" Himari sang, giving a wobbly wave to the phone. "Tell everyone Infernal Heart says hello!"
She turned to walk about into the bar but managed to stumble on nothing and fall face first. Emi was excited she hadn’t stopped the recording yet and let her phone keep rolling. This was turning out to be a gold mine.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, from the ground, she shouted toward the door, "I'm okay!"
She patted the concrete beneath her affectionately.
"The floor is just hugging me!"
Back at the bar, her phone, left laying flat on the surface, buzzed with a notification. A message from Izuku: "Good luck tonight, Hiichan! Hope you have fun!"
Chapter 3: Damage Control
Chapter Text
Himari Midoriya woke up in stages.
First came the awareness of her body — heavy, sluggish, and distinctly unhappy about existing. Then the dull ache behind her forehead, like someone was rhythmically tapping a spoon against the inside of her skull. Her mouth felt dry, cotton-thick, and faintly bitter, as if last night’s alcohol had crawled onto her tongue and died there.
She kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, breathing slowly, trying to figure out where her limbs were and why everything hurt.
Then memory hit her, not with clarity, but with the vague sense that something—something stupid—had happened.
She groaned and rolled onto her back. The ceiling stared down at her with the quiet, judgmental patience of someone who had seen all of her worst mistakes and knew there were more to come.
“…Never drinking again,” she whispered hoarsely.
She said it every time.
A ribbon of sunlight cut through the curtains and dragged itself across her face. Warm. Innocent. Cruel. She winced, throwing an arm over her eyes as the rest of her brain rebooted.
She should check the time.
She absolutely didn’t want to check the time.
But she did.
When 8:42 AM blinked up at her, mocking her in bright red digits, her heart lurched painfully in her chest.
“OH MY GOD—”
She shot upright too quickly. Her vision tunneled. Her balance abandoned her. A moment later, she was on the floor tangled in blankets, legs kicking uselessly as she wrestled the sheets off her torso.
It took nearly a full minute to free herself.
When she finally stood, swaying, she ran a hand down her face. Everything felt raw. Puffy. Crumpled. Like a newspaper that had been stepped on.
Her phone lay half-buried beneath a hoodie on the floor. She dug it out with a sigh. The screen lit up weakly: 2% battery. Notifications stacked on top of each other, a wall of messages she was too fragile to even look at.
She locked the screen.
“Later,” she murmured. “Future Himari can handle all that.”
She wasn’t proud of this coping mechanism. But she also wasn’t strong enough to break the tradition now.
In the bathroom, she squinted at her reflection. The girl staring back looked like she’d fought a demon in her sleep and lost. Badly. Eyeliner smudged, mascara flaked, hair defying gravity in several places.
She pressed her forehead against the cool mirror.
“Maybe,” she whispered, “if I pretend nothing happened… then nothing happened.”
The mirror offered no encouragement.
The world outside her apartment felt too bright.
People moved with purpose. The sun sat too high in the sky. The air smelled like morning pastries and freshly brewed coffee — which normally would have been pleasant, but right now only reminded her she had eaten nothing but three dumplings and a questionable cocktail last night.
Her steps down the station stairs were slow and uneven. Each one sent a small shockwave up the back of her skull. She held the railing like an elderly woman two steps from retirement.
The train platform buzzed with its usual morning energy. Voices overlapping, heels clicking, metal doors sliding open and closed. Life, loud and unapologetic, happening all at once.
Himari kept her head down. She didn’t trust her balance. She didn’t trust her immune system. She didn’t trust reality.
When the next train arrived, she stepped inside and found a spot near the doors. She hugged the overhead pole with both hands, anchoring herself mentally more than physically.
It took her almost a full minute to notice something was off.
Nobody was being obvious. People rarely were when staring at public figures — or at least, public figures who looked like they might cry at any moment.
But it was almost… too quiet.
Her hangover-addled brain tried to dismiss it.
Maybe I look sick.
Maybe they’re being polite. Concerned, even.
Maybe… maybe I look like someone who needs a hug?
And then a pair of teenagers to her left nudged each other and whispered. Not giggled — whispered. The kind of whisper that makes your spine itch.
Himari blinked, confused, and instinctively shifted her body so she was turned toward the train door’s reflective glass.
Her reflection blinked back at her.
Disheveled? Yes.
Tired? Absolutely.
Carrying secrets she didn’t remember? Most likely.
But… normal. Normal enough.
She slowly scanned the other passengers again.
One woman looked away too quickly.
A businessman pretended to check his watch but absolutely wasn’t checking his watch.
A student had her phone angled a little too conveniently in Himari’s direction.
A small, uneasy knot formed in Himari’s stomach.
She swallowed.
Something’s wrong.
Her palms went a little sweaty. She rubbed them on her jeans, glanced around, then back at her reflection again — as if expecting a second face to appear beside her own.
Nothing.
She exhaled shakily, trying to reason with herself.
Okay. Don’t panic. You’re hungover. Your brain is being dramatic.
People look at other people on trains all the time. It’s normal. Totally normal. Completely—
A man across the aisle tilted his phone slightly, and just for a split second — less than a heartbeat — Himari caught a familiar shade of red and gold on his screen.
Her breath hitched.
That was her hero costume’s color palette.
Her heart thudded once, twice, and she felt the blood drain from her face.
Very slowly, as if afraid she’d confirm something terrible, she leaned just enough to glimpse the man’s screen again.
A video.
Paused.
Her.
Talking into a camera with her hands animated and her expression far, far too confident to be sober.
She inhaled sharply.
And the man immediately turned the phone over, pretending he had been checking notifications the whole time.
Himari stared at the floor. Her pulse fluttered in her throat.
What did I do? What did I SAY?
Her head buzzed, not from the hangover now but from pure, escalating dread.
She reached for her phone, panic pushing through the fog of her exhaustion, but her fingers trembled just enough to fumble it. She cursed softly, unlocked it—
Battery: 1%
Dozens of missed calls.
Texts.
Voicemails.
A wall of notifications she couldn’t even process before—
The screen went black.
Just died. Right there in her hand.
She stared at the blank screen as if it had betrayed her on purpose.
“Oh,” she whispered, voice hollow. “That’s… not good.”
The knot in her stomach tightened.
“That’s very not good.”
Behind her, someone whispered loudly enough for half the car to hear:
“Is that the hot feather burrito girl?”
The words drifted through the air in slow motion.
Himari didn’t turn. She didn’t move.
She just froze.
Every neuron in her brain stopped firing at once.
Hot… feather… what.
Her eyebrows slowly drew together. Her soul quietly backed out the exit door of her body.
“…What?” she mouthed silently.
No one answered her.
Her heart beat so loudly she could hear it in her ears. Her vision went fuzzy around the edges. She pressed a hand against the cold metal pole to stay grounded.
Okay. Okay. Don’t assume. Don’t catastrophize. Maybe it’s not about you. Maybe there’s another hot feather burrito girl wandering around Japan.
But inside, she knew.
A sinking truth, like stepping into water deeper than expected.
She knew.
Her stomach flipped.
Her throat tightened.
Her dignity stood on the edge of a building, preparing to swan-dive.
A small voice tugged at her sleeve.
“Miss? Are you okay?” asked a child with wide, worried eyes.
Himari stared at him blankly for a long moment — too long — before answering softly:
“…No. Sweetie, not even a little.”
The train doors opened with a soft chime, and Himari stepped out on autopilot.
Her feet moved, but her brain hadn’t fully resumed control. She drifted with the morning crowd like a leaf caught in a current, her bag slung over one shoulder, her posture stiff with dread.
Her mind replayed the phrase she wished she had misheard:
Hot feather burrito girl.
Each repetition made her stomach clench harder.
The station escalators blurred past. She barely registered the bright LED ads, the chatter of commuters, or the distant smell of coffee from the kiosk by the exit. Her senses felt numb, overloaded, like everything was happening at half speed but still too loud.
She didn’t know what she feared more:
Finding out what she did.
Or
Remembering it.
By the time she reached the street level, her breathing had grown shallow. A taxi honked somewhere. A group of schoolchildren ran past her. The sun was too warm, the air too sharp, and every sound made her flinch.
She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself.
Okay. Think. You drank. You obviously said something. But how bad could it be? People get drunk all the time. Heroes go viral sometimes. It’s—
She stopped walking.
Her body wouldn’t move.
Because she remembered something.
Not a full memory — nothing concrete — but a flash of sensation:
Warm lights.
A stranger’s phone pointed toward her.
Her own voice, too loud, too excited.
Someone laughing in the background.
Feathers.
Her eyes widened in horror.
“No,” she whispered. “No no no, come on… I wouldn’t…”
But she absolutely would.
Especially drunk-her, who had no sense of volume control or shame.
She resumed walking, this time faster, heels clicking anxiously against the pavement. The familiar silhouette of Endeavor’s Agency began to rise in the distance — tall, sleek, intimidating.
Normally, it filled her with the comforting familiarity of a workplace she knew well. Today, it looked like a looming judge awaiting her sentencing.
Her heart pounded with every step closer.
People outside the building were chatting casually… until they saw her. A pair of sidekicks paused mid-conversation to stare. A receptionist standing near the entrance slowly lowered her iced coffee like something shocking had just walked out of the ocean.
Himari’s skin prickled. She swallowed.
This is fine, she lied mentally. It’s okay. I can handle this. I’m an adult. A hero. A fully functioning—
“Himari!” someone hissed behind her.
She flinched so hard she almost tripped. It was Kaito — one of the accountants. His eyes were huge, his expression a mix of awe and… sympathy?
He looked at her like she was a soldier returning from war.
“You… you came in,” he whispered.
“…Should I not have?” she asked, voice cracking.
Kaito hesitated. Then:
“Well… just… good luck.”
He scuttled away like a man avoiding emotional fallout.
Himari blinked. “That’s… that’s not reassuring.”
She pushed open the front doors.
Inside, the atmosphere was different.
Not angry.
Not hostile.
Just… pregnant with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for reality show finales and weddings with guaranteed drama.
A group of support staff huddled near the reception desk pretended to shuffle papers, but their eyes kept darting toward her.
Someone whispered, “She looks so calm.”
Someone else whispered, “She doesn’t know. She can’t know.”
Himari inhaled very slowly.
Okay. Don’t cry. Don’t run. Smile? Maybe smile? Or don’t. Smiling while confused makes you look unhinged. Look normal. Look boring. Boring is safe.
She settled for a small, neutral nod to the nearest group of onlookers.
They stared at her with the intensity of wildlife researchers studying an animal they did not expect to survive the winter.
She forced her legs to carry her forward.
One step.
Another.
Try not to throw up.
She reached the reception desk, where Miyo — composed, polite Miyo — stared at her like she was witnessing a celebrity walking in wearing only socks.
“H-Himari,” Miyo breathed, lowering her voice, “Haruko asked for you. Immediately.”
The word immediately hit like a slap.
“Oh,” Himari whispered. “Okay.”
“She said to… bring water.” Miyo gently slid a bottle toward her. “You look like you need it.”
Himari accepted it with numb fingers. “I—thank you.”
As she turned away, she heard more whispers ripple behind her.
“Should someone warn her?”
“Warn her about what?”
“About the video—”
“Sshhhh!”
Her pulse spiked. Sweat prickled down her back. She felt like a character walking unknowingly into a surprise intervention.
Then —
“Himari Midoriya.”
The voice came from around the corner. Firm. Controlled. Familiar in a way that sent a cold shock down her spine.
Haruko.
PR Haruko.
PR Haruko who only sounded like that when she was either:
- About to fix a disaster
OR - About to tell someone they were the disaster
Himari turned slowly, like a horror movie heroine who knew the monster was right behind her.
Haruko stood with perfect posture, tablet in hand, expression carefully neutral — which somehow made it much worse.
Her eyes softened slightly when she saw Himari’s pale face.
“Himari… come with me.”
The words sounded almost gentle.
Almost.
Himari tried to breathe, failed, then nodded. “Okay,” she croaked, voice barely there.
Haruko motioned for her to follow.
As Himari walked behind her, she could feel dozens of pairs of eyes tracking her progress like she was being escorted to judgment.
Her mind was a storm.
What did I say? How long was the video? Who recorded it? Did I swear? Did I rant? Did I cry? Did I confess something weird? What if I confessed something REALLY weird?
Her face burned. Her fingers trembled around the water bottle.
She tried to inhale.
It didn’t help.
Haruko paused in front of the conference room doors.
Turned to her.
Placed a careful hand on Himari’s arm.
“Himari… before we go in,” she said softly, sincerely, “I need you to know: We are going to handle this. Together.”
Himari blinked at her.
A shaky breath escaped her lungs all at once.
“O-okay,” she whispered. “Yeah. Thank you.”
Haruko nodded once, composed again, then opened the door.
And Himari stepped into the room that would ruin her morning, her ego, and possibly her entire career.
The conference room door shut behind Himari with a soft click that felt strangely final.
Not angry.
Not loud.
Just… inevitable.
She stood frozen a foot inside the doorway, unsure where she was supposed to go or what posture a person was supposed to have when facing imminent public humiliation.
The room was too quiet.
The air felt still, like it had been holding its breath long before she walked in.
Her eyes flicked to the long conference table — polished wood, immaculate, intimidating. A pitcher of water. Several neatly arranged folders.
Her stomach tightened. Those were important meeting folders.
Formal discussion folders.
You’re in big trouble folders.
She stared at the table like it might swallow her.
Haruko motioned gently toward a chair halfway down the table.
“Himari. Sit.”
Her legs felt like someone had replaced them with bags of wet cement. But she obeyed, lowering herself into the chair as if it were a trap built specifically for her shame.
Her hands trembled as she set her water down.
For a moment, she could only sit there — stiff, small, overwhelmed — her gaze drifting around the room.
The blinds were half-closed, casting slanted streaks of light across the table. Dust floated lazily in the sunbeams. A faint hum from the overhead vents buzzed like nervous static.
Her heart pounded in her ears.
She pressed her palms flat against her knees, grounding herself.
Okay. Breathe. Just breathe. The world isn’t actually ending. You’re still alive. You’re in a building. On a chair. This is fine. Probably. Maybe.
Her breath quivered.
She stared at her reflection faintly visible in the window glass across the room.
She didn’t look heroic.
She didn’t look composed.
She looked like someone bracing for a meteor.
Her throat tightened painfully.
Why couldn’t she remember?
Why did she always do this?
Why did drunk-Himari get to run off and have adventures while sober-Himari got stuck cleaning up the mess?
The door opened behind her.
She flinched.
Someone walked in — heavy footsteps. Measured. Familiar.
She didn’t have to look to know who it was.
Endeavor.
His presence filled a room like heat fills a furnace — massive, intense, impossible to ignore. His steps slowed as he approached the table, then stopped near the head seat.
He didn’t even sit yet. Just stood there radiating disapproval like a space heater of judgment.
Another figure entered.
Burnin.
Bright-haired, confident, eyes sparkling with the energy of someone who knew exactly what video they had watched this morning and had absolutely not recovered from laughing at it.
She gave Himari a small, sympathetic wince. But even that carried the barely-contained snort of someone holding back a joke.
Himari stared at her lap.
Why am I like this.
Haruko came in last, composed as always, and shut the door fully.
The latch clicked.
The small, inevitable sound made Himari’s shoulders tense.
Her thoughts spiraled quietly:
Maybe it’s not as bad as it feels.
Maybe it was something harmless.
Maybe I just danced weird. Or talked too loud. Or tripped over something. Those go viral too. People love clumsy heroes.
Maybe the phrase “feather burrito” is some kind of… slang? Maybe? Possibly? Somehow??
She swallowed.
Right?
Her heart squeezed in her chest.
Please let it be something small. Please don’t let it be something romantic. Or thirsty. Or—
She didn’t finish the thought.
Because Haruko took her seat quietly.
And Endeavor, without a word, finally lowered himself into the chair at the end of the table — the one that meant formal leadership mode.
Himari’s pulse quickened.
Her cheeks burned.
She wrapped her arms around herself and whispered internally:
This is going to be bad. This is going to be SO bad.
Haruko folded her hands on the table and looked at her with the gentle seriousness of someone preparing to unwrap a Band-Aid slowly.
“Himari,” she said softly. “Let’s go through this step by step.”
Himari nodded weakly, bracing.
And then the screen at the end of the room flickered on.
The monitor displayed the frozen thumbnail of a video.
A familiar face.
Her face.
Bright-eyed.
Slightly flushed.
Clearly drunk.
Himari’s spine curled inward like a dying flower.
Haruko took a slow breath. “Before I play this, I want you to remember: A lot of people have done… questionable things on camera. You are not the first.”
“She won’t be the last either,” Burnin added under her breath.
Endeavor didn’t comment.
Which somehow made it worse.
Haruko pressed play.
At first, the video seemed harmless—tame, even. Just a lighthearted entertainment interview. The reporter asked her about being a young hero, and for a moment Himari felt a spark of pride. Her answers were a little silly, sure, but considering how drunk she’d been? Honestly, it was better than half the sober interviews she’d given.
But just as she began to let her guard down, the video took a turn.
Himari watched in horror as her on-screen self started admitting things she’d sworn she’d never say out loud. Private things. Vulnerable things. Things she refused to tell anyone.
She thought it was over when she saw herself stand, wobble, and then face-plant spectacularly out of frame.
Surely that had to be the end.
But—
The screen cut back in.
Party lights pulsed in the background. Laughter echoed. Bass rattled the phone mic. The camera jiggled—whoever was filming had no concept of stability and was holding it way too close to Himari’s face.
On-screen Himari beamed, eyes nearly disappearing in her grin.
Then her voice blasted through the quiet room:
“LISTEEEEEEENNN—HAWKS?”
Himari in the chair let out a small strangled sound and buried half her face behind her hand.
On-screen Himari continued, louder:
“HAWKS IS—listen—LISTEN TO ME—HAWKS IS BEAUTIFUL.”
Burnin burst into quiet laughter and had to cover her mouth.
On-screen Himari leaned close to the camera, gripping it as if sharing a national secret.
“He is a DREAMBOAT,” she declared. “A walking DREAMBOAT. He’s—he’s—he’s got, like… wing span? Wing SPAN. A HUG radius. A SNUGGLE radius!”
Real-Himari’s soul physically tried to vacate her body.
Haruko paused the video there, mercy shining in her eyes.
Silence fell.
Himari forced herself to breathe.
Her voice cracked when she whispered:
“…No…”
Haruko gave her a sympathetic grimace. “There’s… more.”
Himari whimpered.
Endeavor pinched the bridge of his nose.
Burnin muttered something like, “It gets SO good,” and then winced when Haruko elbowed her.
Haruko hit play again.
On-screen Himari flung her arms dramatically.
“I want him to wrap me in his wings like a BURRITO! A HOT! FEATHER! BURRITO!”
Real-Himari slapped both hands over her mouth.
Her entire body felt like it was combusting.
Burnin was wheezing, shoulders shaking.
“For the record,” he said gruffly, “I have never once wrapped anyone in a burrito. Feathered or otherwise.”
Himari whimpered into her hands. Burnin choked on another laugh. Haruko pinched the bridge of her nose like her spirit left her body.
Endeavor continued, dead serious, “And Hawks is not—” he gestured vaguely, “—a… tortilla.”
One of the PR assistants in the corner turned their laptop away so they wouldn’t visibly laugh.
Haruko paused the video again.
She inhaled deeply. Exhaled slowly.
“Now. Before we discuss the… public reaction, there’s something you need to know.”
Himari peeked through her fingers. Her voice was small, timid:
“…Is there more?”
Haruko reluctantly nodded.
“Yes.”
Endeavor grunted. “It gets worse.”
Himari whispered, “How could it possibly—”
Haruko clicked the remote.
On-screen Himari popped back into frame.
“BEST JEANIST!” she shouted joyfully. “DENIM DADDYYYY—”
Himari face-planted into her folded arms.
Burnin choked so hard she had to slap her own chest.
Haruko finally stopped the video before Himari could attempt to flirt with any more top-ten heroes.
The room fell into one long, painful silence.
Himari didn’t lift her head.
She couldn’t.
She mumbled into the table, voice muffled and broken:
“Please tell me I hallucinated that.”
“No,” Haruko said softly.
Himari groaned.
Endeavor leaned forward, folding his arms.
“You embarrassed the agency.”
Himari nodded into the wood.
“You created an international meme.”
She nodded harder.
“You damaged our professional image.”
“I know,” she moaned.
Haruko added gently, “And the video is currently one of the top ten trending clips worldwide.”
Himari made a sound like a dying gremlin.
Burnin patted her back.
“While your popularity has skyrocketed from this interview, we feel it’s in both your and the agency’s best interest to… have you step back a bit from hero work.”
“What? No! Please—there’s no way it’s that bad!” Himari panicked, whipping her gaze between Haruko and Endeavor like they might suddenly take it back.
“In perspective,” Haruko said gently, “the interview and the party video aren’t as catastrophic as they could’ve been. What worries us is that with this newfound popularity, we won’t be able to shield you from public interviews the way we have before.”
Haruko tapped her tablet, pulling up a graph labeled with spikes so dramatic it looked like a heart monitor.
“Public sentiment is volatile right now. You’re adored — overwhelmingly so — but the media wants more. More interviews. More appearances. More memes. And we cannot keep you out of that spotlight while you're still struggling with on-camera anxiety.”
She swiped again, revealing photos of paparazzi outside the agency.
“U.A. provides structure. Controlled press access. A stable environment with clear boundaries. If you're teaching, you’re protected. Out of the public’s daily line of fire. And it reframes your image — from ‘viral sensation’ to ‘trusted mentor.’”
Himari swallowed hard.
Haruko softened. “This isn’t punishment. It’s repositioning.”
Himari’s shoulders folded inward. No—her stage fright hadn’t magically vanished over the last few years. If anything, it had gotten worse.
Did this mean she’d no longer be apart of the agency? Were they firing her indirectly?
She’d only just started being trusted with leading missions.
Haruko exhaled and continued, choosing each word like she was disarming a bomb:
“So, effective immediately, your assignment for the next academic year will be teaching Quirk Analysis and Practical Application for all U.A. hero classes.”
Himari’s head lifted in slow, painful disbelief.
Her eyes were wide. Red. Horrified.
“…All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Every year?”
“Yes.”
“…Why.”
Haruko winced. “Because we need time for your public image to stabilize. And because U.A. trusts you. And because it’s—despite everything—an opportunity.”
Endeavor, never one for subtlety, added, “And because I can’t have you on patrol while people are shouting ‘burrito girl’ during emergencies.”
Himari dropped her forehead onto the table again with a soft thunk.
“…I want to disappear.”
Burnin patted her shoulder reassuringly. “You’re gonna be amazing. And hey—kids love memes.”
“But I am a kid,” Himari groaned. “I’m barely two or three years older than them.”
“All the better to relate to them!” Burnin chirped.
“Please stop.”
“No promises.”
Himari remained slumped over, face pressed to the cool wood, trying to remember how breathing worked and whether it was normal for humiliation to feel like drowning.
The meeting moved on around her.
But she stayed there, thinking one single thought:
I am never drinking again.
She absolutely would.
But not for a very, very long time.
Himari wasn’t entirely sure how she made it out of the conference room.
One moment she was inside, curled over the table like a wet paper napkin, trying not to dissolve into the floorboards.
The next, she was standing in the hallway outside the meeting room, staring blankly at a poster about workplace safety.
She couldn’t read the words.
Her brain had decided that literacy was too big an ask right now.
She wrapped her arms around herself, taking a shaky breath. The hallway felt colder than usual — or maybe she just felt too warm, too flushed with adrenaline and embarrassment.
Her cheeks still burned.
Her head throbbed.
Her stomach twisted in slow, painful knots.
She leaned back against the wall, letting her shoulder blades rest heavily against the cool surface. She closed her eyes and whispered:
“…I’m never recovering from this.”
A pair of footsteps approached from her left — brisk, familiar, carrying a bright energy that was impossible to mistake.
Burnin.
Himari didn’t open her eyes until she felt someone stop beside her.
Burnin didn’t speak right away.
She just stood there, arms crossed loosely, leaning against the wall next to Himari. Her presence was warm, steadying — like a campfire you could sit beside without fear of being judged for crying.
After a long moment, Burnin finally said, gently:
“You okay, kid?”
Himari let out a weak breath — something between a sigh and a dying whimper. She tilted her head toward Burnin, eyes tired.
“No,” she admitted softly. “I feel like my soul fell out of my body, got run over by a bus, and is now lying facedown in a puddle.”
Burnin nodded, expression softening. “Yep. That sounds about right.”
Himari looked down at her shoes. The laces were uneven; she didn’t even remember tying them. Her voice was small:
“Burnin… I didn’t even remember any of it. Not a single second. And now everyone’s looking at me like I… like I committed some kind of felony.”
“You didn’t,” Burnin said immediately. “You were a young adult drinking too much and saying stupid things. Shockingly common behavior.”
“Not for heroes,” Himari whispered. “I mean, people look up to us. Kids look up to us. And I went on camera and—and—”
She cut herself off. Her face got hot again.
Burnin smirked, but gently. “Declared your desire to be rolled up like a burrito?”
Himari groaned loudly and covered her face with both hands. “Please don’t say it. Please don’t remind me.”
Burnin softened again, nudging her lightly with an elbow.
“Hey. Look at me.”
Himari peeked reluctantly through her fingers.
Burnin’s tone shifted — still laid-back, but carrying a warmth that felt like a safety net.
“Listen. The reason everyone’s staring isn’t because they think you’re awful. They’re staring because it’s wild. Because you’re usually diligent and hardworking and burst-into-flames-with-anxiety Himari. And seeing you drunk and unhinged on camera? That’s new.”
Himari blinked. “…Thanks?”
“No, I mean it,” Burnin added, smiling crookedly. “People aren’t judging you. They’re just shocked. And honestly? Half the interns adore you even more.”
Himari frowned. “Why?”
Burnin shrugged. “Because you’re human. Because it made you relatable. Because you didn’t do anything malicious — just embarrassingly horny.”
Himari buried her face again. “I want to DIE.”
Burnin laughed softly — a low, warm sound that didn’t mock, just acknowledged the absurdity of it all.
Then she quieted.
“You know… you’re not the only one who’s said stupid things in this agency.”
Himari cracked a small, skeptical stare at her. “…Really?”
Burnin nodded gravely. “Absolutely. I once called All Might ‘Daddy Might.’”
Himari choked on air. “YOU WHAT—”
Burnin waved a hand. “Long story. Point is — we all slip. You just happened to slip while someone was recording.”
Himari leaned her head back against the wall, exhaling shakily. “…This feels like the end of my career.”
“It’s not,” Burnin said firmly.
Himari stared at her, desperate for reassurance.
Burnin continued:
“You’re a damn good hero. You’re smart. You care. Yeah, you talk too fast and overthink everything, but that’s part of your charm. One viral video isn’t going to erase all that.”
Himari’s throat tightened.
She swallowed, her voice cracking. “…What if Hawks sees it?”
Burnin’s smile widened — mischievous but somehow still gentle.
“Oh honey. That man definitely already saw it.”
Himari made a small, mortified noise.
Burnin leaned her head against the wall beside her, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
“You know what I think?” she said lightly.
“What.”
“I think Hawks found it funny. He’s not exactly the uptight type. And you weren’t being mean — you were being… well—”
“Drunk,” Himari muttered.
“Drunk and honest,” Burnin corrected.
Himari flinched. “Don’t say honest.”
Burnin snickered. “Okay, okay. Drunk and poetically enthusiastic.”
Himari let out a fragile, breathless laugh.
Not because she found the situation funny.
But because she needed some kind of release — and Burnin’s presence made it possible.
After a moment, Burnin nudged her shoulder. “C’mon. You can’t hide in this hallway forever.”
Himari looked away. “I can try.”
Burnin smiled. “I believe in your stubbornness, kid, but the hallway doesn’t have snacks.”
Himari sniffed a laugh. “…That’s cruel, Burnin.”
“Life’s cruel,” Burnin sighed melodramatically. “But also full of redemption arcs. And yours starts today.”
Himari groaned. “My redemption arc is teaching at U.A. for a year.”
“Impressive, honestly. They don’t let just anyone near Class A.”
Himari blinked, startled.
Something warm flickered deep in her chest.
“…Do you actually think I can do it?” she asked quietly. “Teaching? Handling all those students? Being trusted with something that important?”
Burnin looked at her with surprising seriousness.
“Himari… you’re going to be an amazing teacher. Not despite this mess — but because of who you are.”
Himari’s eyes stung unexpectedly.
She blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears from falling. “Why do you have to say things like that…”
Burnin nudged her again. “Because it’s true. And because you need to hear it.”
Himari looked down at her hands.
Small. Nervous. But steadying.
She breathed slowly.
“…Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll try.”
Burnin smiled. “Good. Now dry your eyes before Endeavor walks by and thinks I’m bullying you.”
Himari sniffed, wiping quickly. “He won’t think that.”
“He absolutely will,” Burnin deadpanned. “He’s weirdly protective of you.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Himari squinted. “Burnin—”
“Anyway!” Burnin clapped her hands. “Let’s get you a snack before you pass out.”
And for the first time that morning, Himari let herself smile — small, tired, but real.
Because even if she was the hot feather burrito girl…
She wasn’t alone.
Chapter 4: Burnt Pride
Chapter Text
Himari’s apartment had never looked so inviting.
Or maybe she’d just never come home feeling quite so emotionally steamrolled before. The moment her key clicked, she pushed the door open, kicked her shoes off in the general direction of the wall, and shuffled inside like a ghost who’d been fired from haunting.
Her bag slid off her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud.
She didn’t even bother turning on the lights.
She just face-planted directly onto her couch.
The cushions embraced her like, oh sweetie, you tried today.
A long, muffled groan escaped her.
“…I’m never going outside again.”
The universe did not answer.
After several minutes of lying corpse-still, she rolled onto her back and stared blankly at the ceiling fan. It wasn’t even on, but it somehow judged her.
Her head still ached from the hangover, the meeting, the humiliation, the emotional whiplash of being reassigned to U.A. All of it had blended into a foggy soup of what is my life.
Finally, with the energy level of a Victorian child recovering from a fainting episode, she fished through her bag for her dead phone.
It looked innocent. Deceptively so.
“Traitor,” she muttered.
She plugged it in.
The screen flickered.
Then powered on.
And immediately—
DING.
DINGDING.
DINGDINGDINGD—
She slapped a hand over the speaker. “NO—STOP—please—”
The notification tidal wave did not care.
Her lock screen lit up with a barrage of missed calls and messages so dense she had to squint.
Fifty-six missed calls.
One hundred twenty-nine unread messages.
Three voicemails.
Two video attachments she refused to emotionally acknowledge.
Himari stared at the numbers.
“…I should’ve run away to the mountains when I had the chance.”
She took a slow, deep breath — in, out — bracing herself before scrolling through the damage.
The morning:
- 12 missed calls from the agency.
- 5 from PR.
- 3 from Endeavor (which emotionally counted as 30).
She winced. “Yeah… that tracks.”
Afternoon:
- 4 missed calls from Auntie.
- 3 from Izuku, which meant he definitely saw the video.
- 1 from Fuyumi, which meant she definitely saw the video.
Himari buried her face in her hands. “I am never showing my face at family dinner again.”
Finally, she opened her messages.
Group chats were chaos.
Coworkers had sent memes.
Someone had photoshopped her into an actual burrito tortilla.
She scrolled past it before her soul could shrivel further.
And then—
A text from Natsuo Todoroki, sent around noon.
It contained exactly three emojis:
😂 🪶 🌯
Himari stared at them for a long, silent moment.
A very long moment.
“…I’m blocking him,” she whispered.
She wasn’t going to block him.
But she wanted to.
Deeply.
She tossed her phone onto the couch and flopped backward dramatically, limbs splayed in existential agony.
Another long groan dragged out of her chest.
“Why,” she whispered to absolutely no one, “am I like this.”
The phone buzzed again.
She flinched.
Looked at it with fear.
Contemplated throwing it out the window.
Finally, with the exhaustion of someone preparing to receive a medical diagnosis, she picked it back up.
“…Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s see who’s emotionally devastating me first.”
And she tapped the first unread message.
The first voicemail at the top of the list was from Auntie Inko.
Himari hesitated.
Inko Midoriya was the one person on earth who had the power to make her cry simply by saying hello too warmly.
She braced herself and hit play.
Beep.
“Himari, sweetie! It’s Auntie Inko—happy birthday!”
Himari froze.
Her mouth dropped open.
“…Oh my god,” she whispered. “It is my birthday.”
Somewhere between the hangover, public humiliation, and forced career pivot, she had completely forgotten the date.
The voicemail continued, Inko’s voice warm and soft in the way that made Himari feel like a little kid again.
“I know you’ve probably been busy with work, but we just wanted to check in. I’m making katsudon later this week—your favorite!—and I was hoping you could come over for dinner. Izuku would love to see you, and… well, so would I.”
Himari’s chest tightened. She covered her eyes with her hand.
Inko added gently, “No pressure, dear. Just call me when you can, alright? Love you.”
Beep.
Himari let out the kind of sound one makes when emotionally clotheslined.
“Why is she so NICE,” she whispered to the ceiling. “Why couldn’t I have gone viral for something wholesome. Why couldn’t I have said something like ‘I love kittens’ instead of… that.”
Her phone buzzed again.
Izuku’s name glowed on the screen.
She yelped and threw the phone onto the couch like it had insulted her mother.
“Nope. Nope nope nope. Absolutely not. Not emotionally stable enough to face that boy yet.”
She paced a small circle in her living room before stopping, inhaling deeply.
“Okay. I can’t call Izuku yet. I need… I need a warm-up call. A buffer call.”
Her eyes drifted to Fuyumi Todoroki on her missed calls list.
She pressed her lips together.
“Right. Fuyumi. She’s safe. She’s calm. She’s not going to—well, Natsuo will definitely—BUT STILL. Safe adjacent.”
She sat, took a deep breath, and hit call.
It rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then—
“Hi, Himari!” Fuyumi answered, sounding bright and relieved. “Oh thank goodness, we were all worried—”
A muffled voice in the background:
“IS THAT BURRITO GIRL?!”
Himari choked. “Natsuo, I swear to GOD—”
Fuyumi sighed. “Ignore him.”
“I CAN STILL HEAR YOU!” Natsuo called.
Himari dropped her face into her hands. “Why did I call you. Why did I call this household.”
Fuyumi laughed softly, the kind of laugh that said she had been dealing with this level of chaos since birth.
“So,” Fuyumi said, voice shifting gently, “Dad came home today in a mood…”
Himari deadpanned, monotone:
“Oh, well… I couldn’t imagine why? It’s not like his entire pro career is in shambles because he went viral for thirsting over the number three hero or anything? Definitely not.”
There was a moment of silence.
Then—
Fuyumi snorted. SNORTED.
It was delicate, but it was real.
“Himari,” she said, trying to breathe, “you do realize you’re the one who went viral.”
“Yes,” Himari said dramatically. “But my shame radiates outward like a quirk. It affects bystanders.”
Another muffled voice:
“ASK HER IF HAWKS CALLED HER YET!”
“NATSUO STOP—”
“WHAT? I’M JUST SAYING—IF A GIRL DECLARED SHE WANTED TO BE A SNUGG—”
“NATSUO!”
Himari pulled the phone away from her ear and considered dunking her head in a bucket of ice.
“Why am I friends with you people,” she whispered.
Fuyumi’s voice softened again.
“Hey. All jokes aside… are you okay?”
Himari swallowed.
She sank deeper into the couch, exhaustion pulling at her bones.
“…I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “Today was… a lot.”
“We saw,” Fuyumi murmured.
“And I embarrassed myself,” Himari continued.
“We saw that too,” Fuyumi said gently.
“And Endeavor said—”
“Oh, he ranted for a solid hour,” Fuyumi cut in. “But honestly? He wasn’t even angry. Just… offended on a structural level. He kept saying, ‘Why a burrito? A cocoon would make more sense.’”
Himari slapped a hand over her face again. “PLEASE don’t.”
Fuyumi laughed sympathetically.
“Himari… you’ll survive this.”
Himari curled her knees up to her chest.
“I really hope so.”
“Because we already bought you a birthday cake,” Fuyumi added brightly.
“I—what?”
“And Natsuo decorated it.”
From somewhere behind her:
“IT HAS WINGS!”
“NATSUO—STOP TALKING.”
Himari closed her eyes.
“…I’m never escaping this, am I.”
“No,” Fuyumi said warmly. “But we can laugh with you about it.”
Fuyumi chuckled at something Natsuo said in the background—soft, warm, the sound of someone accustomed to chaos. When it faded, her voice lowered just a little, thin with hesitation.
“Himari… listen. Before we go any further, I need to warn you about something.”
A cold drop slid down Himari’s spine.
“Oh no. Oh god. What now.”
“It’s not bad,” Fuyumi rushed to say.
A beat.
“Okay, it’s a little bad.”
Himari let gravity take her. She flopped backward into the couch cushions like a corpse surrendering to the earth. “Just tell me. At this point my soul is already halfway to the afterlife.”
Fuyumi hesitated—long enough for Himari to imagine every possible flavor of doom—then said carefully:
“…Maybe avoid mentioning Hawks around Dad for a while.”
Himari blinked once.
Then again, slower.
“Okay, but that’s the last thing I want to talk about right now anyway, so that’s fine—just… why?”
A small, loaded pause stretched across the line.
Fuyumi cleared her throat. “Well… he’s not really handling the idea of you having crushes on anyone very well.”
Himari stared at her phone like it had grown legs and walked into another dimension.
“What do you mean?” she asked, voice rising with dread. “Like—professionally? Because Hawks is another hero? Or—”
“No,” Fuyumi interrupted gently. “Himari… personally.”
Himari blinked once.
Twice.
“…I don’t understand.”
There was a sigh—heavy, resigned—the kind of sound that made it clear Fuyumi had been bracing to explain this for a very, very long time. Soft rustling followed: fabric shifting, a door sliding shut. She’d moved somewhere private.
“I try not to mention this around Natsuo or Shoto,” she said quietly. “Because they don’t exactly have a relationship with Dad. And honestly, they’d tease him irritate him into the grave.”
Himari sat up, spine straight and tense.
“…Okay…?”
“But… Dad sees you as his other kid.”
Himari’s entire body went still.
“Wh—what?” she squeaked.
Fuyumi continued, gentle and matter-of-fact:
“You practically lived with us since you were sixteen. You did homework at our dining table. You slept over whenever patrols ran late. You followed him around the agency like a duckling.”
“I—okay—that’s not exactly—”
“You put sticky notes on his training equipment that said ‘don’t forget water.’”
“That was ONE time!”
“And you made him birthday cards,” Fuyumi added, softer now. Almost fond.
Himari covered her face with both hands and exhaled a sound of pure mortification.
“Oh my god.”
“So,” Fuyumi said, “you can imagine how he reacts when I mention I’m seeing someone. Now multiply that by ten.”
“Ten?!” Himari practically squeaked.
“Well, you’re younger, and he’s protective. Very protective. Plus, you’re practically the child of his dreams minus Shoto—”
“I don’t really want to be involved in whatever mess that is… Endeavor didn’t even want me as an intern or a work-study student. Burnin is the one who essentially hired me without his permission.”
“And yet he brought you home to feed you and make sure someone was looking after you when he found out you lived alone. And he had you train with Shoto. He never lets anyone sit in on Shoto’s training.”
“Uhhh… Fuyumi? I wouldn’t count your father and youngest brother glaring at each other in a room training. Shoto hates him and refuses to use half his quirk, and therefore hates me by association.”
“Shoto doesn’t hate you, Himari. He’s like that with me and Natsuo too!”
“I don’t think that makes me feel any better.”
“We can unpack Shoto another time. The point is—if you’re talking about a guy, Dad goes quiet. Very quiet.”
Himari stared into the middle distance of her living room, brain buffering.
“…But… he knows I’m an adult, right?”
“Yes,” Fuyumi replied gently. “Emotionally? No.”
A strangled groan escaped Himari as she slouched sideways and buried her face in a pillow.
“So he’s mad because… because I like Hawks?”
“No,” Fuyumi corrected, kind but exasperated. “He’s mad because you like anyone. Hawks just happened to be the most… publicly recorded example.”
From somewhere in the background came Natsuo’s unmistakable bellow:
“IS SHE STILL TALKING ABOUT HAWKS? TELL HER I SUPPORT HER AND HER FEATHER BURRITO DREAMS—”
“NATSUO, STOP,” Fuyumi hissed, suddenly sounding like a frazzled teacher disciplining a rowdy classroom.
Himari didn’t even have the strength to react.
She melted deeper into her couch, feeling her soul seep out through the upholstery.
“So… Endeavor sees me as… family.”
“Yes,” Fuyumi said simply.
“And he’s… protective of me.”
“Extremely.”
“And he’ll be weird if I bring up Hawks.”
“Unbearably.”
Himari stared blankly at the ceiling as though waiting for a divine explanation.
“…Great,” she whispered. “Fantastic. Love that for me.”
Fuyumi laughed softly, warm and fond. “Himari, he cares about you. That’s all it is.”
“Yeah,” Himari muttered. “I just wish he could show he cared about his actual children.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Fuyumi said dryly.
They both sighed at the exact same moment, the kind of synchronized exhale you only achieve through years of shared suffering.
Silence settled—gentle, understanding, unspoken.
Then Fuyumi added, teasing but affectionate:
“You know… for someone with fire powers, you really know how to set your own life on fire.”
Himari groaned into her pillow. “I hate everything.”
“You’ll survive,” Fuyumi said sweetly.
“Doubt.”
“I believe in you.”
“Why.”
“Because you’re strong.”
“No I’m not.”
“And because Dad would actually combust if you had a boyfriend.”
“…Okay, that is tempting.”
They both dissolved into laughter—Himari’s exhausted and half-feral, Fuyumi’s warm and bright.
For the first time that day, the world felt a little less apocalyptic.
A little more survivable.
Almost… okay.
Himari had barely hung up with Fuyumi when her phone lit up again.
ZUZU (calling…)
Himari froze.
“…He’s persistent,” she whispered, staring at the screen like it might actually detonate.
It buzzed again.
She inhaled deeply, braced herself, and swiped to answer.
“H-Hello?”
“HIMARI?”
Izuku’s voice came through immediately—breathless, worried, tripping over itself like it was sprinting to escape his throat.
“Oh thank goodness—are you okay? Are you home? Are you in trouble? Did something happen at work? You didn’t respond this morning and then the video was everywhere and I didn’t know—”
“Izuku, breathe.”
He absolutely did not breathe.
“I woke up at five for training and you were already trending… I didn’t even have time to see why you were trending because I was already late and then I tried calling you before the exam but you didn’t pick up and then I tried again after the practical and then after the written and then when I got home Mom said—”
“Whoa—slow down there, Zu.”
He sucked in a huge, shaking breath like he’d been underwater.
Himari sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
“I feel kinda lame having my fifteen-year-old cousin trying to make sure I’m okay from my own… you know… self-inflicted disasters.”
Izuku protested instantly.
“No! It’s not lame—it’s not lame at all! I just—”
He hiccuped a stress-breath.
“You sounded really panicked on your messages yesterday and then today everything exploded and I just—wanted to check on you.”
Himari’s chest softened.
He was such a good kid.
Too good.
Too worried.
“I’m okay,” she said gently. “Well—emotionally concussed. Spiritually burnt. Socially dead. But physically? Alive.”
Izuku didn’t laugh.
He made a tiny, worried noise instead.
“Did… the agency yell at you?”
“Oh yeah,” Himari said immediately. “Big time. Full conference room. Formal seating arrangement. PowerPoint presentation of my shame.”
“Oh no,” Izuku whispered.
“Oh yes.”
There was a moment of quiet before he whispered:
“…I saw the video.”
Himari groaned. “Of course you did.”
“I’m so sorry,” Izuku blurted.
“For what?” she asked incredulously. “You didn’t record me drunk-talking about being a human burrito.”
“No—I mean—I just—I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed.”
Himari flopped back into the couch cushions.
“Oh, Zu. That ship has sailed. That ship crashed into a mountain.”
Izuku let out a nervous laugh—soft, shaky.
“But… you’re really okay?”
Himari pulled a pillow onto her lap and hugged it.
“I will be,” she said honestly. “It’s just… a lot. And I keep replaying everything in my head and—ugh.”
Izuku hummed sympathetically.
“Do you want me to talk to Mom for you? She’s really worried too.”
Himari blinked.
“…She is?”
Izuku scoffed lightly—tiny but indignant.
“Of course! You’re family.”
Warmth filled her chest in a way she wasn’t ready for.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Well… tell her I love her. And that I’m sorry she saw me confess my undying love for a man I’ve never spoken to.”
Izuku sputtered.
“Y-you—well—I mean—Hawks is—um—objectively aesthetically—um—uh—”
“Zu,” Himari said flatly. “Stop. You’re making this worse.”
“S-sorry!”
Himari finally laughed—tired and hoarse, but real.
“Thanks for checking on me, kid. Really. Get to the actual reason you called.”
His tone softened immediately—classic Midoriya concern mode.
“I just… wanted to make sure you were okay. After the meeting with Endeavor. And PR. And… you know.”
He hesitated.
“After everyone suddenly remembering you’re a person with hormones.”
Himari collapsed backward with a tragic groan.
“PR made me watch the clip frame by frame. FRAME. BY. FRAME. Endeavor didn’t blink the entire time. I think I dissociated.”
“Oh no…”
“And Burnin hugged me. I think out of pity. Or shock. Hard to tell.”
Izuku made another sympathetic noise—then, because he was Izuku, he circled right back to teasing.
“At least you didn’t call Hawks your ‘future husband’ on camera.”
Himari froze.
“…Why would you even SAY that?!”
“No reason! Just… wanted to check if PR missed anything.”
“I’m blocking you.”
Izuku cleared his throat, valiantly attempting seriousness but failing miserably.
“So… um… how many drinks did you have?”
Himari groaned. “Too many.”
“Clearly.”
She grabbed a pillow and screamed into it.
Izuku waited politely.
Then—
with the gentlest, deadliest tone:
“Sooo… how many times do you think I’ve watched it?”
Her stomach dropped.
“Zuzu,” she whispered. “You better not have it saved—”
Silence.
“Zuzu… ZUZU—NO—
YOU BETTER NOT HAVE IT SAVED LIKE YOUR ALL MIGHT CLIPS—”
“I DON’T!” he squeaked immediately. “I MEAN—NOT LIKE THAT—just—informational purposes—like—hero media case studies—wait, Hiichan, you’re yelling, please stop yelling—”
Himari dragged herself upright, tears of embarrassment forming.
“I’m never drinking again.”
Izuku hummed sympathetically. “You say that every time.”
“I MEAN IT THIS TIME.”
“You said that the last time.”
“IZUKU.”
He laughed softly.
“It’ll be okay, Hiichan. People already love you more because of it.”
“I don’t WANT love, I want SILENCE,” she wailed.
Izuku paused.
“…Want me to delete it?”
“Yes,” she said instantly. “Yes. Please. Delete it.”
Another pause.
“I’ll… think about it.”
“IZUK—”
He hung up.
Himari flopped backward again, arms spread like a fallen martyr.
“That kid is going to be the death of me,” she muttered at her ceiling. “Actual cause of death: stress from one (1) earnest teenage boy.”
She draped an arm over her face dramatically.
Then a thought slipped in.
Wait…
Wait.
…did he say something about exams?
Her eyes shot open.
“OH SHIT—THE U.A. ENTRANCE EXAM!”
She bolted upright so fast she got lightheaded, grabbing her phone with trembling hands.
“Oh my god—I’m the worst cousin alive—he literally took the biggest exam of his LIFE and I was too busy spiraling about burritos—”
She unlocked her phone and immediately began typing the longest, most frantic apology text known to man.
HIMARI → ZUZU
ZU I’M SO SORRY I FORGOT I’M THE WORST HUMAN BEING ON EARTH I COMPLETELY ZONED OUT WHEN YOU SAID ANYTHING ABOUT EXAMS I’M STILL IN A FOGGY EMBARRASSMENT COMA BUT THAT’S NO EXCUSE YOU COULD HAVE BEEN CRYING AND I WOULD NOT HAVE KNOWN OH MY GOD HOW DID IT GO?!?! ARE YOU OKAY? DID YOU PASS OUT?? DID YOU FORGET ANYTHING??? ARE YOU EATING???
She hit send.
And instantly regretted it.
“Oh my god, he’s going to make fun of me for that,” she whispered into her hands.
Before she could spiral again, her phone buzzed.
AUNTIE INKO
Himari’s stomach squeezed.
She opened the message.
INKO → HIMARI
Sweetheart, Izuku told me he talked to you. I’m glad you’re home safe. Please take care of yourself. And happy birthday again! Can you come for dinner Thursday night? We’d love to see you.
Love you.
Himari melted into a soft puddle on the couch.
“I can’t handle how sweet she is,” she whispered, pressing a fist against her mouth like she might cry. “Why does she have to be so NICE. I don’t DESERVE her.”
She gently tapped out a reply.
HIMARI → INKO
Love you too, Auntie. Thursday works. Thank you.
A little heart emoji appeared.
Himari stared at it too long, emotionally fragile.
“…Okay. One more thing. Maybe I’ll check how the internet is doing.”
She opened a browser.
The top trending tag hit her like a brick to the face:
#FeatherBurritoGirl
#HawksHasAType
#BurritoGate
#NewHeroCrushUnlocked
#IsSheOkay (followed by no)
#LetHerCook (with a picture of a literal burrito)
Himari stared at the screen, dead inside.
“…I hate it here.”
She scrolled.
It got worse.
A meme of Hawks holding a tortilla with the caption:
“His time has come.”
A sketch someone posted of her rolled up in his wings like a sleeping bag.
A 3D animated burrito with feathers.
A fan edit titled “Hawks x Burrito Girl — Destiny” set to dramatic music.
Himari dropped her phone, face-first into a throw pillow.
“NO,” her muffled voice screamed. “NOOOOOO. MAKE IT STOOOOP.”
The phone buzzed again.
Another notification.
Another meme.
Another tag.
She threw a blanket over herself like a tarp over a crime scene.
“I am never showing my face again. I’m moving to the mountains. I’m living with the goats. They don’t have Wi-Fi.”
Another buzz.
She whimpered.
“I’m being cyberbullied… by the entire population.”
She peeked out from the blanket, defeated.
The screen lit up with another new trending phrase:
#ProtectHimari
along with
#SheWasJustVibingLetHerLive
Himari blinked.
“…Okay that one’s… kinda nice.”
Then she scrolled down one post too far.
Someone had drawn a comic panel titled:
“Hawks’ POV Watching the Interview”
—featuring Hawks dramatically swooning.
Himari screeched into the pillow again.
“I HATE EVERYTHING.”
Her phone buzzed.
ZUZU → HIMARI:
Don’t worry about me Hiichan! We can talk about the exam another time! Also please stop checking the internet. Mom said you’d spiral. Are you spiraling???
Himari stared.
Then she threw the blanket back over her head.
“…Yes,” she said into the darkness.
Chapter 5: Residual Heat
Notes:
Hawks POV. Seeing the video for the first time and spiraling with unfamiliar feelings.
Thank you all for reading, hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
Hawks prided himself on being perceptive.
Not in the arrogant way people assumed when they heard his name—no, it was quieter than that. Practical. Survival-rooted. He had learned early on that noticing things before they fully formed was the difference between control and catastrophe. Between being useful and being discarded.
He noticed patterns. Micro expressions. The way a room breathed when tension slipped into it.
So he knew something was going on the moment he walked into his agency headquarters.
It wasn’t loud. Nothing dramatic. No alarms, no raised voices, no frantic sidekicks running toward him with clipboards and bad news. It was subtler than that. A pressure, barely there, like static clinging to his feathers. The kind that made his wings twitch before his brain caught up.
The air felt… expectant.
The front desk attendant startled when she saw him, fingers fumbling over her tablet. She smiled too quickly, too wide, then dropped her gaze as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have.
Hawks slowed.
That alone was enough to set his instincts humming.
People didn’t get nervous around him unless they’d done something wrong—or unless he had, and no one had told him yet.
He walked deeper into the building.
Heads turned.
That part wasn’t unusual. Hawks was used to being looked at. It came with the job, the ranking, the wings. But this wasn’t admiration or excitement. It wasn’t the subtle straightening of posture or the whispered “that’s him” that usually followed him down a hall.
This was different.
People looked and then looked away.
Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Sidekicks abruptly remembered they had somewhere else to be. Interns froze like startled prey animals before scrambling out of his path. Someone dropped an entire stack of files, papers scattering across the floor like fallen feathers.
Hawks stopped walking.
“…Okay. Weird.”
His wings shifted restlessly, feathers lifting and settling in small, involuntary motions. He forced himself to keep moving, pace casual, posture loose. Years of training had taught him how to appear unbothered even when his instincts were screaming.
But his instincts were screaming.
As he passed a pair of junior sidekicks near the copy room, their whispering carried just far enough for his sharp hearing to catch.
“I swear, when she said that part about the wings—”
“Shut up! Stop! He’ll hear you!”
Hawks’ feathers twitched.
He absolutely heard her.
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t turn. Didn’t react. He let his stride carry him forward, expression easy, unassuming. Behind him, the whispering dissolved into panicked silence.
The wings, he repeated mentally.
That narrowed things.
A staffer coming the other way nearly collided with him, then flushed crimson and laughed nervously, hand flying to her mouth.
“S-sorry, sir!”
She scurried past before he could respond.
Hawks slowed again.
Two interns down the hall burst into giggles the moment he rounded the corner, laughter muffled by their hands. One of them slapped the other’s arm in a futile attempt to stop.
Hawks stopped walking entirely.
The hallway fell quiet.
Slowly, deliberately, he pulled out his phone and checked the dark reflection in the screen.
Hair in place.
Goggles resting where they should.
Uniform unwrinkled.
No stains. No stray feathers sticking out at an odd angle. No marker on his face. No toothpaste—thank god—because he had never lived that one down.
“…What the hell,” he murmured.
His social feeds were quiet. No alerts. No trending notifications. But that meant very little. The Hero Commission curated most of what he saw, smoothing out distractions under the guise of “efficiency.” If something involving him was circulating, he wouldn’t know until someone decided it was relevant enough to show him.
He didn’t even have access to half the tags with his name on them.
But something was circulating.
He could feel it. That low-level buzz of collective awareness, like a thousand people sharing the same secret.
And it involved him.
He followed the tension the way he followed air currents, letting it pull him forward through the building until he reached the operations hub.
The door was half open.
Inside, two of his senior sidekicks were hunched over a tablet, shoulders nearly touching, heads bent close together. Their voices were low, urgent.
“…I told you not to rewind it again.”
“I wasn’t rewinding, I was—”
“Hawks is literally in the building, are you insane—”
They looked up at the exact same time.
The tablet nearly slipped from one of their hands.
“Morning!” they said together, far too brightly.
Hawks leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over his chest. He smiled, all teeth and ease, the expression he’d perfected over years of cameras and crowds.
“Morning,” he echoed. “Why do you both look like you just committed a crime?”
Neither answered.
He tilted his head. “Alright. Talk.”
They exchanged a look. A long one. The kind people shared when deciding who was going to take the fall.
“About what, sir?” one asked weakly.
The other forced a laugh. “Haha—weather’s nice today, right?”
Hawks’ smile sharpened.
“The weather?” he snapped, dropping the casual tone. “You’re both terrible liars. Hand it over.”
One of them flinched. The other immediately shoved the tablet behind his back, posture stiff with panic.
“Sir,” he said, voice tight, “with all due respect… you really don’t want to see this.”
Hawks’ wings flared without his permission, feathers bristling. The movement filled the doorway, casting a brief shadow across the room.
“Now I definitely do.”
“It’s sensitive,” the first sidekick blurted out.
“NOT like that!” the other one yelled. “Not explicit! Just—uh—hero-related?”
Hawks blinked. “Hero-related and you don’t want me to see it?”
The sidekicks nodded miserably.
“…Is it about me?” he asked slowly.
They didn’t answer.
Hawks exhaled through his nose.
“…It’s about me.”
The sidekicks flinched.
One whispered, “It’s more like… someone talking about you…”
Hawks frowned. “Okay? That doesn’t sound bad? People talk about me all the time. Usually pretty nice things.”
The sidekicks exchanged a look.
A look full of pain.
A look full of chaos.
A look full of we cannot possibly say this out loud or we will die.
Hawks sighed, long and slow, and stepped forward. Before either of them could react, he reached out and plucked the tablet from the sidekick’s hands with practiced ease.
“Relax,” he said lightly. “If it’s embarrassing, I’ve survived worse.”
He looked down at the screen.
The screen was already paused on a video thumbnail.
A girl stood beneath harsh streetlight, the background blurred into indistinct color and motion. She wore a red dress, the fabric catching the light in a way that made it glow. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, smile wide and unguarded.
Infernal Heart.
Hawks blinked.
“…isn’t that Endeavor’s rookie?” He asked.
Both sidekicks nodded very quickly.
“And she’s… drunk?” he asked.
They nodded again.
“And this is,” Hawks continued slowly, “is an interview?”
More nodding.
No one spoke.
He stared at the frozen image longer than he needed to. There was something about her expression—something open, almost reckless—that tugged faintly at his attention. Not attraction. Not yet. Just a sense of warmth. Familiarity. Like seeing someone you’d passed dozens of times without really noticing until now.
“…Why is everyone acting like I’m about to watch a crime scene?” he asked.
One of the sidekicks swallowed. “Because you kind of are.”
Hawks raised an eyebrow, then tapped play.
The audio crackled to life first.
Street noise. Laughter. The hum of traffic layered beneath the tinny echo of a phone microphone struggling to keep up. Infernal Heart leaned into frame, swaying just slightly, the streetlight above her catching in her hair and turning the red of her dress into something almost molten.
“Oh,” Hawks murmured before he could stop himself.
Both sidekicks stiffened.
“She’s cute,” he added absently, eyes still on the screen.
No one responded. They were watching him now, not the video.
Infernal Heart squinted at the interviewer, brows knitting together as if she were trying very hard to focus on the words being said to her. Hawks recognized the look instantly — he’d seen it in mirrors, in reflections off glass and chrome, in the faces of heroes who’d had one drink too many and still insisted they were perfectly fine.
“—so my fire temperature averages around sixteen hundred degrees Celsius,” she said, voice steady despite the sway, “but that’s on a empty stomach or clinically stable glucose levels...”
Hawks’ brows lifted.
“…She’s adorable,” he whispered.
His fingers tightened slightly around the tablet, attention sharpening despite himself. She wasn’t slurring. Not really. She was rambling, yes, but there was a structure to it. A logic. He leaned closer, wings settling, instinctively attentive.
She kept talking.
About hydration. About atmospheric dryness. About how her quirk responded differently depending on altitude and humidity. The words spilled out of her mouth in a loose, chaotic stream, but they weren’t nonsense.
Hawks huffed softly. “She knows her stuff.”
“She does,” one of the sidekicks said faintly.
Infernal Heart laughed suddenly, bright and unrestrained, cutting herself off mid-explanation.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said, waving a hand. “I get nerdy about it. Endeavor says I overthink things.”
Hawks snorted.
“Relatable.”
He leaned closer to the screen, utterly charmed.
One sidekick whispered, “Is this happening?”
The other elbowed him. “Shhh!”
She shifted her weight, nearly stumbling, then caught herself with a sheepish grin.
He laughed at a comment about her crying over cats and burning everything she cooks.
Hawks’ mouth curved without him noticing.
“She’s honest,” he said quietly.
Not polished. Not guarded. Not calculating her image or her words. Most heroes tightened up in front of a camera — Hawks included. He knew how much effort went into appearing effortless.
Infernal Heart looked like she’d forgotten the camera existed.
The interviewer laughed, clearly encouraging her.
Then came the moment.
The reporter asked the question:
“—Edgeshot, Best Jeanist, or Hawks?”
Every sidekick inhaled sharply, bracing.
Hawks tilted his head innocently.
“Oh, this should be good—”
Infernal Heart didn’t hesitate.
“OH MY GOD, HAWKS.”
Something in Hawks’ chest jumped, sharp and sudden.
“Oh?” he murmured, leaning closer.
“What?” she continued, laughing. “Who wouldn’t want to sleep with him? Have you seen that man?”
Hawks blinked.
His wings twitched.
Heat crept up his neck before he could stop it.
“I mean, seriously,” Infernal Heart went on, gesturing wildly. “Those wings? I bet they’re soft. Like… dangerously soft.”
Hawks swallowed.
Dangerously soft, he repeated in his head, dumbfounded.
“Yes! Like, you’d touch them and be like ‘oh no I’m in love.’” The young woman clasped her hands to her chest dramatically. “He’s a dreamboat. A literal flying dreamboat.”
“And what would you want him to do with those wings?” the interviewer asked.
“Wrap me in them,” she added dreamily. “Like a burrito. A hot, feather burrito.”
For half a second, Hawks froze.
Then he broke.
He doubled over laughing, the sound tearing out of him before he could rein it in. The tablet nearly slipped from his hands as his wings shook, feathers rattling with the force of it.
“A hot feather burrito?!” he gasped. “That’s—oh my god—that’s incredible.”
He laughed so hard his sides hurt.
The sidekicks stared.
“She just—she just said that,” Hawks wheezed, replaying the clip. “Out loud. On camera.”
He replayed it again.
And again.
Then again.
Each time, the words hit a little differently. The first replay was pure amusement, the kind of delight he rarely let himself indulge in. The second replay slowed things down. He noticed the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. The way she tilted her head, thoughtful even through the haze of alcohol.
By the third replay, his laughter had softened into something quieter.
“She’s hilarious,” he said, breathless. “Who even thinks like that?”
One of the sidekicks whispered, “Sir… maybe you should stop watching it.”
Hawks ignored him.
He watched the clip again, slower this time, thumb hovering just long enough before tapping play. The words didn’t surprise him anymore. He knew them by heart now.
Dangerously soft.
Hot feather burrito.
His wings gave a small, involuntary twitch.
That startled him.
He sat up straighter, suddenly aware of his body again. Of the way his feathers reacted to things he hadn’t consciously registered. Of the faint warmth settling in his chest — not heat, not adrenaline, but something steadier.
Interest.
That was new.
Not the surface-level flirtation he indulged in for fun. Not the easy charm he turned on for cameras and crowds.
This was quieter. Slower.
He watched Infernal Heart from the beginning of the interview, still smiling, still laughing, completely unaware of the effect she was having.
Something about that unsettled him.
Most people who talked about him like that wanted to be noticed. They wanted a reaction. A response.
Infernal Heart looked like she’d just been… talking.
He didn’t let the video play to the end, just sat there, staring at the paused screen.
No one spoke.
The room felt smaller.
“She’s cute,” he announced with far too much intensity.
The sidekicks flinched like someone had fired a gun.
Hawks pointed dramatically at the frozen frame of Heart mid-rant.
“She’s cute. She’s REALLY cute.”
He nodded to himself.
Then nodded again.
Then nodded a third time.
The sidekicks looked at each other, panicked.
One whispered, “He’s imprinting.”
The other whispered back, “Like a duckling.”
Hawks rewound one more time, smiling softly at the screen now instead of laughing.
“She’s got that… honest kind of charm,” he said quietly. “Doesn’t fake anything. Just… says what she feels.”
“…She didn’t mean anything by it,” Hawks said, almost reflexively. Trying to talk himself out of whatever was happening to his emotions.
The words felt like armor. A way to put distance between himself and the strange tightness in his chest.
One of the sidekicks cleared his throat. “Sir… you replayed it five times.”
Hawks waved him off. “For research.”
“Research into what.”
Hawks didn’t answer.
He replayed it once more.
This time, he didn’t laugh.
He watched her expression. The way she said his name — not breathless, not calculated, just bright. Fond.
Something twisted in his stomach.
That’s dangerous, a small, rational voice whispered. You’re reading into it.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his wings to settle.
“She’s just drunk,” he said, more firmly now. “People say all kinds of things when they’re drunk.”
He believed that. Mostly.
But as he handed the tablet back and turned toward his office, the words followed him.
Hot feather burrito.
They lingered long after the laughter faded.
And that—
That was a problem.
Hawks replayed the video again, now lounging sideways in his office chair like he was settling in for a movie marathon.
He shouldn’t have been this entertained.
But oh, he absolutely was.
Infernal Heart—leaned into the camera during the interview, cheeks pink, arms waving dramatically as she launched into one of the most chaotic drunk rants he’d ever heard.
Hawks clapped a hand over his mouth, laughing.
“She’s cute,” he murmured, surprised at how easily that slipped out.
Because she was.
Even drunk, even slurring, even absolutely mortifying herself — she glowed. Soft cheeks, bright eyes, animated hands flying everywhere when she talked. He loved watching people talk with their hands. It meant passion. Emotion. Honesty.
And Heart had all of that in spades.
Hawks blinked at the screen.
“Ohhhh she’s a nerd,” he whispered, delighted. “A cute nerd.”
He rewound the section where she shoved her hair behind her ear, eyes going wide as she launched into a tangent so fast even the subtitles struggled to keep up.
He smiled. Actually smiled. Softly.
The journalist asked the fateful “Marry, Fuck, Kill” question.
Hawks kicked his feet up on the desk.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he said to the screen. “Hit me with it.”
She immediately cut off the mention of Endeavor — “Absolutely not. I love him but like… like a grumpy uncle who yells when you touch the thermostat!” — which made Hawks wheeze aloud.
Then the reporter swapped in Edgeshot, Best Jeanist, and Hawks.
And she lit up.
Like a Christmas tree wired directly into a nuclear reactor.
“HAWKS?!? Oh my GOD—who wouldn’t want to sleep with him? Have you seen that man?”
“Keep going,” Hawks whispered, smirking.
“He’s like… he’s like if hotness had wings.”
He snorted.
“Wrap me up in them. Like a burrito. A hot, feather burrito.”
He lost it again, despite himself.
A full-body laugh, wings shaking, chair nearly tipping.
“Ohhhhhh baby girl, you’re killing me,” he said between breaths. “I’m framing that line.”
He hadn’t played the video passed that with his sidekicks so the next bit was new for him.
Then she said it.
“But I don't want to kill Jeanist! No way! Denim Daddy!”
Hawks froze.
Not blinking.
Not breathing.
Then threw his head back and howled.
“DE—DENIM DADDY?!” He slapped his knee. “HOLY SHIT—OH MY GOD—JEANIST IS NEVER LIVING THAT DOWN.”
He rewound it.
Again.
Again.
Every time he heard her slurred little “Denim Daddy,” he fell apart all over again.
He could not wait to tease Best Jeanist.
But underneath the laughter, another thought crept in — quieter, warmer.
She was… really pretty.
He’d seen her before, from afar of course — rookie pro at Endeavor’s agency, strong numbers, fiery quirk. Cute costume. Big smile. Usually, terrified eyes when interviewed.
But he had never seen her like this.
Open.
Unfiltered.
Unarmored.
Most pros tightened up on camera. Manufactured confidence. Controlled charm.
Heart was pure chaos and sincerity, wrapped in glitter and whiskey.
He liked it way too much.
He leaned back in his chair, wings folding in comfortably.
“Well, Miss Heart,” he murmured to the blank screen, still smiling like an idiot. “If this is the first impression you wanted to make…”
He replayed the burrito line one last time.
“…you nailed it.”
Patrol that night was rough. It felt like the city refused to breathe—one call bleeding into the next, sirens replacing sirens with no space in between. By the time it ended, Hawks was running on instinct alone.
Somewhere in the middle of it, Hawks stopped keeping track of time.
He didn’t remember making it back to his office.
Logically, he knew he had. The distance covered itself somehow—doors opening, elevators humming, the low murmur of the agency fading behind him—but his mind lagged half a step behind his body, caught in a loop it didn’t seem interested in breaking.
He shut the door behind him and leaned his forehead briefly against the cool metal.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to breathe.
The room was quiet in the way only his office ever was. Soundproofed. Controlled. Designed for focus. Designed so nothing unnecessary could get in.
And yet.
Hawks crossed the room and dropped into his chair, wings folding in tight behind him. The feathers settled slowly, reluctantly, like they hadn’t gotten the memo that everything was fine.
Because everything was fine.
He told himself that.
He reached for his phone without thinking.
The video loaded faster this time. Of course it did. He’d already watched it. Already given it permission to live in his head.
Infernal Heart reappeared under the streetlight, smiling too wide, eyes too bright.
Hawks stared.
He didn’t press play right away.
He studied her face instead — the faint crease between her brows when she concentrated, the way her mouth tilted when she smiled like she was about to say something she probably shouldn’t. She didn’t look like she was performing. She looked like she was existing.
He hit play.
The sound filled the room again, too loud in the silence. Hawks lowered the volume, as if that would make the thoughts quieter too.
He watched her talk about her quirk again. About hydration. About heat output. About the science behind something most people reduced to spectacle.
His lips twitched.
She cares, he thought.
That alone shouldn’t have mattered. Lots of heroes cared. Lots of rookies were earnest before the world sanded them down.
But there was something else there. Something that reminded him uncomfortably of himself, years ago, before he learned which parts of himself were acceptable to show.
She laughed about cats.
He exhaled softly.
She talked about burning her cooking.
His shoulders relaxed despite himself.
Then the question came.
Edgeshot. Best Jeanist. Hawks.
He felt it again — that small, sharp jump in his chest — even though he knew exactly what she was going to say.
“OH MY GOD, HAWKS.”
He watched her say his name like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t loaded with rankings and reputation and expectation. Like it belonged to a person instead of a symbol.
Don’t, he warned himself. Don’t do this.
He watched anyway.
By the time she got to the burrito comment, he wasn’t laughing anymore.
Not really.
His mouth curved, yes, but the humor sat on top of something warmer, heavier. The kind of feeling he didn’t have a clean label for. It wasn’t desire — not exactly. It wasn’t admiration either.
It was interest.
And interest, for Hawks, was dangerous.
He paused the video mid-frame.
The office felt too small.
Hawks leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, hands laced together over his stomach. His wings shifted, feathers brushing softly against the back of the chair, restless.
This wasn’t normal.
He flirted. He joked. He let people project whatever they wanted onto him because it was easier that way. He liked attention in the abstract — the idea of it, the control of it.
But this?
This was him alone in a locked room, replaying a drunk interview of a rookie hero and thinking about it.
That was new.
And unsettling.
He’d never had time for this kind of thing. His teenage years had been carved up into schedules and expectations, Commission oversight watching his every move. There hadn’t been space for crushes or fumbling interest or figuring out what he wanted from another person.
By the time he was eighteen, he’d been handed an agency and a public image and told to run.
Feelings like this didn’t fit neatly into a mission briefing.
Hawks scrubbed a hand down his face.
“She was drunk,” he said aloud, the words echoing faintly. “She was just talking.”
That should have been enough.
It wasn’t.
He replayed the video again — not from the beginning this time, just the last minute. Just her voice, her laugh, the way she waved her hands when she talked.
She talked about Jeanist. About Edgeshot. She wasn’t singling him out. He knew that.
And yet.
The way she’d said his name hadn’t felt careless.
He closed his eyes.
This was how it started, wasn’t it? Reading into things. Assigning meaning where there was none. That was how people got hurt.
Jeanist would say something, he thought.
The realization came fully formed, heavy in his chest.
Jeanist would know what to make of this.
Jeanist had always been steady. Grounded. Unmoved by spectacle. If Hawks was spiraling, Jeanist would call it out.
Hawks opened his eyes and stared at his phone.
He hesitated.
Calling Jeanist meant admitting this mattered enough to ask. That alone felt like crossing some invisible line.
But the alternative — sitting alone with this — felt worse.
“…Damn it,” he muttered.
He tapped the contact before he could talk himself out of it.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then Jeanist answered.
“Hawks.”
Hawks grinned automatically, the familiar banter sliding into place like a reflex.
“Heyyyyy… Denim Daddy.”
There was a long, suffering sigh on the other end of the line.
“Hawks,” Jeanist said flatly. “So you’ve seen the video.”
The grin stayed, but it felt thinner now. “What? I thought it was great. Creative, even.”
“Creative,” Jeanist repeated flatly. “Yes. That is one word.”
“Oh come on. It’s flattering.”
“I’m honored, truly,” Jeanist deadpanned. “Every hero dreams of being publicly referred to as ‘Denim Daddy’ by a drunken rookie.”
Hawks grinned, unable to help it. “I’m telling you, it’s got staying power.”
“Hawks.”
“Yeah?”
“Do not… make this a thing.”
“No promises,” Hawks said brightly.
Jeanist exhaled like he was releasing a lifetime of stress. “What exactly is the reason for this call? I assume you didn’t contact me solely to taunt me about my newfound nickname.”
Hawks leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to the window, to the city spread out below. “Let’s say—and this is purely hypothetical—you know, a guy. A respectable guy. Who happens to maybe want to contact a certain rookie hero.”
“Hawks.”
“A rookie who said some very flattering, scientifically accurate observations about said guy—”
“Hawks—”
“And purely for professional reasons,” Hawks continued shamelessly, “this hypothetical man just wants to open a line of communication. No big deal. Totally normal. Healthy workplace networking—”
“Hawks,” Jeanist said firmly, “I am not giving you, her phone number.”
Hawks’ wings sagged.
“Awwww, come on, Jeans! Don’t be like that.”
Jeanist exhaled a long, heroic sigh. “You need to learn how to do things the long way for once in your life.”
“The long way?” Hawks repeated, horrified. “What is this, the Stone Age?”
“Hawks.”
“No, seriously, do you want me to send a carrier pigeon? Write her a letter with a quill? Should I send a smoke signal? I can do that—my wings produce enough friction—”
“Hawks,” Jeanist said firmly. “I’m not making this easy for you. And I shouldn’t have to.”
Hawks blinked at the phone like Jeanist had just suggested he give up flying.
“Since when do you believe in ‘character development’?” Hawks asked accusingly.
“Since you started sounding like a man on the verge of catching actual feelings.”
Hawks flailed internally.
“I—what—I’m not—feelings? Me? I don’t—ugh—”
“Exactly.”
Hawks slumped back in his chair, arms crossed, wings puffing up in indignation.
“So you’re really not giving me her number.”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“There is no ‘little’ when it comes to sharing private information.”
Hawks scowled dramatically. “I thought we were friends.”
“We are,” Jeanist said smoothly, “which is why I’m protecting you from yourself.”
“Rude.”
“Necessary.”
Hawks squinted at his own reflection in the black screen of the tablet. He did look… a little ridiculous. And maybe a tiny bit smitten. Which was unacceptable. And accurate.
He groaned. “Okay fine. You’re right. I’ll… figure something out.”
“Hawks.”
Hawks felt his feathers tighten involuntarily.
“Do you like her?” Jeanist asked, voice calm and certain. “Not as a joke. Not because she said flattering things. Not because she was drunk. Do you genuinely like her?”
Hawks opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Ran a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know,” he murmured honestly.
Jeanist didn’t laugh or tease. Just spoke like someone holding a fragile truth between his fingers.
“You don’t have to know what you want from her yet,” he said gently. “You don’t have to define anything. You don’t have to feel guilt for being interested.”
Hawks stared at his desk, feathers slowly lowering.
“You just need to let yourself be honest,” Jeanist finished. “At least with yourself.”
Honest.
The word felt too intimate.
Hawks exhaled shakily, rubbing the back of his neck.
He wasn’t used to being gently understood.
To being seen without someone trying to dissect him.
To someone telling him it was okay to not have the answers.
He glanced at the tablet again, tapping it one to wake the screen—the frozen image of Infernal Heart mid-laugh—and an uncomfortable warmth pooled in his chest.
No. Not uncomfortable.
Just unfamiliar.
Raw in the way new things were.
He cleared his throat.
“So!” he said, too brightly, too sharply. “Uh—fun video, huh? Really something.”
Jeanist wasn’t fooled.
He never was.
But Hawks kept going before he could be dragged further into emotional quicksand.
“I mean—she’s cute, yeah. Super cute. Adorable, actually. Like, really—really cute. Objectively. Scientifically—cute.”
He was rambling.
Great.
Excellent.
Jeanist remained silent like an older brother watching a toddler have a meltdown.
And Hawks felt it—his embarrassment wasn’t the usual kind. Not the performative “haha I flirt too much.” Not the public persona.
This was internal. Private.
A knot of something warm and confusing sitting right behind his ribcage.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to laugh it off, but the sound came out thin.
Truth was…
He didn’t even know what he wanted out of asking about her.
What was he doing?
What was he looking for?
He wasn’t the kind of man who fell for people.
He didn’t let himself.
From age twelve onward, every minute of his life had been Commission-scheduled, Commission-guided, Commission-owned. Emotional development wasn’t part of the curriculum. Neither were crushes. Or teenage infatuations. Or love.
While other kids his age were discovering romance and awkward first dates, he was learning how to track heartbeats through walls.
By eighteen he had an agency, responsibilities, missions, a reputation—everything except the one thing everyone assumed he was a master of.
Flirting.
Sure.
He flirted.
He teased.
He knew how to say the right lines, tilt his smile, move his wings just so.
But that was air.
Smoke.
A tool, not a truth.
He’d never had anything real.
Never wanted anything real.
Until…
Until a girl in a red dress, with flushed cheeks and too-bright eyes, had smiled into a camera and said his hero name like it was her favorite syllable she’d ever spoken.
His chest tightened sharply.
Nope.
Nope. Nope.
Too much.
He sat up straighter, forcing his voice into its usual breezy tone.
“Anyway! Look at me, getting all philosophical. You know how it is. Cute girl says funny things, I get curious—nothing serious. Just harmless interest.”
His wings betrayed him by twitching at the word harmless.
Jeanist, of course, caught it.
“Hawks,” he said gently. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
“Good,” Hawks said quickly, “because I don’t know what I’d even say.”
His laugh was soft—not his usual carefree, charming sound.
More like something small cracking open inside him.
The truth lingered beneath his words, uninvited but persistent:
This video had stirred something in him he didn’t understand. Didn’t know how to handle.
Feelings with no training manual.
No mission briefing.
No Commission-approved script.
Interest.
Curiosity.
Warmth.
Attraction.
And something deeper.
Something that felt dangerously like potential.
Jeanist let the silence thicken—not heavy, not judgmental.
Just enough to make Hawks’ feathers shift uneasily, like a breeze ruffling delicate plumage.
“I would hate to see her heart broken,” Jeanist commented, “over some flirt who saw something shiny for two seconds.”
The words landed heavier than expected.
Not because they were cruel—Jeanist wasn’t cruel.
Because they were true.
Or at least… they used to be.
Hawks stared at the floor for a long, still moment.
Shiny things.
Distractions.
Flirtations he entertained but never held onto.
He knew his reputation.
He played into it.
He liked being light on his feet—emotionally and literally.
Commitments were… tricky.
Messy.
Dangerous.
And yet—
His feathers gave a small, involuntary twitch.
Not defensive.
Not offended.
Almost like a flinch of vulnerability.
“…Is that what you think I’m doing?” Hawks asked softly. He wasn’t deflecting, but he felt unsure.
Jeanist’s reply was equally honest.
“I think you’re impulsive,” he said. “And I think she isn’t. She’s someone who feels deeply, fully, without hesitation. Someone who falls fast and hard because she doesn’t know how to do anything halfway.”
Hawks’ breath hitched—barely, but enough.
The image of her laughing into the camera—full, open, unguarded—flashed in his mind.
The way her face lit up saying his name.
The way she talked about him with that earnest, breathless sincerity.
Jeanist continued, softer now:
“And you… Hawks… you’re someone who’s never been given the freedom to do the same.”
The words were a gentle hand pressed against old bruises.
Hawks swallowed.
Jeanist paused, letting the silence settle before he added:
“So when I tell you to be careful, I don’t mean don’t flirt with her. I mean—don’t play with her heart without realizing that she’ll give all of it.”
Hawks sat back, feathers slowly lowering.
His voice, when it came, wasn’t defensive or cocky or amused.
It was steady.
Sincere.
“…I’m not playing with her, Jeanist.”
Jeanist didn’t answer immediately.
He was waiting for something—
Not words.
Conviction.
Hawks exhaled softly, running a thumb along the edge of the tablet.
“I’m… drawn to her. More than I expected. More than makes sense. And that’s not because she called me hot or talked about my wings. That was… funny.” A small smile flickered across his face. “But that’s not what got me.”
He looked at her frozen expression again—warm, bright, unfiltered.
“It was the way she looked when she talked,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “Like she meant every word. Like she doesn’t hide who she is. Like she trusts the world to be kind.”
His chest tightened.
Painfully.
“She’s the kind of person you want to protect,” Hawks finished softly. “Not break.”
A beat.
Then another.
Jeanist let out a slow, almost relieved breath.
“…Good,” he said quietly. “Then maybe you’re the one who needs to be careful, too.”
Hawks blinked. “Me?”
“You,” Jeanist confirmed. “Because people like her… have a way of slipping past even the strongest armor.”
Jeanist, unfortunately, was not done.
“Just—I think…” he added, voice calm but deliberate, “you should temper your expectations.”
Hawks blinked. “…Huh?”
Jeanist didn’t sound unkind. Just honest.
“You’re reading a lot into one interview,” he continued. “She was intoxicated. Saying whatever came to mind. That doesn’t mean she’s interested in pursuing anything.”
The warmth in Hawks’ chest faltered—just a fraction.
Jeanist pressed gently, but firmly.
“Remember,” he said, “she also spoke about me. And Edgeshot. Enthusiastically.”
Hawks’ smile thinned.
“…Yeah,” he said slowly. “I know.”
“She wasn’t singling you out,” Jeanist went on. “She was answering a game. A hypothetical. One that encourages exaggeration.”
Hawks’ feathers drooped, imperceptibly.
“I’m not saying it meant nothing,” Jeanist clarified. “Only that it may not mean what you want it to mean.”
The room felt quieter suddenly.
Hawks stared at the floor, jaw tightening as he replayed the video—not the words this time, but the way she’d said them. The light in her eyes. The sincerity.
Was he projecting?
Had he filled in the gaps with something he wanted to see?
“…Right,” Hawks said after a moment. His voice stayed light, but something underneath it shifted. “Drunk talk. Random thoughts.”
Jeanist sighed softly. “You tend to romanticize first impressions.”
“Hey,” Hawks said reflexively, then stopped. He didn’t actually have a defense.
Because Jeanist wasn’t wrong.
The bubble in his chest didn’t pop so much as… deflate. Slowly. Quietly. Leaving behind something more fragile in its place.
Hawks forced a grin back into place.
“Guess that makes sense,” he said. “Wouldn’t be the first time I got ahead of myself.”
Jeanist didn’t push further.
He only said, gently:
“That’s why I don’t want to hand you her number. If you want to know whether there’s something real there… you should let her decide.”
Hawks winced.
“I’m not trying to pry,” Jeanist continued, voice even, thoughtful. “And I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”
Hawks opened his mouth to brush it off—make a joke, deflect, slip back into easy banter—but Jeanist spoke before he could.
“It’s just… I know you.”
Hawks froze.
The words weren’t barbed.
They weren’t even pointed.
They just landed.
“You’re overwhelmed,” Jeanist said gently. “Not because your feelings are wrong, but because they’re unfamiliar.”
Hawks’ wings gave a tiny, involuntary tremor. His throat tightened.
“Oh—come on, I’m not—overwhelmed,” he said with a weak laugh. “Just… curious. A little thrown off. Maybe. Kind of.”
A softer silence this time.
“…Alright,” Jeanist said finally. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
Hawks leaned forward like a man hearing a prophecy.
“She’s earnest,” Jeanist began. “Overly earnest, sometimes. She tries too hard to be strong and ends up tripping over her own intentions. She’s passionate. Brilliant with quirk mechanics. Terrible liar. Always cries at animal rescue commercials. Once set the sleeve of my jacket on fire because she got flustered.”
Hawks’ smile spread slowly, inch by inch.
Jeanist continued.
“She’s kind. Genuine. Anxious in interviews, but never dishonest in them. And she cares about people… deeply. Sometimes too deeply. She hasn’t learned how to pace her own heart.”
Hawks felt something warm bloom in his chest so fast it startled him.
“And,” Jeanist added with what sounded like an annoyed sigh, “she has a habit of growing on people.”
Hawks’ breath caught.
“…Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m starting to get that.”
Hawks drummed his fingers lightly on the desk, the weight of Jeanist’s gentle understanding still lingering like a hand on his shoulder. It made him restless in a way he couldn’t quite name.
He cleared his throat.
“A-anyway,” he said, forcing breeziness back into his voice like slipping on a familiar jacket. “Thanks for the insight. Super helpful. Very enlightening. Emotional journey, ten out of ten.”
Jeanist hummed long-sufferingly. “Yes, your emotional depth continues to astound me.”
“Ouch,” Hawks said, placing a hand over his heart. “Wounding me in my vulnerable state.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Debatable.”
There was a brief silence — not tense, but full of something Hawks didn’t want to feel too closely yet. So he pivoted, subtly testing the waters.
“So you’re really not giving me her number.”
“No.”
“Absolutely no?”
“No.”
“Not even if I say please?”
“No.”
“…pretty please?”
“No.”
Hawks clicked his tongue.
“Well, Denim Daddy,” he said sweetly, “looks like you’ve left me no choice.”
Jeanist made a sound of pure dread. “Hawks. Don’t—”
“DD,” Hawks said, testing it. “Double D. Big D of Denim. Papa Pants—”
“Hawks, I swear—”
“FATHER OF FABRIC—”
“HAWKS.”
“DENIM. DADDYYYYY~”
Hawks’ laughter tapered off, wings settling as he leaned back in his chair, still riding the high of teasing Jeanist.
“Well,” Hawks said, lifting his chin and forcing brightness back into his tone, “thanks for the cold water, Denim Daddy.”
Jeanist groaned. “Hawks.”
“What?” Hawks said innocently. “Just keeping expectations grounded.”
Jeanist hung up on him.
Hawks sat there for a long moment after the call ended, staring at the dark screen of his phone like it might say something else if he waited long enough.
It didn’t.
The silence pressed in, thick and insistent, and Hawks hated it. He hated quiet when it gave him room to think. Quiet was dangerous. Quiet was where doubts nested.
He snorted softly and leaned back in his chair, forcing his wings to loosen, feathers settling into a more relaxed sprawl.
“Okay,” he said to the empty room. “That got way too serious, way too fast.”
That was the problem. He hadn’t meant for it to. This wasn’t supposed to be heavy. This was supposed to be funny. Entertaining. Something he could laugh about later.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering tension.
Jeanist had taken it there. Jeanist always did. Earnest to a fault. Responsible. The type to see the long-term consequences of things Hawks preferred to skim past at thirty thousand feet.
Hawks glanced at the tablet again.
Infernal Heart’s frozen smile stared back at him, open and unguarded.
His fingers twitched.
He didn’t like being told no.
He especially didn’t like being told no when the reasoning made sense.
He rolled to his feet and paced the room, restless energy coiling tight beneath his skin. His wings brushed the walls as he moved, feathers rasping softly.
This was ridiculous.
He was acting like a rookie with a crush, not the number three hero. He had missions to plan. Reports to review. Actual problems.
And yet.
His steps slowed near the window.
The city lights glittered below, distant and impersonal.
Infernal Heart lived out there somewhere. Training. Working. Existing completely unaware that he was pacing his office like this over a few minutes of drunk rambling.
The thought made something twist in his chest.
“Get a grip,” he muttered.
He turned away from the window, wings folding in tighter this time—not defensive, but thoughtful.
Jeanist was right about one thing.
He couldn’t shortcut this.
For the first time in a long while, Hawks didn’t immediately know what the next move was.
The agency quieted gradually, like a city exhaling at dusk.
Hawks noticed it in pieces. The shift change downstairs. The distant hum of elevators slowing. Voices fading from the halls until there was only the muted thrum of the building itself — ventilation, electricity, the subtle creak of steel settling into place.
He hadn’t moved from his office.
He stood near the window now, hands braced against the glass, forehead resting lightly against the cool surface. The city stretched out beneath him in a grid of lights and motion, distant and impersonal. People moved through it unaware of him, unaware of the strange, tight loop his thoughts had settled into.
He preferred motion. He preferred speed. Being still left too much room for things to surface.
Jeanist’s voice echoed again, uninvited.
If she wants to talk to you, she will.
Hawks exhaled slowly, fogging the glass.
“That’s the problem,” he muttered. “I don’t want to wait.”
Waiting meant surrendering control. Waiting meant trusting something to unfold without him nudging it along. The Commission had trained that instinct out of him early — drilled it into him that initiative was everything, that hesitation was weakness.
And yet.
Here he was, hesitating.
He pushed off the window and crossed the room, boots quiet against the floor. His wings dragged slightly behind him, feathers brushing the air in a slow, restless rhythm. He didn’t bother forcing them still this time.
Let them show it, he thought distantly. No one’s here to see.
He sat at his desk again, fingers drumming once against the surface before stilling. The tablet sat where he’d left it, face down, like a temptation he’d already failed once.
Hawks stared at it.
He didn’t flip it over.
That felt like progress.
Instead, he opened a mission report and scanned the words without really reading them. His eyes passed over sentences without absorbing them, mind drifting back to a red dress under streetlight, to laughter that hadn’t been careful or curated.
Dangerously soft.
His jaw tightened.
He closed the report.
This wasn’t like him. Fixating like this. Letting a single moment linger past its usefulness. He was supposed to skim the surface of things, not sink into them. That was how he stayed functional. That was how he stayed safe.
And Infernal Heart—
He didn’t even know her civilian name.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling again. The familiar hum of frustration settled in his chest, tangled with something warmer and harder to define. Interest, yes — but also curiosity. Respect. An odd, reluctant fondness.
He hadn’t even met her.
That was the absurd part.
She existed in his mind entirely as fragments: a laugh, a voice, a way of speaking about her quirk like it mattered. And yet those fragments had lodged themselves somewhere inconvenient, somewhere he couldn’t just shake them loose.
Hawks closed his eyes.
This is nothing, he told himself. A blip. A novelty.
Jeanist would agree. The Commission certainly would.
He’d seen dozens of rookies come and go, watched them flare brightly and burn out just as fast. He didn’t get attached. He didn’t linger.
So why now?
His wings shifted, folding in tighter, feathers brushing together with a soft, uneasy sound.
Because she hadn’t been trying.
The realization came quietly, without fanfare.
She hadn’t been performing for the camera. She hadn’t been angling for attention or validation. She hadn’t even been aware she was being watched in the way she now was.
She’d just been… herself.
And Hawks had spent most of his life learning how not to do that.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, feeling something in his chest loosen and ache all at once.
“Get it together,” he murmured.
He reached for his phone again, thumb hovering automatically over his contacts before stopping short. There was no one to call. No move to make. Jeanist had been very clear about that.
And Hawks, for once, was listening.
That didn’t mean the urge went away.
It just meant he sat with it.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Time felt slippery in the quiet.
Eventually, he stood and shrugged into his jacket, the familiar weight settling over his shoulders like armor. His wings tucked in neatly, posture straightening, expression smoothing into something neutral and composed.
He caught his reflection in the darkened window — the version of himself the world expected to see.
Good.
He could be that again.
As he headed for the door, his gaze flicked once more to the tablet.
He paused.
Only for a second.
Then he turned the light off and left the office, door clicking shut behind him.
The building swallowed him up, routines and responsibilities slotting back into place. Hawks moved through them on instinct, charm and competence returning easily, as if nothing had happened.
But later that night, alone in his apartment, when the city lights dimmed and the noise softened, his thoughts circled back again.
To a laugh.
To a face.
To the knowledge that for once, he’d chosen not to act — and that the choice itself lingered heavier than any mistake might have.
Somewhere out there, Infernal Heart slept, unaware.
And Hawks lay awake longer than usual, wings shifting restlessly in the dark, wondering when “nothing” had started to feel like something.
Munshkin21 on Chapter 2 Sun 07 Dec 2025 10:23PM UTC
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Munshkin21 on Chapter 3 Sun 07 Dec 2025 11:13PM UTC
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Lyllith on Chapter 3 Mon 08 Dec 2025 01:02AM UTC
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Loonjy on Chapter 4 Sun 14 Dec 2025 03:36AM UTC
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StellaDenly_26 on Chapter 5 Mon 15 Dec 2025 07:29PM UTC
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Munshkin21 on Chapter 5 Mon 15 Dec 2025 08:14PM UTC
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xarcadiax on Chapter 5 Tue 16 Dec 2025 12:52AM UTC
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