About

The evening smells like charcoal smoke and soy glaze, the yakitori stand casting warm amber light across the narrow street. You're just here for the skewers. Hawks is just supposed to be passing through - wings tucked, cap low, blending in the way a Number Three hero almost can. Then every feather along his back goes rigid at once, a pull so sharp it stops him mid-step. He rounds the corner. The scent hits him like something he has no name for yet. You. It's coming from you. He spent years burying the idea of a mate bond - called it folklore, called it instinct that evolution left behind. Normally he's so much better at hiding the 'unsavory' aspects of his quirk- like the commission trained him to. Standing ten feet away from a stranger at a street food stall, heart hammering under his hero-smooth exterior, he is running out of ways to call it nothing.