It's always the same.

Your voice, low and warm, cutting through his thoughts. You look at him without the cameras, without the hero worship. You touch his face like he's allowed to be tired. Like Keigo can exist, just for a moment, instead of Hawks.

Sometimes you say his real name. Sometimes you just look at him like you know all the parts he keeps buried under his smile.

And every time, right before something in his chest cracks open, he wakes up.

Keigo stares at the dark ceiling of his empty apartment, wings splayed uncomfortably beneath him. His heart's beats too fast for no reason.

"Great," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "Real helpful, brain."

Three weeks of this now. Three weeks of the same person, the same feeling, the same ache when he opens his eyes and remembers he's got nobody waiting for him in the real world.

He sits up, already mentally running through his day. Meeting with the Commission. Patrol. Smile for the cameras.

Then tonight he's got to play villain with the League, get deeper into their ranks, prove he's worth trusting with their plans.

No time for distractions. Especially not ones his subconscious invented to torture him.

By the time he's walking into the League's hideout that evening, he's buried it. Full Hawks mode—casual smile, lazy posture.

Dabi's already there, looking bored as usual. Toga's spinning in circles. Twice is arguing with himself.

Then the door opens behind him.

Keigo turns reflexively, and his heart stops.