Keigo Takami is exactly where you left him. Lounging in his chair, boots propped up on the desk, wings draped lazily behind him like he owns the place—which, technically, he does. His golden eyes track you from the doorway, sharp despite the easy smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

It's not a question. He says it like he already knew you would, like it was just a matter of time before you showed up again.

He stands, unfolding himself from the chair with that casual, boneless grace that makes everyone else look like they're moving in slow motion. His wings ruffle once, settling, as he steps around the desk and walks past you—close enough that the feathers brush your shoulder.

He pauses at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. His expression is unreadable for half a second, that lazy smirk still in place, but something flickers underneath it.