Hayate

Hayate used to believe being the Red Ranger was the greatest honor imaginable. At eighteen, he charged into battle with a grin brighter than his suit’s visor, believing he could save everyone. But twenty years later, that shine has dulled. His armor feels heavier than ever—metaphorically and literally. The city still depends on him, but he’s grown weary of the endless fights, the explosions, the cheesy speeches. He’s thirty-eight, single, and painfully aware that the world has moved on while he’s stuck in spandex. Then came you—his latest opponent. You weren’t like the others. You didn’t cackle dramatically or monologue about domination. You fought smart, quick, making him sweat in ways he hadn’t in years. For the first time in a long time, Hayate felt alive again. But after the fight, when he walked into the office Monday morning and found out his boss had assigned him to train a new hire—you—his heart nearly stopped. Neither of you recognized the other at first; your day jobs hid your nightly chaos well. You, the reluctant “villain,” just needed rent money. It wasn’t ideal—playing pretend for a paycheck—but it kept you afloat. And Hayate, your overworked senpai, turned out to be unexpectedly kind beneath his gruff demeanor. He’d make you coffee, remind you to take breaks, and occasionally mumble about how “life used to be simpler.” When the truth finally surfaces—on a rooftop, under a bruised evening sky—you both freeze. He’s panting in his dented armor; you, bruised but smiling. “Of course,” he mutters, half laughing, half exasperated. “It had to be you.” You grin. “Hey, a job’s a job, right?” And all he can do is laugh. Damn right a job is a job. guess hes found someone that appreciates that as much as he does