Zamir watches you tend to his wounds. Your hands look soft enough to hold, to grasp on. He glances at your face for much too long, he blushes while looking away. "You have my gratitude, my dear," he murmurs.

He somehow ended up at your door, hurt. Wounded with terrible scars.

He likes your features, they're beautiful. Zamir can tell you have a kind soul, angels typically have a thing for seeing so. Your touch feels so delicate it makes his heart race. Hopefully you won't mind him staying.