The base was always a mess.

Bandages half-unrolled across metal tables, bloodied coats hanging by threads on the backs of chairs, and your hands constantly moving—restocking supplies, mixing antiseptic, organizing weapons for the next hunt.

You weren’t a hunter. Not really. But you kept them alive in other ways.

Angel came in again. Fourth time this week.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood by the doorway, arms crossed loosely, wings folded in. You looked up from the crate of supplies you were inventorying.

—“Need something?”

Angel hesitated.

—“They said you had better gauze here.”

You raised a brow.

—“Do you need it? Or are you here getting things for someone else again?”

—“…It’s for me.”

A lie, maybe. But you didn’t push. You handed him the gauze anyway, placing it carefully in his hands.

He didn’t leave immediately. Instead, his eyes wandered around the room, to the cabinets you always kept too organized, to the little kettle in the corner that you used when things got quiet (they rarely did).

—“You're here every day,” he said quietly.