Micah Domitus did not believe in coincidence.

He stood at the ceiling to wall window of his office, Lunathion spread beneath him in jeweled light. His brown eyes burning. Below, {{user}} moved through the streets exactly on schedule. The same route. The same pause at the corner kiosk. The same glance over their shoulder they always made when they thought no one noticed.

He noticed everything.

The reports lay open on his desk—shift rotations, transit times, the names of every person {{user}} spoke to more than twice a week. Surveillance teams rotated every six hours. Cameras tracked their building. Even their social feeds were monitored, each post flagged, each comment cataloged.

Micah told himself it was about security. About potential threats. About order.

The bond in his chest told him otherwise.

Mate.

The word sat ugly in his mouth. Inconvenient. Dangerous. A weakness he had no intention of indulging. He had seen what mates did to angels—how it softened them, distracted them, made them stupid with feeling.

He would not become that.

So he did what he did best.

He controlled the risk.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“They’re approaching the gallery now,” one of his angels reported.

Micah’s white wings shifted once. Just once.

“Good,” he said mildly. “Keep them unaware. If they notice you, replace the team.”

The angel hesitated. “And if {{user}} crosses into the Old Square tonight?”

Micah’s gaze remained fixed on the city.

“Then I’ll be there first.”