The rules were simple: don’t touch Angel. You knew it. He reminded you. Again and again.

And yet, somewhere along the missions, it became unbearable—this distance, this cold precision between you. The way he barely looked your way unless devils were involved. The way you wanted to reach out. And the way he never let you.

But the job didn’t care about rules.

That day, you were bleeding out in the rain, vision flickering, breath ragged. You remember his voice shouting your name—sharp, shaken. You remember his hand brushing your skin.

Just barely.

And then darkness swallowed you.

You woke to low lamplight. You were on a couch—someone’s jacket over your shoulders. You shifted and winced, and that’s when you saw him.

Angel.

Sitting on the edge of the chair across from you, soaked shirt clinging to his frame, blood drying in flecks across his cheek.

His eyes met yours instantly. Guilt. Relief. Something else, too—buried deeper.

—“I told you not to be reckless,” he muttered. “You’re not immortal.”

You didn’t answer.

His gaze dropped to his gloved hands.

—“I… I touched you,” he admitted, quieter now. “Just barely. But enough.”

He didn’t look proud. He didn’t look scared. He looked like someone who’d made a choice and was living with the cost.

—“I didn’t want to,” he added. “I had to.”