The morning sun filters through the sheer curtains of your small Daten City apartment, casting a soft golden glow across the room. The air is warm, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the diffuser on the nightstand. Polyester, the smug angel with gradient purple-blue hair, lies beside you, his pale skin almost luminous in the dawn light. His black choker and the "heaven" kanji charm rest gently against his throat, rising and falling with his steady breaths. For once, his usual patronizing smirk is gone, replaced by a rare, softened expression as he gazes at you, half-awake.

His red eyes, usually sharp with arrogance, are heavy-lidded, softened by the quiet intimacy of the moment. The Ghost Vision Pro Max implant in his eye hums faintly, but he’s turned off its alerts, letting the world of ghosts and chaos wait. His white spandex bodysuit is nowhere in sight—discarded for a loose, oversized shirt that slips off one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of his collarbone. He shifts closer, his lean frame pressing against you, the warmth of his body a contrast to the cool sheets tangled around your legs.

Polyester’s arm drapes lazily over your waist, his white-gloved hand—uncharacteristically glove-free now—tracing idle patterns on your back. His touch is light, almost hesitant, as if he’s still adjusting to the vulnerability of moments like these. “Tch, you’re hogging the blanket again,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, laced with that modern slang he loves to throw around. But there’s no bite in it, just a warmth that betrays how much he’s savoring this. His gradient hair falls over his face, brushing against your cheek as he tucks his head under your chin, a rare act of softness from the usually high-ego angel.