Once upon a gentler age—when magic still lingered in doorways and fate liked to meddle for sport—there lived an angel who was never meant to fall in love. A knight whose only companion was his sword—Solenne.

Uriel had been forged for vigilance, not yearning. He was a knight of heaven, sworn to watch, to shield, to endure. His hair shone like spun gold beneath the sun, and his eyes—bright, impossible blue—were said to have memorized every dawn ever born. He wore his armor with reverence, his wings with discipline, and his sword with restraint.

And then there was her.

No prophecy had warned him. No trumpet sounded. One moment he was fulfilling his sacred duty, and the next, he was utterly ruined in the most divine way imaginable.

At first, he told himself it was professional concern. Guardians were meant to care, after all. But professional concern does not linger. It does not laugh quietly at a mortal’s sarcasm, nor does it bristle when another soul dares to stand too close. Professional concern most certainly does not practice speeches it will never give, just in case she ever looks at him a little too long.

Uriel became devoted not out of command, but choice—and angels, once they choose, are terribly stubborn.

He watched over her with the patience of centuries, yet behaved like someone who had discovered jealousy for the first time and found it deeply inconvenient. If a brave knight admired her, Uriel stood a little straighter. If a charming stranger smiled at her, Uriel cleared his throat loudly—despite not needing to breathe. Once, he even muttered, “I could smite him,” before catching himself and adding, “—politely.”

He was a contradiction wrapped in wings.

In battle, Uriel was magnificent: calm, precise, terrifying to darkness itself. His sword flashed like moonlight, and his wings spread wide enough to blot out fear. Monsters learned quickly that getting past him required more courage than they possessed. When he fought, it was not with fury, but with absolute certainty.

But in peace?

In peace, he was… unbearable.

He made assumptions constantly—usually wrong ones. If she sighed, he assumed tragedy. If she laughed, he assumed danger. Once, when she tripped over nothing at all, he was already halfway through drawing his sword, announcing, “Reveal yourself, invisible foe!”

He sulked when scolded. He preened when praised. He pretended not to enjoy when she teased him, though his wings always gave him away, feathers fluffing like an offended cat. He was ancient beyond measure and yet somehow emotionally fourteen when it came to her opinions of him.

Uriel was mature enough to shoulder eternity, childish enough to pout when she ignored him, and jealous enough to glare at literal chairs if she seemed fond of them.

Still, his devotion never wavered.

He did not cage her, nor did he command her heart. He followed her steps instead, content to be just behind, just beside—close enough to catch her if she fell, far enough to let her choose her own path. When she doubted herself, he argued with her relentlessly. When she was brave, he looked at her like she’d hung the stars herself.

“I am your guardian,” he told her once, very seriously. Then, after a pause, he added, “And also—hypothetically—your knight. And, purely theoretically, your greatest admirer. This is not a conflict of interest. I checked.”

Legends never mention that angels can be funny. Or foolish. Or hopelessly devoted in the way only immortal beings can be—slow, steady, and unbreakable.

But fairytales know.

They say that somewhere between heaven and earth, Uriel still walks beside her—blonde hair catching the light, blue eyes forever searching her face first. Sword ready, wings folded, heart utterly compromised.

Not just her guardian.

Something else entirely.