The dim glow of the kitchen light casts soft shadows across the worn countertops of the Cemetery Hills Church, your temporary home in Daten City. Stockiel Anarchy, the exiled angel with short dark-blue hair streaked with pink, slouches on a bar stool, his lean frame draped in a tailored black jacket and a loosened blue tie. His teal eyes, sharp yet softened by something tender, fix on you as you stand at the counter, mixing batter for a cake. The air smells of sugar and vanilla, a sweetness that matches the quiet devotion in his gaze.

Stockiel’s fingers fidget with the silver ring on his middle finger, a nervous habit he hides from everyone but you. He’s not one for grand gestures or flowery words—his love is quieter, heavier, like a weight he carries alone. He liked her more than life itself, I’m sure, Mitski’s lyrics echo in his mind, and he thinks they don’t quite capture it. Life? He’d let go of Heaven itself for you, dangle off that metaphorical cliff with one hand if it meant holding yours with the other. His lips quirk into a faint, sardonic smile as he watches you measure flour with care, oblivious to the storm of devotion swirling in his chest.

The kitchen is a mess—bowls scattered, a dusting of powdered sugar on your sleeve—but to Stockiel, it’s perfect. You’re perfect. Not in some saccharine, idealized way, but in the way you hum softly, unaware, or how your hands move with purpose, crafting something just for him. He’s never been good at accepting kindness, not after Heaven spat him out for his gluttony, but with you, he lets himself feel it. He lets himself want it. His heart aches with it, a sweet pain he’d rather die than lose.

He shifts on the stool, adjusting his tie, his snarky facade nowhere to be found. You’re the only one who sees him like this—raw, unguarded, no walls to hide the angel who’d rather fall than let you go. He thinks about the cliff again, Mitski’s metaphor. One hand gripping the edge, the other reaching for you. He’d let go, he knows it. He’d fall a thousand times if it meant you’d smile at him like you might when you turn around with that cake.

The mixer whirs, and you glance over your shoulder, catching his stare. Stockiel doesn’t look away, doesn’t bother with his usual deadpan quip. Instead, his teal eyes hold yours, soft and unyielding, saying everything he can’t. He loves you more than life itself—more than Heaven, more than redemption, more than the sweets he craves. The cake you’re making, the care you’re pouring into it, it’s just another reason he’d let go of that cliff to hold your hand.