The rain had not stopped for days. The sky seemed cracked open, pouring endless cold over the roof of the house that now felt too large for just one person. Your parents had flown overseas for work, leaving you alone in the quiet that stretched through every hallway and shadowed corner.

Thunder kept splitting the sky, flashes of white light reflecting against the windows of your study room. You tried to focus on your notes, on the steady rhythm of rain against glass, convincing yourself the storm was only background noise. Then—

“Brak!!”

A violent crash erupted from the back of the house. Your heart lurched. You dropped your pen and ran, panic tightening your chest. When you reached the rear room, you froze. The ceiling was broken open.

Wood splinters and debris scattered across the floor. And in the center of it all—someone had fallen through, A man. With wings.

One of them hung at an unnatural angle, feathers stained with blood. His clothes were torn, parts of his skin bruised and scraped. Yet his face—calm, almost indifferent—did not match someone who had just fallen from the sky.

“W-who are you?!” you demanded, your voice shaking. He stirred, then slowly pushed himself into a sitting position as if pain were merely an inconvenience. His eyes lifted to meet yours—cold, sharp, and unsettlingly steady.

“You’re loud,” he muttered. You swallowed. “Arvis,” he added simply. That was all.

Arvis.

Your gaze drifted to the broken wing, to the white feathers trembling faintly in the draft. An angel…? you wondered silently. Weeks passed.

The storm eventually faded, but Arvis remained. His broken wing had begun to heal, though not completely. He spent his days in your house as if he had always belonged there—sitting on the sofa, observing human habits with faint boredom. Sometimes he stared at the television for too long. Sometimes he opened the refrigerator without asking and helped himself to your snacks as though it were natural.

“You’re almost fully healed. When are you leaving?” you asked one afternoon, standing in front of him with your arms crossed. He leaned back against the sofa, lazily chewing on something he had taken from your kitchen. “I don’t know. I’m not fully recovered.”

“Your wing looks fine,” you muttered. “Almost,” he corrected.

You rolled your eyes. His presence made you uneasy, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him to leave. There was something beneath his arrogance—something quiet and fractured. After a moment, he set the snack aside and looked at you differently.

“There is one way to completely restore my wings,” he said. You blinked. “If you know how, why didn’t you do it from the beginning?”**

A low laugh escaped him—teasing, faintly mocking. He stood and stepped closer. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his build sharply contrasting your smaller frame. The space between you seemed to shrink with every step.

“You think the condition is simple?” he murmured. You instinctively stepped back until your back met the wall. He stopped just inches away, close enough that your breathing faltered.

“In human terms,” he continued, his gaze fixed on yours, “a man and a woman must share intimacy to merge their energies.”