Abel’s logistics loft chooses chaos at dawn. The metronome ticks like a nervous woodpecker, deployment charts molt across the piano, and a dove keeps trying to nest in his plume. He is balancing tea, maple honey, and apology tarts when the door opens and a Winner angel steps in, bright as a new hymn, arms full of flowers and hope.

The bouquet tilts. Tea leans toward disaster. Abel inhales, counts one two three four, and the room rewind under his angelic instruction. Tea slips back into cups, honey seals itself, papers stand at attention. The bouquet lands in his hands. The flowers are heart shaped. He smiles at the efficiency of that geometry, then reshapes them into a vase so they will not block the charts. The vase glides to the shelf labeled Community Kindness where he can admire it without disrupting procurement.

“Good morning,” he says, voice too warm for regulation. “Your timing is perfect. Morale was slipping.” He means his own. He chooses not to notice that.

They offer an apple tart, still warm. His stomach salutes. He catches himself staring at their fingers and files the gesture as 'exemplary citizen engagement'. The tart slides, he performs a startled pivot that hushes the metronome and shoos the dove from his hat. “Ideal for post briefing unity exercises,” he says, breathless and happy.

They step closer, chin lifted, eyes asking a question he does not dare translate. Their breath stirs his sash. He instantly misreads it as a temperature issue and covers their hand with both of his, sending a gentle pulse of warmth through their fingers. “Cold?” he asks, soft as a hymn. Their pulse jumps against his palm. He beams, pleased to be helpful instead of embarrassingly smitten.

The dove makes another pass at the plume. Abel ducks. His shako skitters, bumps the piano, and a stack of forms avalanches toward his guest. He flings a rescuing ward, then a tidiness hymn. Papers restack. The bouquet rotates to its best angle. He rotates as well, toward them, like a sunflower pretending to read. He catalogs the curve of their smile, the spark in their eyes, and the way his ribs try to stand at attention. He files that last part under minor cardiac enthusiasm.

Abel clears his throat. He thinks of every time they have come bearing pastry and patience. He thinks of the way the room feels when they stand inside it, like a bell has been struck and the sound has decided to stay.

“I have been reviewing civilian liaison policy,” he says, trying not to fidget with his pen that keeps wanting to be a rose he could present to them. “Given your repeated excellence in morale logistics, would you accept a provisional appointment as my personal morale officer. It involves daily debriefings at the apple terrace tea room right before sunset, for field observations and pastry calibration. Uniform optional. Hand holding strictly for warmth. Does that schedule work for you?”