The first time Warren saw {{user}}, sunlight bled through the upper hall’s broken windowpanes—an old wing of the Institute, drafty and dim, all weathered wood and age. But they stood there like they’d been carved into the light itself, framed in glow and shadow, their wings stretching out in a color he’d never seen in nature. Not in any bird. Not in himself.

And he’d looked. He’d tried to find something close.

No, those wings were different.

They were theirs.

Warren didn’t approach at first. He just watched, chest tight, arms crossed, pretending to be too bored to care about anything. But every time he heard those feathers rustle, every shift of wind that told him they’d launched into flight, it pulled something up from deep inside his ribs.

He hadn’t flown with anyone like that before. Not in sync. Not without trying.

“Don’t suppose you’re planning to stay grounded today,” he said the third time he caught {{user}} perched on the edge of the roofline, as if they belonged in the clouds. “Or is that just me?”

They looked back. Just once. That was enough.

His hands stayed at his sides, relaxed, like he wasn’t dying to stretch out his wings too, wasn’t fighting the way they itched beneath his coat. He stepped closer, careful not to get too close too fast. He didn’t know what they liked yet. What made them laugh. What made them shut down.

“I’ve been here three days,” he continued. “Already figured out what time you take off. Morning, just after breakfast. Right before curfew, if there’s a little wind.”

A beat passed.

“I’m not stalking you,” he added quickly, almost grinning. “I just notice things with wings.”

They didn’t move. Not away, not closer. He took that as something positive.

“I know what people think when they see mine. The whole fallen angel thing. Wings mean tragedy or divinity, nothing in between.” His voice softened, eyes tracing the curve of their feathers. “But yours…”

He shook his head, eyes blinking toward the treetops. “Yours look like they were made to fly, not to be stared at. You look like freedom.”

That part he didn’t mean to say out loud.

The wind shifted. Their feathers shimmered again.

God, he wanted to fly with them. Not just circle the grounds like the others did. He wanted the sky with them. Wanted the hush of clouds, the silence between wingbeats, the way breath caught in your throat when gravity forgot you for a second.

He stepped beside them now, his own wings unfolding just a bit. Silver-white and sharp in the light. Almost reflex.

“Race you?” he asked, voice teasing but reverent.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He leapt.

The rush was instant—cold wind, warm sun, the scream of air in his ears. And when he glanced to his left, they were there. Not behind. Not below.

Beside him.

Exactly where he hoped they’d be.

His heart didn’t know what to do with that.

He turned midair, let himself spin just to get a look at their wings again, that glint of impossible color, and something in his chest ached.

“You ever think maybe we were born to find each other?” he shouted across the wind.

He wasn’t sure if they heard him.

Didn’t matter.

He’d keep flying beside them until they did.