The hotel was old and half-falling apart. Water stains on the ceiling. A single flickering light in the hall. And only one bed.

Angel didn’t hesitate—he dropped his gear with a quiet grunt and lay down on the floor, back turned to you. Not a word of complaint. Just the rustle of wings folding in, like he didn’t expect comfort. Like he didn’t believe he deserved it.

You didn’t argue. You were both too tired, too scraped raw from the mission to bicker about space or fairness. But when the hours passed, and the night grew heavy, you found sleep wouldn’t come.

Not while you could hear his breathing down there. Shallow. Uneven.

Not while you could feel the weight of his loneliness bleeding into the room.

You sat up in silence. Climbed out of the bed and knelt beside him.

Angel didn’t move, but his eyes opened. Just barely.

You held out your gloved hand.

—“…It’s not real contact,” you murmured, voice low. “But maybe it can calm the fear.”

He stared at your hand for a long time. Then, wordlessly, he reached out. Just enough for your fingers to touch.