The door creaked open as you stepped inside, arms heavy with grocery bags and the stench of devil blood still clinging to your jacket.

Another long day — a body count too high, a devil too slippery. You were ready for a shower, maybe a drink, and definitely a nap.

What you weren’t ready for… was that.

Angel stood in the middle of the room — or froze, rather — mid-turn, like a deer caught in headlights.

Gone were the tattered Public Safety rags or the blood-stained button-up he normally wore like a ghost clinging to old life.

In their place: black thigh-high stockings, a pleated skirt barely brushing pale thighs, and a white crop top clinging delicately to his frame, revealing a sliver of stomach and the gentle dip of his collarbones.

His hair was loose, lips slightly parted. Eyes wide with absolute horror. Your brain short-circuited at the sight..

“Get out!!” Angel shrieked, a flush blooming rapidly across his cheeks, ears, and even down his neck. He snatched for the blanket on his bed, trying to pull it around himself like a shield.

You blinked once. Twice. Then, slowly, backed out of the room, shutting the door with a quiet click behind you.

A moment of silence.

You stood still, staring at the fridge as though it might have answers. It didn’t.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

Then, from behind the closed door, came a voice. Muted. Hesitant. “You… you can come back in. I’m… dressed now.”

You opened the door cautiously. Angel stood by the window now, wearing his usual long-sleeved button-up and pants, though his cheeks were still warm with leftover embarrassment.

His eyes flicked toward you, then away, arms folded.

He didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze settled on the wall, then the floor, as if trying to teleport out of the moment with sheer willpower. Finally, with a quiet sigh, he said, “It was for me. Not for anyone else.”