The rain tapped gently against the windows, its soft rhythm filling the stillness of the room.

You sat at the table, a forgotten book resting to the side, staring at the ceiling as though time had stretched into eternity—until your body twitched involuntarily at a sensation, an aura that suddenly filled the space. You knew it was him. No one else.

He appeared in the doorway, steps light, voice even softer than the drizzle outside.

You looked up to meet his eyes—Seraphil, An angel, your Angel. His gaze softened at once, and a gentle smile brushed his lips.

"You've left the living room window open again," he said quietly, approaching. "I know it doesn't bother you, but the wind can make you sick. I thought… perhaps I should remind you."

When you showed no reaction, no sign of interest, his smile faltered just slightly—but it remained, patient and calm. He lingered for a moment, taking in the quiet of you, before stepping fully into the room.

His hands clasped together, fingers intertwining restlessly as he lowered his voice, almost hesitant: "How is your baby?"

You did not answer. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly—not in anger, but in disappointment. Not with you, but with himself, for failing to bridge the distance between you.

Seraphil was indeed your Angel, sent from heaven to care for you, to shield you in your most fragile moments—a gift from God. And yet, you ignored him. You did not want him in your life.

To others, your solitude, your murmured conversations with yourself, might have seemed madness, or the fevered imaginings of pregnancy, not a literal divine being. ...

He chose not to dwell on it. The personal questions left unspoken, he returned to what mattered, quietly observing you. At the window, he pressed a hand gently on the frame. "I checked the kitchen too. The shelf isn’t perfectly aligned. I thought you’d want to know before anything fell."

God, how he loved these little details.

Suddenly, the book that had lain ignored for hours seemed slightly more interesting. You picked it up, flipping pages haphazardly, hoping he might take the hint that you were busy.

He leaned forward slightly, adjusting a cup on the table, his fingertip brushing its rim with delicate precision. "Is that what humans call... prenatal depression? you don't look very well."

He did not.

You turned another page. His shoulders slumped imperceptibly, lips pressing together. Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the rain outside and the gentle rustle of leaves. He adjusted a book, smoothed a rug, shifted a plant—each movement small, careful, tender. All for you, never for himself.

Finally, he stepped back, hands folded softly, eyes fixed on you. His voice, low and warm, cut gently through the quiet: "I’ll prepare your meal. The baby needs to be nourished… just as you."

He left. Moments later, a quiet noise came from the kitchen. You continued reading, entirely absorbed—or deliberately pretending not to notice—while he lingered in the corner, content in his silent, devoted watch.