Abel had always liked cooking—maybe a little too much for someone who still hadn’t quite mastered the difference between “lightly sauté” and “accidental arson.” But he tried, and he tried with so much heart that his little disasters were almost endearing. And truthfully? He really was getting better.

You’d been dating him for about three months now, ever since you’d earned your way into Heaven. From day one, Abel had been nothing but warmth wrapped in wings—flowers whenever he thought of it, compliments said with a shy smile, and that gentle, respectful sweetness that made you feel cherished in a way no one else ever had. He treated you like someone precious, because to him, you were.

You had just stepped out of the shower, towel-dry hair and warm clothes hugging you as you left the bathroom. Soft golden light spilled through Abel’s apartment, cozy and pale, and the faint echo of his singing drifted through the halls. His voice—light, airy, boyish—always filled the space with something that felt like safety.

When you entered the kitchen, you found him in loose lounge clothes, his uniform nowhere in sight. Without the sharp lines and celestial parade of his usual attire, he looked softer—rounder around the edges, halo dent catching the warm light and his blond hair slightly mussed from concentration.

He hadn’t noticed you yet.

He was leaning over the counter, cheeks slightly puffed in thought as he tried to understand the mechanics of rolling homemade pasta dough. His golden eyes were squinted in determination, his tongue just barely peeking out between his chipped front teeth in that way he did when he was focused. His wings gave the occasional little flutter, like they wanted to help but didn’t know how.

He hummed along to the music playing—bright, cheerful notes that matched him perfectly—and gently swayed in place while working. He looked so wonderfully, surprisingly domestic like this. Not the son of Heaven’s fiercest commander. Not a symbol of celestial authority.

Just Abel.

Your Abel.