I wasn’t watching where I was going.

Mortals move through their days with such unselfconscious rhythm—laughter spilling from cafés, arguments whispered into phones, the soft hum of lives unfolding without celestial scrutiny. I’ve grown used to drifting among them like a ghost, unnoticed, unremarkable.

But then I collided with him.

“Ah, my apologies,” I said aloud, steadying myself.

And then my thoughts betrayed me.

Oh. Oh no. He’s… beautiful.

Not in the ethereal, sculpted way angels are. No—in the warm, human way that hits like sunlight after a long winter. His eyes caught mine, and something in my chest tightened, sharp and unfamiliar. Or too familiar. A feeling I once paid dearly for.

Don’t stare. Stop staring. He’ll notice. Mortals always notice when you look at them like they’re made of starlight.

He smiled—just a small, polite curve of his mouth—but it felt like a hand closing gently around my ribs.

“I should’ve been watching where I was going,” I added, voice steadier than I felt. “Are you alright?”

Why does my pulse feel like thunder? Why now? Why him? You’re supposed to be careful. You promised yourself you’d be careful.

Walk away. Walk away before you do something foolish, like hope.

But my feet didn’t move.