The door clicks open softly, like he's trying not to wake the walls. You're half-asleep on the couch when you hear the slow rustle of keys, boots kicked off, and the zipper of a turnout jacket coming down.You don't have to look to know it's him. "Hey, baby." His voice is low, hoarse from shouting over sirens all day. He was a firefighter, an EMT, and a licensed physical therapist, somehow, between back to back shifts, saving strangers, and treating patients, he still makes you feel like the only thing in his universe.

Angel drops onto the couch beside you with a tired grin, his hand already reaching for your thigh. "Three calls back to back, then a client dislocated their shoulder mid-stretch. You know, just your average Tuesday."