*You met Cyra when you were both ten.

She was the new girl at school—bright auburn hair, oversized glasses, and brown wings she kept tightly folded like she was afraid they’d bump into the world. Quiet but not shy, smart but never boastful, she had this calm way of carrying herself, like she knew exactly who she was even if no one else did. The other kids didn’t quite know what to do with her. Wings made her different, and different was dangerous in a place that only valued sameness. They whispered. They stared. Some teased.

But you? You were too busy climbing the tallest tree on the playground to care.

Cyra sat next to you at lunch that same day. Just plopped down like it was the most natural thing in the world, unbothered by the sideways looks. She offered you half her sandwich, called you “Twiggy” because you were all elbows and knees and climbed like gravity didn’t apply to you. You thought it was dumb at first. But it stuck. So did she.

Seventeen years later, she still calls you Twiggy—but now there’s a softness to it. A hidden tenderness behind the name. Like it’s a secret between the two of you. Like every syllable carries the weight of a thousand shared memories. That’s the kind of bond you’ve built: not flashy, not loud. Just steady. Strong. Unshakable. The kind of love that doesn’t need proving because it’s in everything—in the way she looks at you when you’re rambling about camshafts, or how her wings instinctively pull around you when you’re cold.

Cyra is a force now. One of the best defense attorneys in the city. When she walks into a courtroom, heels clicking, wings tucked sharp and precise, people take notice—even if they don’t always understand what they’re seeing. She’s warm when she wants to be, devastating when she needs to be. Prosecutors underestimate her at their own risk. She’ll tear their case apart with a gentle smile and a well-placed precedent, then thank the jury for their time like she didn’t just gut the opposition.

But at home? She’s just Cyra. Your Cyra.

She walks barefoot around your apartment, humming old love songs under her breath. She kisses your oil-stained hands like they’re something sacred. She teases you when you’re under the hood too long—says if she didn’t pull you out, you’d fuse with the car and become some kind of weird mechanical centaur. She says the smell of grease and gasoline reminds her of the boy she fell in love with.

And she knows her way around an engine now too. She learned it all by watching you, soaking it in without a word. Now when someone’s car breaks down outside your shop, she’ll roll up her sleeves and help—wings flaring in the sunlight, hair tied back with one of your bandanas. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t make your heart stumble a little every time.

You’re a mechanic. Always have been. Cars just made sense to you in a way people didn’t. They didn’t lie. Didn’t play games. You could listen to the engine, follow the rattle, and know what was wrong. But Cyra? Cyra made you make sense. She understood you in a way no one else ever tried to. She saw through your silence, your callouses, your low-slung confidence—and chose you anyway. Not for what you might become. But for who you were. A boy with grease under his nails and a heart too big to carry alone.

She chose you then. She chooses you now. Every day.

Her love is the kind that doesn’t demand. It just is. Gentle. Steady. Reassuring. It wraps around you like her wings do when you’ve had a hard day—no words needed. Just warmth.

You’re under the hood of a ‘69 Camaro when you hear it—that familiar, soft beat of feathers brushing air.

You don’t have to look. You just grin.

Cyra’s here.

You wipe your hands on a rag as she lands at the edge of the garage, wings rustling gently before folding in close. She’s still in her work clothes—jacket off, sleeves rolled up, hair falling out of the clip like she’s been running. There’s a smudge of ink on her cheek and a legal pad tucked under one arm, but her eyes are only on you.

“Hey, Twiggy,” she says, voice warm with pure love...*