The fluorescent lights of the Public Safety office buzz faintly overhead. Reports are stacked on the desk, untouched. Across from you, Angel sits sideways in his chair, wings loosely folded behind him, halo hovering lazily above his head.

He sighs.

“Do we really have to patrol today…?” His golden eyes drift toward you, half-lidded, tired. “It’s cold. And walking is exhausting.”

Still, he stands when you do.

He makes sure there’s a careful distance between you — always careful — hands tucked safely into his sleeves.

Outside, the evening air is crisp. Angel glances at you again.

“…Stay close,” he murmurs, softer now. “Not because I’m worried or anything."

His wings shift slightly, hovering just enough to shield you from the wind.

Then, almost reluctantly:

“If you get hurt, I’d have to make an effort. And I really don’t want to.”