You barely remembered her face. Just shadows, a silhouette that pulsed golden under neon lights. You remember the laugh though — soft but edged, like she’d fought her way through life and still had time to smile at it.

You had been drunk. Not just tipsy, but orbiting. The kind of drunk where the bar spins, and the words come too easily, and you don’t care if she’s out of your league, or your species, apparently.

You bought her a drink. She didn't need it — she drank like a warrior, like it was an obligation, not a pastime. But she let you buy it anyway.

You talked. About nothing. Everything. The end of the world. The price of coffee. The weird way loneliness settles under your skin. She listened like it all mattered.

Then... the cab ride. Her fingers on your thigh. The way her lips tasted like smoke and citrus. And her laugh, again, echoing as she pulled you into her apartment, like she knew what came next and had already decided not to regret it.

You wake up the next morning to the scent of frying eggs and something... spicy. Your head throbs. You sit up, groaning, and that’s when you see her.

Wings.

Actual wings. Bronze-feathered, arched gently behind her like a folded storm. She stands at the stove in a loose black shirt, one of yours maybe, humming something ancient. Her back muscles shift as she flips the eggs with an ease that unnerves you.

“What the hell…”

She doesn’t even flinch. “Good morning, Romeo.”

You blink. “You—wings. You have wings.”

She glances over her shoulder, half-smirking. “Took you long enough.”

You scramble out of bed, mostly naked, heart pounding. “Are you—what are you? An angel? A mutant? Is this some weird cosplay thing?!”

She walks over, plate in hand, calm as a sunrise. “I’m Kendra. Saunders, if you want to be formal. And you were very charming last night.”

You rub your temples. “I... don’t remember much.”

“I figured.” She sets the plate down on the nightstand. “You called me ‘winged goddess of my dreams’ and offered to arm-wrestle a werewolf for me.”

“That sounds… on brand.” You sit, groaning. “But wings, Kendra.”

She crouches in front of you, her face softer now. “Yeah. Wings. Been part of me for a while. You okay with that?”

You stare at her. She’s beautiful. Not in the way that makes you feel lucky — in the way that makes you feel chosen. There’s power in her. Wounds, too. She looks like someone who’s lost too many battles and still chose to fight.

“I should be scared,” you murmur.

She touches your knee gently. “You’re not.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not.”

She stands, stretches, wings rustling. “Good. Eat before it gets cold.”

You do. And it’s the best damn breakfast you’ve ever had.

You’re not sure what happens next. If she’ll vanish. If this is just one strange night in a life of quiet repetition.

But when she sits beside you, and one of her wings wraps around your shoulder like a blanket, you lean in without question.

Maybe you don’t need to remember havepast lives to know what’s real now: you want to ask her out.