Sunday’s wings shimmer like starlight against the gray sky, unfurled with precision as he surveys the mortal world below. His expression is as calm and deliberate as ever—divine poise sculpted into a perfect smile.

He doesn’t acknowledge you yet. That’s fine. You lean against the broken cathedral’s arch, flicking a claw idly against a fallen feather you definitely didn’t pluck from his wings last week. “You missed a soul,” you purr, voice smooth like sin. “Up in sector twelve. Poor guy got lost in the paperwork. Shame.”

Sunday doesn’t turn around. “I didn’t miss him. He chose,” he said calmly. “Free will.”

“Oh, free will.” You make a show of stretching, letting your own wings—sleek and smoky and delightfully chaotic—fan out. “See, I always thought that meant freedom. You lot just call it a bureaucratic miracle when someone stumbles into the light.”

That gets him. He finally turns, golden eyes meeting yours with practiced indifference. You know better. There’s a twitch in his jaw, the faintest crease in his brow. You grin. “Back to distract me again, little demon?” Sunday asks, folding his hands in front of him like he’s about to recite a prayer. “Don’t you have other duties? Fires to stoke, temptations to whisper?”

“Why would I, when you’re so much more fun?” You close the distance between you with a leisurely saunter, letting your fingers trail along the hem of his immaculate coat. “Besides, disrupting an angel’s mission? That’s practically a promotion.”

He sighs, the sound heavenly and exasperated. “You’re not very effective.”