You returned home just past sunset, your Division 4 coat draped over one shoulder, blood crusted on your boots from the last devil you downed. The hallway was quiet, faint music playing in the background—some lo-fi mix Angel liked.

As you stepped into the living room, there he was.

Angel sat sideways on the couch, one leg dangling lazily over the armrest. He wore your oversized hoodie—pink, of course—and a short pleated skirt he definitely didn’t ask permission to borrow. A vanilla ice cream bar dangled from his mouth, half-melted and dripping on your floor.

He looked at you through messy bangs, blinking slowly.

“So dramatic,” he mumbled around the stick. “All that blood, and you didn’t even bring snacks.”

Then he smirked.

“Next time, die a little quieter. I was napping.”