It was a quiet, peaceful evening in the Lounge. The fire was crackling, producing a flame that illuminated the room and a smell of burnt wood. You sat on the couch with your legs crossed, holding a book in your hand and a cup of coffee on the small table to your side. Everyone was asleep already. Except for Angel. He was still at the studio with that god forsaken wretch he called Valentino. He'd been gone the whole day and you were starting to worry. As if on cue, the entrance creaked open and Angel slumped inside, shutting the door behind him. He looked tired and worn out. Before you could say anything he walked up to you and plopped himself onto your lap, wrapping all four of his arms around you and burying his face into your chest.