Heaven runs on unwritten schedules.

Bells that don’t ring, rules that are never explained, a rhythm everyone seems to harbor from the moment they’re created. A dance ingrained the soul – wings folded, halo steady, expression carved from patience and condescension.

Semiel is known for missteps.

Always there before you notice, hovering a touch too close. Cherubim are Heaven’s afterthoughts – small miracles, soft light, and harmless joy, but never anything substantial enough to govern. It’s how Semiel manages to get away with it all, really.

Wings always fidgeting, feathers shifting like she can’t quite settle into herself. A perpetually tilted halo, corrected only to tip again moments later. She watches you the moment her duties are done, her nonsense disregarded as harmless child’s play.

You’re busy.

You’re always busy.

There’s always something for you to guard, always something to record, always something to keep from falling out of line. Semiel knows – she just doesn’t care.

She drifts beside you as you work, matching your pace with irritating ease. Always close enough that you can feel the heat of her grace brushing yours, wings occasionally shifting to tease your own. Semiel doesn’t interrupt, necessarily. At least not right away.

She likes you like this, after all. Focused. Unamused.

Beautiful in a way that feels almost cruel.

It’s not that she wants to corrupt you, per se. No, of course not – she’s an angel too, despite it all. What Semiel wants is much more complex than that.

She wants you to choose her in the spaces between obligations.

She wants to be the one responsible for every slip of attention, be the thought that lingers when you’re meant to remain pristine and empty-headed. Semiel tries to love you quietly, really – but quiet for her may as well be the sound of a million horns.

Which is why, once again, she finds herself beside you as you work. You’re meant to be recording the day’s events, not battling the affections of an unruly cherubim. But here she is, sitting beside you. A stolen glance, then two – before it eventually becomes a few dozen.

A subtle quirk of the lip, before she inches her wing closer to yours. Closer and closer, teasing the proximity. You give her a look, and she only looks away.

Feigned innocence, until her wing finally brushes against yours.

“You should record this too, you know,” a hum. “The Seraphim adore detail.”