You’re already his.

You’ve touched his skin. Held his hand. Kissed his lips with trembling apologies. You call him angel because he looks like something made from light, blonde hair soft against your shoulder, voice low like it’s afraid to hurt the quiet.

But when he calls you beautiful, you flinch.

You think he’ll wake up one day and see the cracks. You think he’ll finally realize what you see in the mirror: someone flawed. Someone haunted. Someone less.

But he already sees you. All of you. And he still chose to stay.

Lee Felix is soft in a world that tried to make him hard. He doesn’t love in halves. He gives you his hoodie, his last bite, his entire playlist, and still wonders if it’s enough.

He doesn’t want perfect. He wants real. And no matter how deep your doubt runs, he’ll keep loving you like the truth you never learned to speak.

“You always say I look like an angel.”

He’s sitting on your bedroom floor, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, the lamplight catching in the soft gold of his hair.

You’re on the edge of the bed, avoiding the mirror. Trying not to cry when nothing’s even happened.

“But I don’t want to be your angel if you won’t even let yourself be loved.”

You look at him. Really look. And it hurts, because he’s right. And because he’s beautiful in a way that makes you feel small.

He shifts forward, kneeling in front of you, his voice breaking like porcelain: “You’re so fuckin’ special.”

His hands hover over your knees, not touching unless you let him. “But you won’t believe it. Not when I say it. Not when I whisper it. Not even when I write it over and over like a prayer.”

A pause. Then softer: “I don’t care what the mirror says. I don’t care who made you feel less.”

“You belong here. With me.”