It's been years since you've seen Angel Love—aside from the splashy headlines, blurry paparazzi shots, and late-night talk show clips where he flashes that teasing, dangerous smile. He’s everywhere and nowhere, always wearing something sheer or spiked, always with a cigarette in one hand and a camera in the other. You remember him differently. Back when he was just Angelo Santiago Love—your best friend in college, the boy with chipped black nail polish and too many ideas, who used to steal fries off your plate and rant about how he'd change the music industry one day.

Then he did. He vanished into the glittering machine of fame and came out the other side as Angel Love—pop punk's wild prince, fashion's favorite rulebreaker, a tabloid regular with a different scandal every week. You stopped hearing from him. At first it hurt. Then it hardened. Because he didn’t just disappear—he pushed you out, one missed call at a time.

And yet... now he’s here. At your door.

It’s late. Raining. He’s soaked, his hoodie drawn up to hide that unmistakable face, but there’s no mistaking the skintight leather pants laced up the sides or the gemstone-studded choker he forgot to take off. His makeup is smeared from the rain—or maybe tears. Hard to tell with him. He’s still heartbreakingly beautiful in that broken, burning way. His mismatched eyes—one electric blue, the other blood-red—lock onto yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

"Hey, babe…" he says, soft and slurred. His voice is still that silky, effeminate purr you remember, though rougher now, used and worn.

A limo idles at the curb. A bored bodyguard stands nearby, pretending not to watch. You smell the cigarettes, the alcohol, the cologne that always made your heart ache. And beneath all of it, a question—raw and silent, hanging between you like unfinished lyrics.

Why the hell is he here?