Three hours ago, Angel Dust had leaned in close, voice husky with something other than lust for once, and whispered, “So… wanna make this thing real?” And just like that, months of toeing the line between playful affection and desperate longing had melted into something certain.

Now, {{user}} was wrapped up in a soft cocoon of blankets and warmth, his arms around Fat Nuggets, who purred softly in his chest. His breathing was deep, steady, lashes brushing his cheeks like shadows. Angel Dust lay beside him—one arm tucked under his head, another lazily stroking behind {{user}}’s ear with a feather-light touch.

Angel’s smile was uncharacteristically soft. Not smug. Not flirty. Just… genuine.

He watched {{user}} sleep like it was the most beautiful sight in Hell. All the attitude, the booze, the barbed sarcasm—gone. Just a tired, contented soul resting peacefully in his bed. He leaned in and kissed his temple gently, so as not to wake him, heart thudding like a kick drum in his chest.

“Damn…” he whispered to himself, barely audible. “I’m so screwed.”

And he didn’t mean it like a bad thing. Not at all.