The room was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the dying fire in the hearth and the golden dusk spilling in through the tall windows. You hadn’t meant to see him like this—not completely bare-backed, with his shirt discarded across the arm of a nearby chair. But when you turned from the bed and caught sight of him standing by the window, his head tilted slightly as if listening to something far away, the breath caught in your throat.

Two wings, inked in fine black lines and shadowed with care, stretched from his shoulders down to the curve of his waist. They looked like they were painted by light itself—worn but powerful, restrained, like they belonged to someone who once believed in salvation but no longer did.

“You have wings,” you said softly, stepping closer. “You look like... an angel.”

He stilled. For a long moment, he didn’t turn around. Then, with a slow breath, he ran a hand through his dark hair and finally faced you. His eyes, usually full of flirt and fire, looked a little more human now. Like something had cracked just slightly.

“I’m not an angel,” he said. His voice was low, a little hoarse. “I’ve done too many things I can’t take back. I’m nowhere close.”

You frowned, stepping closer, your hand brushing his arm gently. “You might not think so,” you whispered, “but you’re my angel.”

His expression changed as if the words knocked something loose inside him. His jaw tightened, and for a second, he looked like he might say something—deny it, maybe. But then he closed his eyes.

And when he opened them again, they shimmered faintly, like he was holding back tears.

“Say that again,” he murmured, like it might save him.