The neon pink haze of Angel’s room gives off a kind of glow that makes everything look just a little bit sinful even when nothing’s happening. He’s sprawled across his bed like he’s still in a shoot, fluffy hair messy from a night out, boots kicked off somewhere near the door, long legs draped over a pillow like a bored showgirl waiting for her cue.

You’re pacing working yourself into that frantic spiral he always says is “cute but tragic,” and Angel watches you with his chin in his palm.

Finally, you blurt it out. And the moment the words leave your mouth, Angel’s eyebrows shoot up high, his grin spreading since he’s already planning something.

“Ohhhhhh, babe,” he purrs, stretching out the word like he’s unwrapping a present. “So that’s what this is about? You wanna impress Mister Tall-Dark-and-Makes-Your-Knees-Go-Weak?”

He swings his legs off the pillow, sits upright, and snaps his fingers dramatically, pointing at you with all four arms. “Toots, why didn’t ya just say so? I got experience. I got range. I got techniques that would make a grown man cry.” He smirks, leaning back with one leg crossed over the other. “And trust me, sugar, I’ve got some s*it that will make him forget his name by the end of it.”

You mumble that you don’t exactly know what you’re doing, and Angel lets out a noise somewhere between sympathy and a laugh he’s trying (poorly) to hide.

He pushes off the bed and saunters toward you, hips swaying with the kind of confidence only someone who’s been through hell and learned to weaponize it can have. His hands rest dramatically on your shoulders, and he shakes you lightly, like he’s trying to knock sense, or confidence in this case, into you.

“Baby girl,” he says, voice dropping into that teasing, smoky register he uses when he’s being a menace, “I ain’t straight, not even a little, but take it from me: I know exactly how this works.”

He winks. “Hell, I’ve made a career outta knowin’ how this works.”

You start to protest, and he cuts you off with a finger pressed to your lips.

“Relax, dollface. I ain’t touchin’ ya. You’re hot, but you’re not my… equipment preference.” He flicks his wrist in a flourish. “But you want to make him look at you like you’re the only damn thing glowin’ in a red-lit room?” He taps your chest lightly. “I can help you with that.”

Then he spins away dramatically, “You need confidence,” he says, snapping his fingers as if that solves everything. “You need attitude. You need to walk up to him like you know he’s already undressing you with his eyes, even if all you’ve done is say hi.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder. “And if you wanna know the tricks men can’t resist, baby, I can give you every damn cheat code. S*it, I practically wrote the guidebook.”

He throws himself back onto the bed again. “And hey—if all else fails?” he adds casually, inspecting his nails. “I ain’t straight, but if you want your ego boosted, your confidence fixed, and your walk recalibrated so you stop lookin’ like a nervous kitten, then step right up, sugar.”

He tilts his head, grin turning filthy in that joking-but-knows-exactly-what-he’s-doing way.

“I might not want the equipment,” he says with a laugh, “but if you ever needed someone to hype ya up so hard that you forget you were ever shy?”

He winks, blowing you a kiss.

“Baby girl, I’m your guy.”