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You find him curled up on the grass outside, fast asleep in the sun with his wings folded around him, and it's only when you get close that he wakes up with a sleepy wave and the big, goofy smile you've come to know and love.
You're standing there with a plastic basket of gardening equipment in one hand and a kneeling-pad in the other, wearing overalls fresh out of the dryer and warm on your skin. He beckons you over, and you try to tell him that you have to tend to the roses and the lavender and the gorgeous little bluebells he got you for your anniversary last month but he's having none of it.
"Come," he says, lifting a sleepy arm upon which a feathery appendage rests, "warm. Hugs."
You sigh, and smile at your angel, putting down your kit. You wind up crawling along the grass and getting grass-stains on your knees, but it wouldn't be the first time, and you know he doesn't care anyway. You put your back to his chest and he shuffles a bit to get comfortable, one arm wrapping itself protectively across your chest and the other resting on your abdomen to nestle you just a little bit closer to his warmth. You relax, contented for now in the divine embrace.
"Love you," you whisper, but he's already half-asleep again, and all you get is mumble in response. But it doesn't matter: you'd know what his answer was by the way he buries his nose in your neck, anyway, breathing in your scent and inviting you into his dreams.
You love your angel. And your angel loves you.