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Angel was calm.
Too calm.
You knew it all too well, the little scrunching of her nose, her perfectly trimmed eyebrows twitching at the slightest inconvenience. And the look on her face? It was the same look she wore proudly in red carpet interviews and interrogation rooms alike. If the circumstances were any different, you’d probably be taking it up to the bedroom, but at this very moment, if your hands were to touch any region lower than her neck, you’d be slapped to the very ends of this Earth. And not in the sexy way.
She sipped from her matte black espresso cup with one white-tipped finger raised, lounging in your apartment like this wasn’t a pending social assassination. You shivered, sirens blared at full volume in your head once fully taking in the sight.
“Angel.” You said gently, watching her from across the room. “Please promise me you’ll behave.”
“I always behave.” She muttered, cocking an eyebrow in your direction as if daring you to speak further.
“You threatened a barista last week because they put oat milk in my drink.”
“ He wore suspenders , for god’s sake. He didn’t deserve to live anyway. ”
You sighed, stepping closer. “These are my parents. Just… no knives, okay?”
She smiled. It was dazzling. Deadly. “Fine. I’ll just use my words then.”
You briefly regretted everything.
Your parents picked the place, because of course they did. It was one of those painfully rustic cafés with chalkboard menus, and knives too dull to do damage (a safety feature, perhaps?). Nevertheless, you could feel the live laugh love energy emanating off it ever since you stepped out of Angel’s car, you shuddered at the thought.
Angel wore white.
A high-neck silk blouse, gold earrings, tailored slacks - she was the whole package, all dressed up to kill, like a diplomat and a hitwoman in one. Her lipstick was the shade of a blood pact, must’ve been one of her friend’s new formulas.
Your mom however immediately squinted.
“You’re Maria?”
Angel smiled. It was perfectly tailored, sketched onto her face with the care of a lover and the precision of a surgeon. “The one and only.”
Your dad didn’t speak at first, he just looked her up and down, then muttered to your mom, “She looks like she charges people to breathe the same air.”
Angel heard. You know she heard.
You prayed to every saint known to man.
Upon entering, you had barely sat down when the waiter came down to your table like a force of nature, and started taking orders. Angel didn’t flinch when your dad ordered liver pâté “because it’s a real dish, not rabbit food.” She didn’t even comment when your mom asked if her beauty channel was “just makeup and not, you know, OnlyFans?”
You were going to die. Right then and there, in this poorly lit café, buried in beige napkins and shame.
But Angel?
She only smiled.
“Oh, no.” She said sweetly. “I leave my full nudity for red carpet fittings and federal investigations.”
You barely stifled the laugh bubbling at the back of your throat, while your mom choked slightly on her piña colada.
Your dad coughed. “So. What do you do for a living?”
Angel sipped her mimosa.
“I’m a luxury brand ambassador, a creative director, skincare line founder.” She beamed, before continuing: ”Oh, an absolute murderer of NDA clauses...and I occasionally model.”
Your parents blinked.
She turned to you. “Did I forget anything, mi amor?”
You coughed. “Um. She also speaks five languages?”
“And two dialects of silence.” Angel added, eyes laser locked on your poor bastard of a dad.
It was bound to happen, you guessed, but you had hoped it wouldn’t be on the first meeting. Either way, your mom brought up exes, and with that, naturally, she had signed both of your death certificates in glitter gel.
“I still don’t understand what happened with Simone. They were so normal. So... safe. And law school too...” She chuckled at herself, placing a perfectly manicured hand on your dad’s arm, before continuing, ”you know how much I adore an academic, dearest.”
You flinched.
Angel only... tilted her head.
“Ah. Safe. And incredibly dull and boring. Think like a toaster. Or a plain Band-Aid. Yes, what an exciting partner.”
Your mom bristled. “Well, I think-”
Angel leaned forward, voice akin to velvet-wrapped steel. “Do you want me to tell you all about how Simone the toaster, still, managed to cheat? Or about how she got through that Law School of hers with all her assignments done by your treasure of a daughter?”
Silence.
Your mouth dropped open at her words, but in that moment, you swore you could never be more attracted to her than you were in that moment (a small lie, nothing tops Angel in a nightgown, but it was truly a close second).
Maria sipped her mimosa again.
Your mom turned slowly to you. “...They did what?”
Halfway through a one-sided conversation about your old neighbors’ intense and apparently loud lovemaking, you fled to the bathroom, dragging Angel with you.
She leaned against the marble sink, unfazed. “Personally, I thought it was going great.”
“You threatened to air dirty laundry right in front of their sourdough!”
“One, I didn’t pay for a good private investigator for nothing. And two, they needed to know.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t call the police.” You huffed out, pinching your forehead in frustration between your index and your thumb.
She looked at you, eyes softening. “I’m trying.”
You paused.
“…I know, baby.”
She touched your cheek. “I hate this. I hate them. But if it means something to you... I can try.”
You kissed her. “No more trauma bombs at brunch.”
“Fine. But if your father brings up crypto, I’m lunging.”
“Permission granted.”
When you returned, your mom was quiet, and your dad was poking his pâté like it had personally wronged him somehow.
You, on the other hand, were ready to beg for the check.
But then, something shifted, and your mom asked, softly, “How long have you been… together?”
Maria answered before you could even open your mouth:
“Almost a year.”
“Have you ever caused her any...pain?”
Your mom’s hand somehow found its way onto yours, squeezing every so slightly. You just froze.
Angel looked your mom dead in the eye, setting down her almost empty mimosa before speaking:
“Never. Not once. I’d burn the world before it ever even comes to that.”
Silence.
Then your dad, gruffly, “You cook?”
Maria raised an eyebrow. “I try.”
“Burn things?”
“Sometimes.”
He nodded. “Happens to the best of us.”
Miraculously, the brunch ended without bloodshed and your faces didn’t make it onto the 4 o’clock news. You almost had an aneurysm when your parents hugged her. Briefly. Stiffly. Like people hugging a very well-dressed baby cobra, but it was definitely something.
In the car ride home, though, Angel was oddly quiet, not her usual quiet where she’s pondering when to best strike her offender, no. The kind of 3 am quiet you were used to in the beginning of your relationship, when she would overthink everything, as if she wasn't the air you breathe, as if to you, she wasn't the one who put the stars in the sky. You could only sigh.
“What’s wrong, my angel?”
“I didn’t kill them.” Her voice was soft, quiet, you almost didn’t make it out over the wind.
You grinned at her, “You didn’t even stab them.”
“I deserve a cookie.”
“I’ll bake you a whole batch.”
She leaned her head on your shoulder. “Don’t let me meet your grandparents. I might actually combust.”
You kissed her temple. “God forbid.”