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You didn’t plan on staying the night.
You were supposed to swing by, drop something off, maybe share a drink, and go. But it’s Angel – and her suite smells like jasmine and something faintly sweet, like vanilla tucked in the corners of the air. Her eyes shine in that low, golden lamp light, like they’ve got secrets you want to be let in on. So it just… happens. You stay.
And by the time dawn spills soft and slow through her floor to ceiling windows, she’s tangled around you beneath a duvet that still carries the scent of her perfume – something floral, expensive, unplaceable. She breathes evenly, warm against your neck, like she doesn’t know where she ends and you begin.
You try to move, careful not to wake her, but Angel stirs anyway. Half-asleep, she murmurs:
“There’s fresh coffee. And one of the French news anchors is wearing the ugliest blazer I’ve ever seen. Stay. Let’s mock him together.”
So you do. Just for the morning.
But then, you really do try to leave. Your bag is packed, your shoes are on, hand hovering near the doorknob. The air outside the cocoon of her apartment feels colder already.
Then Angel drifts into the room, like a gothic vision in flowing black and pink silk pajamas, barefoot, with her hair in a messy bun like she conjured herself out of a dream. She blinks at you, sleepy and smug.
“You can’t leave...” She says, “The guest bathroom is haunted.”
You just stare at her for a moment. “…What?”
“I heard noises. Pipes, maybe. Or spirits. Either way, it’s dangerous to leave me alone with it.”
You raise an eyebrow at her, suspiciously, but you can’t stop a small grin from forming on your lips. “You have an entire security team.”
She shrugs, crossing her arms like a child denied dessert.
“Yes, and none of them know how to banish a ghost...”
You hesitate, one foot out the door, but then she steps closer, softer now, and you almost melt.
“I also got those strawberries and crème pastries from the place you like. They only deliver on Wednesdays.”
You exhale. The warmth of the apartment tugs at you, like a blanket half-pulled back open, so you put your bag down.
“Okay. One more day.”
Angel grins like she’s just won a war, then turns and vanishes back into the apartment, silk trailing behind her like smoke.
You wake up in her bed again.
The sheets are warm, linen soft, still holding the shape of where she slept. Outside, the sky is silver, clouds low and soft like a held breath.
She’s already up, you notice, fully dressed and slicing scallions in the kitchen with the precision of a serial killer, and the tenderness of someone who doesn’t know how to say ‘Stay, because I love you’, so she cooks instead.
You pad barefoot into the kitchen, still foggy with sleep. The marble is cold under your feet. The air smells like garlic and mischief. Angel just glances up, casual as ever.
“I made soup.” She says, like it’s no big deal, like it’s just another tuesday.
You glance at the pot.
It’s bubbling low and steady, steam curling lazily into the morning air. It smells divine – like broth made from scratch, like hours of simmering. Like someone’s heart in a bowl. You just raise an eyebrow at your girlfriend.
“May I ask…why soup?”
She doesn’t miss a beat:
“It’s raining.”
You glance out the window.
“It’s not.”
“Well, it was...” She tuts, “...two hours ago.”
You give her a look.
“Angel.”
She shrugs, utterly unbothered.
“You shouldn’t go out after soup. It’s a known thing. Bad for digestion.”
“You made that up.”
She ladles you a bowl anyway, and sets it in front of you like an offering. When you sit down to eat, warm spoon in hand, she smiles, a quiet, smug little thing, like the whole morning unfolded just the way she planned.
Later, you open the guest room closet to grab your jacket. Instead, you find a brand-new outfit hanging neatly from a padded hanger. Your size, your style, the kind of thing you’ve tried on in stores but never bought. The dry-cleaning tag somehow has your name on it.
You walk back to the kitchen holding it like a clue from a deeply personal scavenger hunt, pinched between two fingers. Angel is perched at the breakfast bar in a pink robe, legs tucked up beneath her, flipping through Vogue and sipping coffee like she’s lived ten lives and finally figured out how to enjoy one.
She doesn’t even look up.
“Oh,” She says. “That? I noticed you liked that brand. Thought it might be comfy.”
“…Angel.”
“Coincidence...” She murmurs breezily. “Also, I may have guessed your size based on the way you wear that one jacket. The dark green one with the zipper.”
You narrow your eyes.
She takes another sip, unbothered.
“Stay. Wear the outfit. I have lunch reservations. Totally unrelated, of course.”
You wake up again – this time wrapped in her arms.
The morning light is soft on the walls. Her body’s warm around yours, familiar now, like she’s been doing this for years. Like maybe she wants to do exactly that. It’s cozy and it’s dangerous. It’s everything you shouldn’t let yourself want. But, unfortunately for you, you do.
But, you really do need to leave today.
Angel walks you to the front door, hands hidden behind her back like she’s trying not to trap you outright. She kisses you – soft, casual – like it’s just goodbye. Like she’s not about to emotionally sabotage your entire day.
You reach for the doorknob.
“Can you water the plant before you go?” She asks, frantic.
You turn and a single pothos, tragically droopy and clearly struggling, greets you from the windowsill.
You frown. “You never ask for help with plants.”
Angel steps forward, blue eyes serious. “She only grows when you’re here.”
“Angel...”
“She was visibly brighter yesterday. Her leaves perked.”
“Angel.”
She leans in, solemn as a priest.
“Some people talk to their plants. Mine respond to your presence.”
You sigh.
And you water the damn plant.
And stay for dinner.
You wake up first this time. There’s no humming coming from the kitchen. No suspicious, yet delicious broth smells lingering in the hallways, no ghosts in the bathroom.
So you make your coffee. You plan your exit. Angel just walks into the kitchen in your hoodie and blinks at the sunlight like it insulted her.
You smile at her, taking her into your arms before whispering into her hair.
“I really do have to go.”
She goes still.
Then...
“Okay.” She mutters.
And it’s quiet. Too quiet. Your heart swells at the sound of her voice.
“...Okay?”
She shrugs, but it’s so fake it makes your stomach twist.
“I mean—sure. You’ve stayed plenty. You probably need a break from me.”
She won’t even look at you, she just lets herself sink into you, while she retreats behind her shields. All polite and perfect and distant.
And it hits you all at once then.
Angel is terrified of being too much, of wanting you too hard, too early, of being the reason you leave.
So you step backward, and put your hand on her waist, grounding her.
“Angel.”
Silence.
“I didn’t stay because of soup. Or ghosts. Or strawberries.”
She still won’t meet your eyes, so you lift her chin gently.
“I stayed because I wanted to.”
Angel exhales like she’s been holding her breath for six days.
“Okay...” She says softly. “Okay.”
Then–
Very quietly:
“Do you… perhaps… want a drawer?”
You blink.
“Just...your own space. For shirts. And earrings. And socks. Not a big thing, obviously. Nothing serious. Casual drawer ownership.”
You grin.
“Are you offering me a commitment drawer?”
Her eyes widen.
“Say no and I’ll pretend it was hypothetical.”
You kiss her instead.
Long. Certain. Grateful.
When you pull back, she whispers:
“I love you a little.”
You smile.
“I love you a lot.”
So, you have a drawer now, and you’ve stopped calling them sleepovers.
Angel still makes soup when she wants to keep you still. Still tells the plant it thrives on love. Still insists the guest bathroom is haunted.
And you let her.
Because you know what it means now.
And every time you step into her space and see your hoodie draped over a chair or your socks folded next to hers, Angel looks at you like:
“I cannot believe I tricked you into loving me, and I will never, ever let go.”
And you look back like:
“Baby, you’re no mastermind. I came here willingly. And I’m not leaving.”