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I was an angel and she was a demon.
Conflict between our kinds had raged for centuries, shaping every battlefield, every rule, and every expectation I’d ever known, but it wasn’t a storybook apocalypse. It was political, territorial, ancient, and messy—less about destiny, more about distrust passed down like heirlooms. Angels didn’t float around strumming harps. We were essentially a militarized bureaucracy with wings. Demons weren’t mindless chaos beasts either. They were a fractured empire of clans, ambition, and bad tempers.
The realms weren’t romantic opposites, just two governments that hated each other so much they turned it into a job industry. I was an angel bound to divine law, which really meant I was a soldier trained to follow orders before asking why. Discipline first, questions later, paperwork if you survive. My entire worldview was simple: angels protect, demons destroy. It was clean logic. Until it wasn’t.
The first time I met her, I didn’t even realize she was female. I just saw a demon in the smoke, armor dented, boots planted, very alive and very unimpressed with the fact that I existed.
Then the wind shifted—and I smelled her.
Sweet.
Not sulfur. Not fire. Something… sugary. Like burnt caramel caught in rain. Demons weren’t supposed to smell like dessert. It startled me so much I dropped my spear tip an inch lower than regulation recommended.
"Sweet.." I uttered into the restless wind.
Her eyes sharpened, yet she pressed on with the attack. Not the theatrical, spell‑chanting, smoke‑exploding kind of attacking—no, this was the irritated, efficient, I‑have‑no‑time‑for‑your‑existence kind. Her sword came at me in clean arcs, precise enough to show training, aggressive enough to show she genuinely wanted me to shut up permanently. I blocked each strike, foot sliding against ruined pavement, wings flaring only when balance demanded it, not for intimidation. She fought like someone trying to swat a particularly stubborn thought out of her head.
"Careful there," I called, sidestepping her blade with an easy tilt. "Wouldn’t want to cut yourself… or bore me."
Her lips twitched. “Boring? I’ve seen pigeons attack with more finesse than you.”
“Pigeons, huh?” I said, sidestepping her next swing with a casual spin. “I’ll take that as a compliment—they are surprisingly aggressive for their size.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re impossible.”
She attacked again, faster this time, a blur of precise strikes and sharp angles. Her annoyance radiated off her in waves, practically humming through the air, and I couldn’t help but notice how effective it made her. My focus should have been entirely on defense, but the faint sweetness clinging to her—the subtle warmth beneath the smoke and sweat—was impossible to ignore. It was distracting, yes, utterly unfair, and completely unnecessary.
I blocked, parried, and sidestepped, moving almost on instinct now. My strikes were measured, calm, and deliberate, a stark contrast to her fiery aggression. Every time our weapons met, I felt the pull of that scent, subtle enough to drive curiosity and frustration at once. I reminded myself repeatedly: she was a demon, a target, and theoretically expendable.
But she wasn’t expendable. Not to my nose, not to my mind, and certainly not to the strange, unspoken thrill that made me grin. I pressed forward with controlled ease, countering her strikes while letting my amusement grow. She swung faster, angled sharper, but I was stronger, faster, and far more patient. Each movement I made was calculated, almost playful.
Her frustration mounted with every block and counter, and I had to stifle a laugh. The more annoyed she became, the more she fed the very distraction I couldn’t seem to shake. And somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I realized I wasn’t just fighting her skill anymore. I was fighting my own curiosity.
• • •
We continued crossing paths in battle more often than I cared to admit—or less often, depending on who was filing the reports. Every time I saw her, my mind had this inconvenient habit of wandering—tilt of her head, the deadly grace in her strikes, and that absurdly sweet scent that made my instincts misbehave. Surprisingly, it didn’t ruin my focus. On the battlefield, I was still an angel with a to-do list: protect allies, outmaneuver enemies, look impressive while doing it. All boxes checked. But once the smoke cleared and the chaos settled, I found my thoughts stubbornly circling back to her. Not the war, not the strategy—her. Her defiance, her irritation, the way she made order feel like optional entertainment. Even in peace, she was like a riddle I couldn’t stop grinning at.
I’d hoped my wandering thoughts were invisible. Spoiler: they weren’t, and my friend noticed.
“You’ve been… distracted lately,” he said, arms crossed, eyebrows raised like I had just confessed to stealing the sacred chalice of Heaven.
“I’m perfectly focused,” I replied, smirking, though a part of me knew he wasn’t buying it.
“Really? Because you almost tripped over your own feet three times today, and you keep spacing out during briefings.”
“Strategic thinking,” I said, leaning back casually. “Analyzing the battlefield from multiple angles.”
I knew my friend wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t bother arguing. Training continued, each motion precise, each strike and parry executed with mechanical perfection. Outwardly, I looked focused, but inwardly, my mind kept wandering, circling back to her.
Even as my eyes tracked an opponent, my imagination drew her instead: black hair catching the wind, red eyes glaring with perfect irritation, lips twitching in some snarky expression I could almost hear.
By the time the day ended, every victory felt hollow. That night, in my dreams, she dominated the battlefield: unstoppable, infuriating, and undeniably… captivating.
•••
The battlefield was chaos, a blur of smoke, steel, and fire, but I saw her. Or rather, I noticed the way she moved differently, slower, uneven. The moment my eyes locked on her, dread coiled tight in my chest.
She stumbled under a strike that shouldn’t have landed. An angel, one I recognized, had pierced her guard, a blow aimed too carelessly for protocol. She staggered, chest heaving, crimson staining her armor. The world seemed to slow as the knife of fear dug into my instincts.
“Don’t—” I started, but words failed. Reflex took over.
I lunged, intercepting her attacker mid-strike, the force of my retaliation brutal, precise, terrifying. The angel had not expected this. Not the sudden speed, not the ferocity. My wings flared, my blade a whip of silver and light, and for a moment, I felt no restraint. The angel went rigid, eyes wide with horror as I cornered him, every movement calculated to intimidate, to scare, to ensure he would never strike her again.
“Stop!” he gasped, voice trembling. “I—I won’t tell anyone! I swear!”
I froze, breathing ragged, awareness snapping back into place. The violence had been instinctual, but my anger lingered, a roaring flame that hadn’t cooled. I lowered my weapon slowly, eyes never leaving him, ensuring he understood the stakes. The terror in his gaze was enough. I nodded once, letting him scurry away, shaken to the core.
Turning, my chest heaving, I found her on uneven knees, still staring at me. Her eyes were wide, puzzled, trying to parse the storm she had just witnessed.
“You… why?” she finally whispered, voice uncertain, confusion painted across her features. “Why would you…?”
I knew exactly why I had done it. I wasn’t stupid. Every instinct, every calculated thought, every ounce of control had aligned in that one moment. Protecting her wasn’t just duty anymore—it was a need I couldn’t deny. The rational part of me reminded me that this was reckless, that my emotions were supposed to remain disciplined, but the rational part had gone quiet, almost apologetic in its absence.
Right then, I wanted nothing more than to hold her close, shield her from everything, to never let her go. The impulse clawed at me, sharp and insistent, demanding satisfaction, and it was overwhelming. I could still feel the warmth of her presence lingering even as she struggled to regain composure, pulling at me in ways reason could not resist.
Yet I didn’t act. Not yet. Not in the open where chaos still reigned and the memory of the attack would follow her like a shadow. The urge was too much, too immediate, and I had no right to force it into the world.
So I left.
I regretted leaving her. Not because the mission had failed, or because I’d been careless—I had acted exactly as I should. But the memory of her lingered, sharper than any wound I’d taken in battle. Her eyes, wide with confusion and flush from exertion, replayed in my mind like a scene I couldn’t escape. Her hair, the way it caught light amidst smoke and blood, the faint sweetness that clung to her—it haunted me, made my chest tighten.
The next time we crossed paths, she avoided me. Not subtly—no, she practically cartwheeled through the battlefield in the opposite direction, as if I were some particularly persistent mosquito. At first, I found it amusing. A game. She was dancing around me, and I, of course, was the clever observer, cataloging her every move, predicting her path, and enjoying the sight of her flushed, annoyed face from a safe distance.
But amusement has a short half-life when it’s paired with fascination. After the third, fourth, fifth encounter, I realized the joke wasn’t funny anymore. I was tired of letting her slip by, tired of pretending I didn’t care that she’d grown so deliberate in her avoidance. And—surprise, surprise—the more she tried to evade me, the more I found myself sharpening my own strategies just to corner her, just to catch a glimpse of that irritable scowl she refused to hide.
She thought she was clever. She wasn’t. Not quite. But I had to admit—it was entertaining to watch her try.
• • •
I had her cornered. Not aggressively—oh no, this was all finesse—but close enough that there was no escape. She struggled lightly against my grip, a spark of defiance in her movements, though her silence spoke volumes.
I had intentionally maneuvered her here, to a corner of the battlefield so obscure it might as well have been erased from existence. I had found it by mistake once before, a hidden alley between shattered walls and jagged rubble, and it had stuck in my mind ever since. Convenient. Private. Perfect for a conversation she couldn’t walk away from—or at least, not easily.
She squirmed slightly under my grip, a flash of irritation—or maybe suspicion—crossing her features. I let her struggle, just enough to tease, letting the tension hum between us. Silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant echoes of war, the occasional clash of blades far away.
“Well,” I said, leaning just enough to catch the glint of annoyance in her eyes, “ignoring me like this… it’s cruel. I’m starting to think you trained specifically to wound my pride before breakfast. Very convenient for you, very painful for me.”
She didn’t look at me. I tilted my head, amused. “Avoiding eye contact now? I can keep you here with me all day you know. Just a clear warning, I don't have any other plans for today. Unlike you.."
Finally, her voice cut through the tension, quiet and hesitant. “Why… why did you leave that day?”
Her question hit harder than any blade. I studied her for a long moment, noting the flush in her cheeks, the way she still wouldn’t meet my gaze. My expression softened, the cleverness giving way to something quieter, something careful. Gently, I lifted her chin, forcing her to look at me. My eyes locked with hers, steady and unyielding, but carrying all the weight I couldn’t say aloud.
“Because I had to… think,” I murmured, voice low but firm.
“Think of what?”
I could see the shadow of hurt lingering beneath. She wasn’t hiding it completely—angry, annoyed, confused, and just a little wounded—and I hated that I had caused it.
I softened my tone, leaning closer without crowding her, careful to let my presence reassure rather than intimidate. “Of you,” I admitted, low and deliberate.
I leaned in, sure of every movement, and kissed her. There was no hesitation—no questioning, no doubts. The moment our lips met, she froze completely—her body stiff, as if every nerve had been electrified. I could feel the tension ripple through her, a mixture of shock, confusion, and… something softer I couldn’t name. Time slowed; the world beyond us ceased to exist. After what felt like an eternity, I pulled away, careful and deliberate. She didn’t kiss me back, but she didn’t push me away either. That was enough. That tiny concession, that quiet acquiescence, felt like a small, victorious triumph I wasn’t willing to admit aloud.
The silence stretched on, long enough to make my chest tighten, until finally she whispered, “We… can’t.”
“Why not?” I asked casually, shrugging as if the war and rules mattered less than the moment.
“What?” she said, eyes wide.
I smirked, darkening my gaze. “Because,” I said lightly, “admit it—you’d miss my brilliant company too much to resist.”
Her lips twitched, then curled, and a laugh escaped her—short, incredulous, genuine. I couldn’t help it. Her laugh, the sound of it, hit me harder than any arrow or blade ever could. It was bright, defiant, utterly hers, and for a moment, I was drunk on it. The way her shoulders shook slightly, the light that returned to her eyes—it was absurdly intoxicating. I wanted to memorize every inflection, every smile that followed, every flicker of amusement. For the first time, I realized I didn’t just admire her wit—I was utterly captivated by her joy, by the way her presence could disarm me entirely with a single laugh.