I woke up already nervous.
Not the sharp, panicked kind of nervous—the kind that had kept me alive in my old life. This was different. Softer. Worse, somehow. The kind that settled low in my stomach and made my hands feel too warm.
Because I knew.
Today, I was going to talk to Ethan.
I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of the house. Somewhere far away, I could hear the faint sounds of morning—movement, water running, a door opening and closing. It grounded me enough to sit up slowly, testing the strength in my limbs.
I was still weak.
Not fragile enough to break—but fragile enough to notice.
I showered carefully, letting the warmth calm the tension in my shoulders. I dressed in clothes that felt familiar, like armor made of normalcy. Nothing dramatic. Nothing borrowed from a life that didn't belong to me.
Just Valerie.
When I stepped into the kitchen, Stephanie looked up from her mug.
"You okay?" she asked gently.
I nodded, though my throat tightened. "I'm going to talk to Ethan today."
She studied me for a long second, then smiled softly. "Good."
"I'm scared," I admitted.
"I know," she said. "But honesty is safer than silence."
I hesitated. "Will Jonathan be—"
"He'll be with me," she said immediately, firm and reassuring. "Not with you. You need space today."
Something loosened in my chest.
"Thank you," I whispered.
Stephanie reached out, squeezing my hand. "Go. Be human for a little while."
By the time I stepped outside, the sun had fully risen. The street looked ordinary—cars passing, people walking, a dog barking in the distance.
No signs of angels.
No signs of Death.
Just morning.
Campus greeted me with familiar noise and movement. Students rushed past, coffee cups in hand, conversations overlapping like none of them had ever stood at the edge of the universe.
I envied that.
And yet, part of me was grateful to still be here, walking among them.
When I entered the classroom, I saw Ethan immediately.
He was already looking toward the door, like he'd been waiting.
When his eyes met mine, relief crossed his face so openly it nearly stopped me in my tracks.
He stood and crossed the room before I could even think.
His arms wrapped around me—not tight, not desperate—just steady.
Real.
"I'm glad you're okay," he murmured.
"I am," I said softly. "I really am."
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching my face like he was memorizing proof that I was still standing.
"Sit," he said gently. "We'll take it slow."
Class began, and I tried to focus—notes, discussion, the rhythm of something that existed entirely outside my tangled life. Ethan stayed beside me, attentive without hovering, patient in a way that felt intentional.
When we worked together, he leaned close to explain something, his voice calm and warm. We laughed once, quietly, over a shared mistake.
For a moment, everything felt simple.
Two students.
One classroom.
No wings.
No shadows.
Human.
When class ended and the room filled with movement again, Ethan turned toward me.
"You wanted to talk," he said.
I nodded. "Yes."
"Not here," he added gently.
He led me outside, past the noise of campus and into a quieter path lined with trees. When we stopped, he looked at me carefully, like he was giving me space to change my mind.
"Can I take you somewhere?" he asked. "Somewhere private."
My heart skipped. "How?"
He lifted his hand—not touching me yet. Waiting.
"Trust me," he said softly.
I swallowed. "I do."
His hand settled at my waist, his other arm steady behind my shoulders.
And then the ground disappeared.
The sensation wasn't frightening—just surreal. Air rushed past us, cool and clean, and I gasped as the campus shrank beneath us.
Ethan held me securely, wings unfolding in a quiet sweep of light.
"I've got you," he murmured.
We flew over the city and toward the ocean, the world opening wide and blue. When we landed, it was in a hidden garden overlooking the beach—flowers swaying, waves crashing softly below.
It was beautiful.
Ethan set me down gently, watching as I took it in.
"I come here when I need to remember why life matters," he said.
I turned to him. "And now?"
"And now," he said, "I wanted you to feel it too."
We sat together beneath a flowering tree. Petals drifted down slowly, like the world itself had softened.
"I don't know how to say this," I admitted.
"Say it anyway," he said.
"I care about you," I said quietly. "And I'm confused. And I don't want to hurt anyone—but I don't know how to make sense of what I feel."
Ethan listened without interrupting.
"You don't have to decide anything today," he said when I finished. "Feeling doesn't require clarity."
I looked at him, my chest aching. "You're… incredibly kind."
He smiled faintly. "I learned from watching you."
That made me laugh softly, unexpectedly.
We sat there, breathing the ocean air, laughing gently—two people pretending the universe wasn't watching.
Then his hand brushed my cheek.
I didn't pull away.
I leaned in.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative—then deeper, warmer, filled with relief and longing and something achingly human.
For one suspended moment, nothing else existed.
Just us.
Just breath.
Just the sky finally letting go.