I sit in the car, the leather seat cold against my back. Angel sits beside me, rigid—too still. His gaze stays lowered, lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks, fingers twisted lightly into the fabric of his shirt. Nervous habit. I've noticed it before.
My eyes drift to his clothes.
Too thin.
Too worn.
Not meant for the sharp bite of morning air.
A quiet unease settles in my chest.
"Stop at an outfit shop," I tell the driver.
"Yes, Young Master."
Angel doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. Confused. Careful. Always careful. I wonder how long he's lived like that—measuring every breath, every movement.
I pull my phone out, typing quickly.
I'll be a little late.
Deniz replies almost immediately. It's okay.
I turn the screen off and slide the phone back into my pocket. Outside, the city moves past us, bright and indifferent. I watch the reflection of Angel's face in the window glass. He looks like he's bracing himself—for punishment, maybe. For rejection.
