#celestial beings

The izakaya is half-empty, lit by warm amber bulbs that swing gently above mismatched tables. The soft clink of glass, the crackle from a nearby grill, the low hum of laughter—it all melts into a kind of cozy static. The kind that settles in your bones. A temporary comfort.

You’re curled into the corner of a booth near the window, nursing your fourth drink. Your hair’s pinned up haphazardly, and the collar of your jacket is shrugged halfway off. Across from you, Kiyoko leans forward with both elbows on the table, swirling her beer absentmindedly, eyes sharp. She’s always been good at reading you—the way you pick at the corner of a napkin when you're holding something in, the way your mouth twists right before telling a story you wish you could forget.

“Okay,” she says, sipping her beer. “What went wrong this time?”

You stare into your glass, hoping it might serve as a lifeline. Then, flatly: “He asked if I’d be a stay-at-home wife to his Twitch career.”

Kiyoko nearly chokes. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were. He said it with full confidence—presented it like he was offering me the kind of opportunity people write vision boards for.”

“What’s his follower count? Please tell me it’s at least four digits.”

“Six,” you say grimly. “Not thousand, just six.” 

You pause, then add, voice flat: “Then he asked if I’d dye my hair to match his brand. Which is hilarious, because—what brand? He rage-quits Mario Kart and screams into a $20 mic.”

Laughter bursts out of Kiyoko, unfiltered and loud enough to earn a side glance from the table behind. She presses her sleeve to her mouth, eyes gleaming. “You attract a special breed of man.”

“You’re telling me,” you mutter, tipping your glass back.

For a moment, the laughter lingers. Then the warmth ebbs. You glance down at the droplet of beer trailing down your glass, your voice softer now.

“You and Tanaka… you make it look easy.”

Kiyoko’s smile turns wistful. She reaches for the last piece of fried tofu, her tone light. “It’s not easy. But it’s right in the ways that matter.”

You nod slowly, watching the swirl of liquid in your glass. “I want that. Just once. To feel sure about somebody.”

She sets her chopsticks down. Her hand slides across the table and closes around your wrist. Her grip is light but grounding.

“You will,” she says. “The right guy’s out there. Probably confused. Or blind. But he is out there.”

You let out a breath that’s part laugh, part ache. 

“If the universe has a plan for me,” you murmur, “it must’ve lost the file.”

Kiyoko gently squeezes your wrist. “It’s not lost. You’ll find it when the time’s right.”

Neither of you rushes to leave. The food is long gone, and the drinks are almost warm, but you stay seated. When the bill comes, you split it without thinking—the same way you always have. The only kind of love you’ve ever been good at is friendship: the kind that holds you steady while everything else frays.

Outside, the streetlight above the izakaya blinks in and out, wavering between burning out completely or flickering for a little longer. Kiyoko pulls her coat tighter and hugs you hard beneath the buzzing glow, arms squeezing once, firm and sure.

“Text me when you get home, okay?”

You nod. “I will.”

You watch her head in the opposite direction, footsteps quiet on the sidewalk. Then you turn down the street alone, burying your hands into your pockets. Your boots tap softly against the pavement. The air smells of grilled meat, car exhaust, and early spring.

The night is quiet, but not empty. It feels almost as though a presence is watching. Or waiting. You stop and glance over your shoulder, but there’s no one there. Only the empty street. A flickering sign. And that strange, hollow ache in your chest—the one you never quite learned how to name. The one that whispers…

Maybe—just maybe—you’re not the kind of person people—

No. Shut up. Don’t think like that. 

When you get, home you don’t bother turning on the lights. The door clicks shut behind you with a quiet finality. You toss your keys into the bowl by the door, kick off your boots, and peel your jacket off with the kind of practiced exhaustion that doesn’t need words. Your apartment smells faintly of lavender detergent and rotten food you meant to throw out yesterday. 

You thumb out a quick text to Kiyoko: Home safe. I love you. Goodnight.

Then you toss your phone onto the couch and exhale. It’s quiet. Still. Then—

“We need to talk.”

You freeze. The voice is warm, smooth, and entirely out of place. It’s not coming from your phone. Or your head.  You whirl around, heartbeat spiking.

There, leaning against your bookshelf as though he lives there, is a man, glowing faintly at the edges, his whole body seems made of filtered sunlight. Barefoot, dressed in sleek white, an air of casual arrogance radiating off him in waves of heat. There’s a literal light haloing from his skin as if someone left a celestial spotlight on. And behind him, wings, not fully solid. They’re a shimmer of feathered gold flickering in and out, glitching at the edges of reality. 

You do what any sane person would do.

You scream.

And then you launch the nearest pillow at his head. It passes right through him. You throw a candle next. Then the TV remote. Both fizzle straight through his torso.

He sighs. Actually sighs. Like you’re the problem here. “Really? I manifest in full divine shimmer, and this is the welcome I get?”

He brushes imaginary ghost dust off his shoulder, looking vaguely impressed. “I will say—you’ve got great aim.”

You keep backing up, hands raised like that’ll do anything. “What the hell are you?”

He blinks. Slowly. As if the question is somehow offensive to his entire existence. Then he smiles. Slow. Smug. Dangerous in a way you definitely don’t like. “A celestial being, obviously.”

You squint at him. “Celestial being? As in… alien? Angel? Hallucination?”

“Think of me like… Cupid.”

You stare. Then snort. “Cupid has a bow. And a diaper.” A beat. Drier than dust—“And he’s a baby.”

He places a hand over his heart, pretending to be wounded. “Well, I have wings, emotional trauma, and cheekbones that could cut glass. So pick your version.”

You cross your arms, equal parts exhausted and wildly unimpressed. “Do you have a name, or do you just float around being... whatever this is?”

He perks up, visibly pleased, as if you’ve just asked for his autograph. “Tooru Oikawa.” A beat. “Otherwise known as fabulous.”

You give him a deadpan stare. “Why are you here?”

He leans off the bookshelf with the kind of flourish reserved for stage performers and uninvited prophets. “Duh.” He gestures to you as if you should’ve already put the pieces together. “I’m your assigned Cupid.” 

Then, with the world’s most irritating wink—“And clearly, your last hope.”

You stare at him, still rooted in place, trying to decide if this is a dream, a breakdown, or some elaborate prank sponsored by beer. He, meanwhile, stretches like he has all the time in the world.

“Okay,” you say finally, voice tight. “You’ve got thirty seconds to explain what the hell is going on before I call literally anyone.”

Oikawa gasps—actual, theatrical offense. “Rude. You’d summon mortal backup when you’ve got divine expertise in the room?”

You point sharply at him. “Explain.”

“Fine,” he says, straightening his collar. “But I’m doing this my way.”

He snaps his fingers. A scroll unrolls midair in front of you with a flutter of glowing ribbon and excessive fanfare. The parchment glows faintly, gold script pulsing with magical arrogance. At the top:

Romantic Case File 419-A: [REDACTED]                                                   Status: Delayed. Unresponsive to divine nudging. High potential. Emotionally reckless. Slightly combative.

You blink and shoot your eyebrows up. “Slightly?”

He beams. “I was feeling generous.”

You squint at the glowing header. “Wait—why is my name redacted?” You reach out to touch it, but Oikawa snatches it away, clutching it to his chest like it’s top-tier celestial gossip.

“Not important,” he says quickly. “Focus on the content, not the header.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s extremely suspicious, it’s literally my file.”

“And yet, you’re still listening.” He grins. Then, without addressing it further, he casually scrolls the parchment downward with a flick of his fingers, smoothly shifting the glowing header out of sight and revealing the annotated chaos beneath it.

Before the scroll vanishes, your eyes snag on a particular line scrawled in red ink:         “Candidate #4: ‘Would love to take you home… to his mother.’         Subnote: Emotional codependency and an uncomfortable obsession with his mom’s approval.”

Oikawa doesn’t even look up. “That dinner was tragic. You barely escaped. I cried.”

“You watched it?!”

He waves a hand. “Please. I’ve seen the footage. Painful stuff. I wanted to fast-forward, but professionalism won.”

Before you can object again, he conjures something else—a compact mirror that pulses with celestial light, reminding you of an iPad—but divine. He taps the surface. Clips of your past dates begin to flicker across it—color-coded, timestamped, annotated.

You catch glimpses: a man explaining cryptocurrency over steak. A guy who cried on the second date about his ex’s dog. Another who tried to ‘manifest’ a kiss with a crystal.

Each is labeled helpfully: Misfire. Red Flag Parade. Why God, Why?

Oikawa tilts the mirror toward you dramatically. “Behold. Your romantic history. Tragic, yet statistically fascinating.”

You glare. “Is this your idea of help?”

“Actually,” he says, tapping a final clip, “this is.”  A photo of you appears. Across your forehead flashes in red: OFF-PATH.

“You’re on what we call a delay list,” he explains, circling behind you with the energy of a smug shark. “High potential, low outcome. Your instincts are shot. Your fate line’s tangled. It’s tragic, really. But lucky for you, I’m here.”

“To do what?” you snap.

“Fix it.” He grins, spinning the mirror back toward himself. “Your love life. Your fate. Your general attitude, if there’s time.”

You cross your arms.

“Okay. Crash course,” he says, already launching into his next performance. “Most people meet their person on their own. Fate kicks in. Gut instincts fire. People stumble into ‘the one’ like idiots. It’s cute.”

He snaps again. A new screen appears: two silhouettes converging under a blinking sign labeled: ALIGNMENT ACHIEVED.

“But sometimes,” he continues, circling again, “they get stuck. Burned. Jaded. Guarded. Their timeline derails.” Another tap. Your face again, with a pulsing red warning. “And when that happens, the council sends in a Cupid.” He grimaces. “Usually some rookie with zero tact and way too much glitter.”

He pauses dramatically. Smirks. “Or—when things are really bad—they send in a specialist.”

You blink. “You?”

He places a hand over his chest, striking a pose that resembles an athlete on a podium. “High-performance divine entity. Specialist in difficult cases and emotional damage control.”

“Oh my god.”

“Technically, yes.”

You stare harder. “You’re here to reroute my romantic trajectory.”

“Which,” he says, gesturing broadly, “is currently on fire.”

You open your mouth. He cuts you off with a raised finger. “You’ll thank me later.” And then, smug as ever: “So get used to me—I’m here to fix your love life. Whether you want me to or not.”

Oikawa exhales like this entire encounter has been emotionally taxing for him. He adjusts the cuffs of his celestial coat with unnecessary flair. “Just so you know, I’ve been working on your case for weeks. Subtle nudges. Carefully timed meet-cutes. Emotional windows. You’ve ignored. Every. Single. One.”

He raises an eyebrow as if you failing to fall in love is somehow a personal offense. “So, per protocol ✦ 4.7.1 RA—which you obviously don’t know—I’m allowed to appear in person when fate intervention fails spectacularly.”

He straightens to full height, all smug divinity. “We start tomorrow. Wear an outfit that says ‘emotionally available.”

Wink. Sparkle. Gone.

You’re left standing in the middle of your apartment, blinking at the space he disappeared from. The faint scent of ozone clings to the air. “…What the hell just happened?” 

You spin in a slow circle.                                                                                    No glowing scrolls.                                                                                            No glittery iPad.                                                                                                  No smug-winged lunatic in sight.       

“Glowing dude? Hello?? Come back!” 

“What was his name?" You blink at your ceiling. "Tofu??" You press a hand to your face. “Okay. I need to lie down. I’m clearly drunk.”

You shuffle toward the bedroom, muttering under your breath. “This is definitely beer hallucinations. Sparkles aren’t real. Neither are divine case files.”

Pause.

 “…Did he say we start tomorrow?”

——

Morning light spills into your apartment, creeping through the blinds and landing across the bed in warm, uneven stripes. Your head throbs. The aftertaste of cheap beer and regret clings to your tongue. You groan, rolling over and pulling the blanket higher over your face. You vaguely remember glowing wings. Sarcasm. Throwing a candle at a man made of light.

“Dream,” you mutter, voice gravelly. “Definitely a dream. A deeply unhinged beer-fueled dream about a winged himbo.”

“You know,” a voice replies, far too close and far too awake, “you snore when you sleep. Might make pairing you with someone a little trickier.”

You scream. And then, on instinct, you hurl your pillow at him. It sails through the air and passes straight through his chest.

You sit bolt upright in bed, the blanket still clutched to your chest. There he is. Floating three inches above your floor, defying gravity. Softly glowing. Arms crossed. Smirking.

“YOU’RE REAL?!”

Tofu Oikawa—the so-called celestial being who broke into your apartment last night—gives you a mock-offended look. “Uhh, hello? We met yesterday. You threw, like, five objects at me. Very hostile first impression, by the way.”

"Well, I’m sorry, Tofu, I assumed you were a side effect of being completely wasted.”

He looks personally victimized. “Wow. I manifest in full divine shimmer, and you think I’m a beer dream? And it’s Tooru.”

He spins lazily in the air, his glow pulsing like a smug nightlight. You blink at him through the brightness. It’s too early for this. You’re too hungover for this.

You deadpan. “Yeah, whatever, Tofu.”

He groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. I’m a divine entity, not a protein substitute.”

“Hang on.” Your eyes narrow. “Were you actually watching me sleep?”

“Technically,” he says without an ounce of shame, “I monitored your vital aura fluctuations overnight. Same thing, different branding.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” he says, treating it as a compliment. “And you talk in your sleep. Fascinating stuff. Real emotional depth in there.”

You groan and flop back onto the bed. “This is not happening.”

“Oh, it’s very happening.” He drifts closer, peering down at you with the same expression people use when a computer freezes for no reason. “Alive, grumpy, still utterly gorgeous. Good. We can work with this.”

You peek at him through one eye. “Did you just flirt with me?”

“Professionally.”

“Is that even allowed?”

“Not really,” he shrugs, clearly unbothered. “But I’ve always been more of a… flexible interpretation kind of entity.”

You sit up fully, hair a mess, and soul not far behind. “Great. A celestial himbo with boundary issues.”

“And wings!” he chirps, spinning once to flash them at you. They shimmer faintly in the light, glitching at the edges, questioning their own existence.

You stare. “What exactly are we supposed to be doing today?”

He beams. “Rewiring your tragically misaligned love life. Day one of the intervention starts… now.”

You don’t move. “You were serious about that?”

“Serious is such a heavy word,” he muses, floating toward the kitchen. “Instead, let’s say I’m… cosmically committed.”

He starts opening and closing your cabinets. “But first, breakfast. You’ll want something in your system…”

He glances over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“…It’s going to be a lot to digest.”

You mutter under your breath, pulling your blanket off you. “Yesterday was a lot to digest, but that didn’t stop you.”

He glances back with a grin. “What can I say? I love keeping my mortals on their toes.”

You drag yourself to the kitchen like a soldier to war—hoodie sliding off one shoulder, sleep still clinging to your bones, and defeat practically stitched into the seams. A bowl of cereal is already waiting on the counter, milk poured, spoon perfectly placed. Courtesy of Tofu.

You don’t thank him. You just slump into the chair and let the spoon dangle from your fingers in slow, resigned loops. Sunlight slices through the blinds in harsh, uneven bands—sharp enough to aggravate your hangover, but still less offensive than the glow radiating off Oikawa, who floats nearby with all the subtlety of a celestial nuisance on a mission to ruin your morning.

Then Oikawa snaps his fingers with the kind of flair that should come with a warning label. A clipboard materializes midair. It hovers above your cereal, glowing faintly like it thinks highly of itself. Across the top, in bold celestial script:

Romantic Case File 419-A: [Assignment: Impossible] Status: Delayed. Unresponsive to divine nudging. High potential. Emotionally reckless. Slightly combative.

You blink. Then squint harder. “Assignment: Impossible? That’s why it was redacted yesterday. Seriously?”

Oikawa shrugs, unfazed, one leg casually draped over the other, suspended midair in a posture that suggests he's found an armchair in the clouds. “Don’t look at me like that. Everyone on the Delay List gets a name.”

“You could’ve at least sugarcoated the name, you nimrod.”

He beams, genuinely delighted. “You know, I like you. You’re funny.”

You roll your eyes and keep chewing.

He pulls a celestial quill from literal nowhere and makes a dramatic note on the glowing clipboard. “Doesn’t know how to take a compliment.”

“I do too!”

“Sure, sure. And I’m emotionally well-adjusted.”

You jab your spoon at him in a slow-motion warning. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he starts humming—of course he does—before leaning casually over your kitchen table and tracing glowing lines into the laminate with one finger.

A sigil unfurls beneath his touch, golden light spiraling outward in a ripple, spreading across the table as if drawn from a well of stars. The table flickers as constellations form and dissolve. Symbols circle the edge, turning with the precision of starlit clockwork.

You stare. “What the hell is that?”

He elbows in front of you like he’s shielding nuclear launch codes. “Yeah, okay, no. Per celestial protocol ✧ 2.8.8 HC, you're not authorized to view active divination nodes.”

“If I can’t see it, can you at least tell me what I’m not seeing?”

He sighs, long and dramatic, the kind that suggests your curiosity is physically painful. “Fine. But if the Tribunal comes knocking, I’m blaming your mortal meddling.”

He gestures to the portal. “This is how I find your match.”

Your spoon pauses mid-air. “You say that like it’s Tinder for angels.”

Oikawa tilts his head. “If only. That would be less paperwork.”

You shovel another bite of cereal into your mouth. “You know, you keep referencing these protocols and rules like what you do is some celestial government job. What do these rules even entail?”

He doesn’t even look up. “Because it is. Sort of.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“And you broke into my apartment,” you deadpan.

“Touché.” 

Then, with a sigh so exaggerated it could qualify as performance art—

“Okay, so there are dozens of celestial clauses Cupids have to follow. Most of them are boring. Some of them are terrifying. I’m only going to show you the alignment and attachment clauses—start slow, build trust. You know… the usual foreplay.”

He winks, clearly pleased with himself. Your expression must say it all, because he laughs, low and unbothered.

Then, he snaps again. Another scroll unspools from thin air behind him—twice his height, glowing softly with cosmic authority. The edges curl in the same way old parchment does, yet the center codes glow.

At the top in celestial script:

✦ Celestial Rules: Cupid’s Division For Official Use Only.                                                                                       Compliance is not optional.                                                                    

You stare. “Is this… real?”

“Realer than your last three boyfriends combined.”

You mutter incoherent insults under your breath and lean in to read—but the scroll flutters, flickers—and then fades, glowing text dissolving before you can get past the header.

“What the hell?”

“You thought you’d get full access?” Oikawa says breezily, snapping the scroll halfway closed. “That’s adorable. No, no—you get the sampler platter.”

He scrolls with two fingers, revealing a narrow section. Five lines pulse into view, the rest blocked out by shimmering censor bars.

✦ Clause 4.7.1 — Invisibility Protocol: Perception by Mortals ✦ Clause 4.7.2 — Interpersonal Conduct: Cupids are facilitators of Fate ✦ Clause 4.7.3 — Fate Interference: Emotional Interference Index

“Clause 4.7.3—Fate Interference…” Your head tilts, tone edging into suspicion. “What the hell is the Emotional Interference Index?”

He waves a hand. “E.I.I. Think of it as a divine mood ring. If it spikes, the Council gets nosy. Mine’s a 0.4. Which means I’m practically a monk.”

“Monks don’t flirt like you.”

“They should.”

Your eyes flick further down the list. 

✦ Clause 4.7.4 — Wing Status: Alteration + Degradation ✦ Clause 4.7.5 — Bonds: Approved and Unapproved  ✦ Clause 4.7.6 — Observation Boundaries

“Clause 4.7.6—Observation Boundaries?” You shoot him a look. “That one’s definitely fake. You have no boundaries.”

“It’s real,” he says, grinning. “I’m just very bad at it.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course you are.”

He scrolls back to the header, half-hiding the document again.

“Wait,” you ask. “What other celestial beings are there? Or is it just you flapping around, messing with people's love lives?”

He gasps, “Don’t tell me you thought Cupids were the only ones.”

“I didn’t… until you showed up looking like Sephiroth, only with more unresolved trauma.”

He places a hand on his chest. “Rude.”

“You still didn’t answer the question.”

“Classified.”

“And these rules aren’t?”

Oikawa waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, well, normally they are. But you already saw your case file, and at this point, what’s a little light rule-breaking between fate-entangled strangers?”

He pauses. Then shrugs.

“Besides, I doubt they’ll erase me for bending a few clauses…”

A beat.

“Probably.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How often do you break the rules?”

He clasps his hands over his heart, unconvincingly aghast. “Excuse me? I am a paragon of restraint.”

Then his smirk slips. Briefly. Only for a second. “…Let’s just say your case got my attention. After I read it, I knew the usual protocol wouldn’t cut it.”

You huff. “That’s not ominous at all.”

He twirls the clipboard with a flourish, checks a box off, and mutters loud enough: “Marked for severe interference potential—cute when annoyed.”

Your glare sharpens. “I heard that.”

He winks. “I meant for you too.”

You glare harder. He only beams brighter. Then, with infuriating cheer, he claps his hands together.

“Right!” he announces. “Cosmic Chemistry Field Test Number One. Time to get dressed.”

You blink at him over your spoon. “What?”

“You have a date today,” he says like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Well, technically a controlled social encounter with romantic undertones and mild cosmic intervention. Very low-stakes.”

You stare at him. Spoon frozen mid-air. “That’s not a sentence normal people say.”

“And yet,” he says, floating closer, “it’s a sentence I was born to deliver. 

You narrow your eyes. “Do the words ‘coercion’ or ‘emotional entrapment’ mean anything to you?”

He flips upside down with a lazy barrel roll. “Sure. And I’m choosing to ignore both. I need you to trust me—neither of you knows it yet, but this will totally end with a date.”

You squint harder. “I’m starting to hate your never-ending obscurity.”

“We Cupids prefer the term divinely vague. It’s more marketable. Anyways, chop-chop.”

You haul yourself upright, muttering curses under your breath as you shuffle toward the bathroom. Hoodie askew, hair attempting a full mutiny. But halfway there, you hesitate—suspicion prickling up your spine. You glance back over your shoulder at him.

“…Wait. Can you see through things?”

His grin sharpens, all teeth and zero shame. “Only with effort. But don’t worry—I’m very respectful.”

A beat.

 “Unless curiosity wins.”

You whip a towel off the counter and chuck it at him, wishing it were a holy weapon. It sails through his chest in a sad flutter of cotton and lands in a heap on the floor.

“Rude,” he says, all faux indignation. “And here I was, planning not to peek that much.”

The bathroom door slams behind you. Thirty minutes later, your hair’s still damp from the shower, and you’re dressed in the outfit Oikawa insisted on, claiming it "makes your eyes pop" with entirely too much enthusiasm. You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when you catch him, reflected in the mirror behind you, floating in midair and flipping through a glowing scroll like it’s your horoscope and he’s got complaints.

You spit. Rinse. Point your toothbrush at him, imagining it’s a dagger. “Do other people see you, or am I the only one stuck with your heavenly commentary?”

He looks up, chipper. “You’re the only one attuned to my frequency. It’s an elite access tier. Mortals can’t perceive divinity unless we let them.”

You mutter, “So I’m hallucinating. But officially.”

“Divinely hallucinating,” he corrects, smug. “Also, waving dental weapons at celestial beings? Extremely bad luck.”

You glare. “You’re in my mirror.”

“I’m in your fate.”

“Can you be in someone else’s fate for five minutes?”

He winks. “If I could clone myself, I’d be everywhere.”

You slam the cabinet shut. Behind it, his voice floats through the steam. “Hurry up. Your cosmic chemistry test window opens in thirty-seven minutes.”

You pause. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Time is a construct. So is dating. Let’s just hope you don’t trip over both.”

You rinse, spit, and flick the faucet off harder than necessary. You shove your toothbrush back in the holder. By the time you leave the apartment, your jacket’s zipped halfway, your hair’s doing whatever it wants, and your mood is somewhere between mildly homicidal and cosmically done.

The city’s in that groggy half-awake state—street vendors rolling up their shutters, leashed dogs yanking their humans toward invisible missions, someone already yelling into their phone near a blinking crosswalk. The air smells faintly of roasted chestnuts.

Beside you—hovering upside down without a hint of shame—is Oikawa. His coat flutters with a breeze that doesn’t exist. Legs crossed, arms folded behind his head, expression the picture of cosmic smugness. “So,” he says, voice chipper enough to break glass, “your potential match is nearby. Roughly eighty-three meters. Give or take. Might be a jogger. Might be a guy walking his grandma’s poodle. The metrics are... interpretive.”

You grunt. “Wait—so you don’t even know who he is?”

He twirls in place, shrugging with all the useless grace of someone who’s never been wrong in his life. “I’ve got a profile—personality indicators, emotional resonance, preferred flirting tempo. No headshot, if that’s what you’re after. I’m here for the gentle nudge. A lovingly engineered coincidence.”

You eye him. He barrels forward anyway.

“I’m thinking of a soft run-in. Coffee cart collision. Apologetic glances. Flirtation. Banter. Mild soul recognition. Or—hear me out—umbrella-sharing. Rain’s excellent for drama.”

You don’t respond immediately. Because up ahead, a woman pushes a stroller past you. She glances your way, then quickly away, with the careful neutrality reserved for people talking too animatedly to no one.

You glance at Oikawa. Still upside down. Still glowing faintly, his edges lit as if the sun itself had chosen to backlight him. Then back to the woman. She speeds up. Your stomach sinks. You’ve been talking. Out loud. To the air.

You stop walking. “I look insane.”

He beams. “You look whimsical. Mysterious. Deranged, maybe—but in a hot way.”

You deadpan. “So I’m the woman wandering around the park arguing with herself.”

“Technically,” he says, flipping upright and adjusting his imaginary cuffs, “you’re speaking with a certified celestial operative. But yes. From an outsider’s perspective? Definitely reads as light psychosis.”

As though summoned by irony, a man walks by with a golden retriever, blissfully unaware. His dog, however, halts—ears perked, nose twitching. It stares at Oikawa, tilts its head, then barks once, low and confused. A moment later, it sneezes and lets itself be tugged forward, choosing to leave the mystery unsolved.

You gesture after the dog as it trots off. “Seriously?”

Oikawa shrugs. “Animals have better spiritual reception. Divine frequency makes them twitchy. They don’t know what I am, exactly. Just that I’m not… mundane.”

You squint at him. “So dogs detect your celestial nonsense, but people can’t because they’re not attuned? Like I wasn’t… until last night?”

He gives you the grin professors get when their students finally catch on. “Exactly. Mortals are conditioned not to see what they’re not meant to. Neural redirection. Sensory filtering. Denial. The holy trifecta.”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “Why am I cursed with being the one person who sees the boundary-challenged glitter ghost haunting my love life?”

“First of all, it’s a privilege,” he says, smug. “Second—your love life is such a haunted bumper car course that celestial oversight was practically mandatory.”

You open your mouth. He holds up a finger. “And third, look on the bright side. It could be worse. You’re only tuned to my frequency right now. There are plenty of things out here you’re better off not syncing with.

You stop mid-step. The gravel crunches under your boot. “What does that mean?”

He grins—wide and maddening. “It means don’t worry about it.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s the exact thing someone says when I should worry about it.”

“I’m one of the less weird ones,” he singsongs, drifting a few feet ahead of you in slow, elegant spirals. “So believe me when I say some frequencies are better left unpicked. You’ve got enough chaos without adding supernatural static.”

You drag a hand down your face.  “Every time you open your mouth, I gain a new anxiety.”

He beams, radiant and deeply unhelpful. “You’re welcome.”

You sigh and start walking again. The wind threads through the trees above, sending a flurry of orange and gold leaves spiraling down. Some drop by your shoes. One cascades down your hair.

Oikawa floats beside you again, graceful as a leaf on the wind. He spins once in a lazy, theatrical turn—arms out like he’s rehearsing for a one-man celestial ballet.

Then—snap.

A shimmering earpiece materializes in front of you, suspended midair. It glows faintly, soft and crystalline, resembling starlight frozen in glass.

You frown at it. “What is it?”

“Celestial comm-link,” he says, delighted with himself. “Only you can hear me. Very discreet. Very high-end. The Council uses these for angelic negotiations and karaoke nights—but today, it’s for your meet-cute.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why do I feel like this is going to end in emotional carnage?”

“Great,” he says, nudging the device toward your ear. “We can add confidence to the list of things we need to work on.”

You blink at him. “That’s rude.”

He grins wider. “That’s accurate.”

You snatch the earpiece out of the air and slide it in. It’s warm. Not hot—just… present. A frequency tuned only to you. Your pulse evens out without your permission.

“Great,” you mutter. “Now I get to wear a weird-looking Bluetooth device while being emotionally blackmailed by a glowing man in midair.”

“Emotionally nudged,” he corrects, flashing a grin. “Also, it’s invisible. No one sees it but you.”

You sigh again. Louder this time. The wind catches your hair, lifting it in soft waves around your face. Oikawa doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he pretends not to. He hovers beside you, untouchable, unreadable, irritatingly radiant.

“Now,” he hums, tapping something on his invisible clipboard, “let’s ruin your morning. With love.”

Before you can ask what that means, he points to a bench ahead and gestures grandly. “Stand here, Casual. Look approachable.”

You eye him, dubious. “You want me to pose for fate?”

“Exactly. I need you in position.” He floats backward with the exaggerated flair of someone exiting center stage. “Now, get ready. I’m going radio silent.”

And then—he’s gone. You blink at the now-empty sky. 

Then: click.

The earpiece crackles softly in your ear. Oikawa’s voice returns, smooth and far too close to your eardrum.

“Okay. Walk due west. Fifty yards.”

You freeze. Glance up and down the path. “What?”

“Walk straight toward the guy in the baseball cap.”

You exhale slowly. Then move. The sun is too bright, pressing down on your skin—warm and overconfident. A spotlight you never asked for. It forces your eyes into a squint, even as tension coils in your chest. Your heart pounds erratically, louder than the birds, louder than the rustling branches, loud enough to drown out the hiss of steam from the nearby coffee cart.

And then—as if fate’s reading from a script Oikawa personally annotated—you collide with him.

A man in a baseball cap stumbles back a step, hands raised slightly. “Oh! I’m so sorry—I wasn’t paying attention.”

He’s maybe early thirties. Warm smile. Crisp button-down tucked into khakis with precision. The kind of guy who probably owns a label maker, plans corporate retreats, and always returns his grocery cart.

“All good,” you say, blinking. “Neither was I.”

There’s a pause. Then he gestures toward the cart. “Can I get you something? As an apology?”

You hesitate, caught off guard by his earnestness. But then, you offer a small, cautious smile. “Sure.”

You step into line beside him. It’s short. You order a hot latte. He fills the space between you with practiced ease—mentions the weather, how the breeze means spring is finally here, how he’s getting back into running, how work’s been “nonstop lately.” You nod where appropriate. Chime in when expected. Your hands wrap around the warm paper cup. The heat bleeds into your skin, acting as a tether.

“Alright,” Oikawa murmurs in your ear, his tone resembling someone judging a reality show contestant. “He’s a safe choice. Steady job. Clean aura. Bit bland, but we’re aiming for compatibility, not fireworks.”

The man glances over. “So… dogs or cats?”

“Cats.”

He brightens like you’ve passed a test. “Same. I’m more of a cat person myself, honestly.”

“Bold lie,” Oikawa murmurs in your ear. “Man owns three corgis and a guilt-ridden Pinterest board labeled ‘dog dad aesthetic.’”

You press your coffee to your lips to hide the twitch of a smile.

“They’re just… lower maintenance,” he continues. “You know where you stand with cats. Dogs are a little much.”

“He throws birthday parties for his dogs,” Oikawa stage-whispers. “One of them has a TikTok.”

Then—“So… are you seeing anyone right now?”

You blink. “Not at the moment.”

He nods. Slow. Intentional. “Interesting. Me neither.”

“Subtle as a corgi in a trench coat,” Oikawa deadpans. “We love to see it.”

The man shifts, angling toward you like this is the beginning of something. “I’ve always thought dating’s about finding your mirror, you know? Someone who reflects who you are but also makes you better.”

You nod once. Tight. “That’s… one way to look at it.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Oh no,” Oikawa groans. “Not the TED Talk line. Abort mission. Save yourself.”

You force a smile—polite, practiced—and take another sip. Still too hot.

“It was… nice chatting with you,” you say, stepping back. “But I’m late for a meeting.”

The man blinks. “Oh yeah. Of course. Totally.”

You offer him a small wave and a look that lands between polite and apologetic.

And then you turn. And walk away. Quickly. Coffee gripped too tightly in your hand. The comm-link in your ear is still faintly humming.

And not once—not once—do you look back.

A few steps behind, Oikawa appears again—effortlessly materializing beside you with all the smug serenity of someone who’s never had to live with the consequences of his own advice. He floats lazily, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“That wasn’t that bad,” Oikawa says.

You don’t answer. You just keep walking. Your steps are sharp. Shoulders locked too tight. The coffee cup in your hand is still hot, but you grip it, daring it to burn something back into place. 

“That,” you say finally, voice low, “was supposed to be my match?”

He sighs—long and theatrical as if your disappointment personally offends him.  “There’s no such thing as a perfect match,” he mutters, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “It’s more complicated than that.”

He drops to the ground. Feet touching the pavement—an act that seems to have cost him. “Emotional compatibility takes time. Statistical nudging. A little light divine manipulation—oh great, you’re storming off.”

You spin around. “I’m walking. Storming would involve more yelling.”

He tilts his head, almost fondly. “Well, I’m tracking your emotional variance, and your aura just flared, so I stand by my choice of words.”

You don’t respond. Instead, you drop onto the nearest bench, your steam finally having run out. Your usual sarcastic bravado and retorts no longer come to you. Your shoulders curl inward—not small, but worn. Your coffee sits untouched in your lap.

“I’m starting to believe I’ll never find love,” you murmur.

There’s a catch in your voice—subtle, but enough to make him look closer. And when he does, he sees it—the way your hands tremble faintly where they cradle the cup. The shimmer in your lashes. The way your jaw clenches like it’s the only thing keeping everything else from breaking loose.

“I’ve been on so many dates,” you continue, voice fraying, “and had so many failed relationships. At first, I chalked it up to my being difficult. Too picky. Too closed off.”

You suck in a breath. It shakes on the way out.

“But lately, I’ve been thinking maybe I’m…”  A pause. A fracture. The words catch—almost don’t make it out.

You’ve swallowed this before. Bitten it back. Refused to admit it. 

But this time, you don’t.

Then softly—so soft he almost misses it—“…unlovable.” 

A single tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. You swipe it away, quick and angry, as if it betrayed you. As if it proved something you didn’t want said out loud.

Oikawa doesn’t float this time. He slowly folds his arms and lowers himself to sit beside you, grounded. No sparkles. No arrogance. Almost as if he shed something invisible just to meet you here.

“You’re not unlovable.” His eyes meet yours, and there’s a gentleness in them you haven’t seen before. “You’re just too real for people who only know how to love easy things.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Your gaze stays fixed on the steam curling from your coffee cup. You blink hard, trying to will the tears away.

“I don’t even dream about anyone,” you whisper. “I try. I show up. I open myself up, again and again. But it always feels…off. Like there’s something in me that never got wired the right way. Or maybe I’m just not meant for anybody.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just shifts, turning toward you fully. His hand lifts, then hesitates, uncertain. He doesn’t know if he should touch you. Doesn’t want to startle something already frayed. Then, gently, he brushes beneath your eye, wiping away the next tear before it can fall.

“No,” his voice finally answers, lower now. “It’s not that.”

The silence that follows stretches wide. But it doesn’t feel empty. It feels full of things unsaid. Of breaths you’re both still holding.

The sunlight cuts through the trees above, painting gold into the angles of your face. Your lashes cast soft shadows. Your lips part slightly—not sad. Not angry. Just… still. Your expression is quiet, as if hope has thinned, but hasn’t fully let go.

And for some reason he can’t name, that undoes something in him. He looks at you, not like a case. Not like a file full of fate-points and emotional stats. Just… you.

And there, between one heartbeat and the next—

A flicker. A soft pull. Deep in his wings. A celestial twang, faint and impossible to unfeel. He stiffens. Swallows. Brushes it off.

When his voice returns, it’s slower—open. The words escaped before he could polish them.

“Love isn’t magic,” he says, releasing a breath. “It’s math. Chemistry. Timing. The system calculates compatibility based on what you need… not what you think you want.”

You exhale, the sound edged with defeat. “That’s really depressing.”

“Maybe,” he admits. “But I have a 100% success rate. There is someone out there for you—and we’ll find them.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—slipping out before he can stop it: “Those who never find love… they only have their assigned Cupid to blame.”

You finally glance at him. And this time, really see him.

He’s not glowing. Not grand. Just sitting there beside you, posture slouched with the weight of a past he doesn’t talk about—heavier than he wants to admit.

“You know,” you murmur, “for a divine love expert… you sound like you don’t believe in it at all.”

He flinches. Barely. But you catch it. 

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. An old ache flickers behind his eyes. 

Then—softly, honestly—he says, “Because I don’t.”

It lands quietly. Bare. Like a blade laid down without warning. You wait. Let the silence stretch until he fills it. 

“Cosmic bonds,” he says slowly. “It’s poetic branding. A story we Cupids tell ourselves to make matchmaking feel meaningful. The reality is—you fall for people because the timeline says you’re supposed to. That’s it.”

You don’t interrupt. 

“I used to believe. A long time ago,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “But all believing did was break someone I admired. Made him cross a line he couldn’t uncross.”

His gaze drops. “So now I believe in math. Probability. Clean equations.”

You could ask. But you don’t.

Instead, your voice comes softly. Steady. “Huh. I knew there was more to you than glitter and arrogance.”

He glances over, blinking slowly. “What?”

“You’ve spent the last few hours being completely unbearable. Rude. Theatrical. A glowing nightmare. But this…” You gesture vaguely toward him. “This is the first glimpse I’ve had of you. The real you.”

“Tofu.” You hold his gaze. “Not Cupid. Not some cosmic showman.”

He exhales—not in shame, but in release. Somehow, you’ve just peeled a heavy layer off his chest—without even touching him.

“And since I’m apparently ‘Assignment: Impossible’,” you say, lips quirking just slightly, “we’re going to be stuck together for a while—until we find ‘my person.’  So… I’d rather spend that time with the version of you who isn’t trying to impress the sky.”

You look at him. Gentle. Real. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then—finally—he lets out a small, breathless laugh, surprised by the sound of it. “Is this ‘Tofu’ nickname going to stick?”

You arch a brow. “Really? That’s what you’re focusing on?”

He raises both hands. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Then—lower. Sincere. “The real Tooru will stick around. Promise.”

You don’t say anything. But you smile. And that’s when it happens.

It’s a pull—sharp and sudden, buried in the bones of his wings. A flare that sparks behind his ribs, short-circuiting the equilibrium written into his wings. His wings shimmer faintly into view, only for a second. The light stutters. Edges blur. Then—gone. As if it never happened. 

You don’t notice. But he does.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Simply a static mischarge. He stays quiet. Still. Fighting the way his heartbeat stutters. Trying not to look at you—but failing.

Because the way the light kisses your skin. The way your smile still holds a trace of sorrow. The way your hope feels so reluctant, it makes his chest ache…

He forces himself to look away. Not because he wants to, but because—if he stares any longer, he’s afraid he won’t be able to stop.