“Yes,” you nodded frantically. “Two. Two of them,” you clarified. “I- I can’t- I can’t find them. I only opened the door for a second, and they ran out, and it’s a new neighborhood, and…” You were rambling as you cried, and you couldn’t stop yourself from panicking.

“Okay, come here,” he signaled for you to approach him. “Let’s take a deep breath.” You tried and failed. “Deep breath,” he repeated in an authoritative voice that erupted goosebumps all over your skin.

This time you obeyed, unable to resist the pull of his voice. The first breath was erratic, but he took your hand and held it against his chest, breathing slowly and urging you to mirror him.

“That’s much better. Good job, sunshine. I think you might be my new neighbor.” He was your neighbor? Did you just met your neighbor while ugly crying in your pajamas? Fuck your luck. “I wish we meet in better circumstances, but let me help you look for the-” He said.

But then you heard a tiny meow, and you turned around in your heels so fast you felt your brain tripping a bit. “Did you hear that?” You asked him, he nodded. “I- I think they are there,” you told him pointing a rose bush that was almost as big as your house, right across the tiny clearing behind your house.

“I’ll get them,” he offered.

“But-” You didn’t have time to stop him before he was power walking towards the bush and crawling inside of it. You heard his curses and the way your cats hissed, but you couldn’t see him properly. “Are you alright?” You asked, doubtful about every stupid idea you had that led you to this second.

You saw his ass before you saw him, his tail waggling frantically. He was crawling backwards, holding something against his chest precariously. You could hear Fanart mewling-screaming as Fanfic hissed. He got back on his feet without having to use his hands, making you gape as another round of sobbing broke from your mouth.

He turned around, his shirt ripped in some parts and a couple scratches on his arms. “Are those your pets?” He asked in the most absurd tone possible, almost as if he were one of those television game hosts.

He held your cats in front of him, both of them squirming trying to get away. But his paws were big enough to grab them by the middle completely. You were sure he was getting scratched, but he didn’t even flinch as he approached your teary-eyed self and offered you the two fluffy balls.

You sniffled again, hugging them against your chest as you kissed their little heads over and over until you earned yourself a couple of hisses. He chuckled across from you, his big body creating shade under the boiling sun as you stepped inside your house and chastised your cats from escaping.

You were in the middle of telling them off when you heard him softly laughing outside. You remembered that there was a big werewolf on your porch and he was most likely waiting for you to say thank you. You were so focused on your tiny evil fluff balls that you didn’t even say thank you. Good goddess, you didn’t have any manners, did you?

You rushed outside after closing the door this time, your cats mewling very loudly as you shushed them and stood in front of a very amused werewolf.

“Thank you. Thank you, truly.” You repeated a few times, earning yourself a tiny smile. But he didn’t say anything and your brain started spinning, so you did what you always did: “I will… I will make you pie. Or muffins. Or maybe a quiche. Or flan,” you rambled. He looked about to coo in your direction, his eyes soft and his hands resting in his pockets. “And I’m rambling… What do you like? Shit, maybe you don’t like baked goods. Shit. What can I offer you in thanks? I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” He repeated with a loud chuckle, his ears twitching. You realized a tad too late what you said.

“Wha- NO! Not that! Good goddess, not that. I meant food. I can make food. I’m good at baking.” Good Goddess, could you be more awkward? He smiled, a smile so wolfish you could totally see the resemblance with his furry ancestors.

“I can think of other ways of repaying me,” the innuendo in his tone was clear this time, and you had to fight the urge to gape at him, biting down on your tongue so hard you could almost taste blood.

“You- You can?” You asked back, your face flaming red and your whole body on high alert with the possibilities.

And then he surprised you by saying: “You can have dinner with me.”

But you were nothing but dumb, so instead of catching what he meant, you questioned back: “Like… prepare you dinner?” You could do that. You could totally prepare him dinner, maybe your chicken with almond sauce...

He laughed again, stopping your train-wreck of thoughts. “Like going to dinner. As in a date. I’m asking you on a date,” he clarified again just to make sure you didn’t misinterpret him again, and you could feel your face about to be set on fire because of your embarrassment.

A date? A date with a big werewolf who was big as a tree, hot as fire and so kind he went into a bush to rescue your cats? You would be stupid to say no. “Yes!” You almost screamed, much to his amusement. “I mean… Yes,” you repeated in a lower tone, face flaming again. “I- I’d like that,” you added, smiling in his direction.

Two months after his dating rumor, Stevie released a new MV.

There was a man lying on red satin, bare tattooed chest beneath his leather jacket and pants, combat boots and chains, wild mane and hooded eyes, gazing up at an angelic-looking Stevie who was straddling him and holding a lipstick to paint his lips in blood red.

Before they could kiss, however, Stevie turned his face away with a smirk and sank his tiny omega fangs into the side of his victim's pale neck, making the poor man his puppet as the sultry beat played in the background.

The scene had gone viral overnight and Prey had climbed on top of every streaming platform. Not only was the music good, but Stevie's new concept was also a pleasant surprise.

Still that sweet, demure omega, but Stevie showed everyone that he wasn't as pure and innocent anymore. It was his new era.

The internet exploded. They talked about how Stevie broke out of the old concept he had been framed in. About the meaning of the song and MV. About the faceless man on the single's cover, kneeling on the floor in only a pair of leather pants, lean muscles and intricate black inks for the world to see, a chain necklace that hung a crimson plectrum, plump lips smeared with red, messy long curls and a sharp jawline.

A few days later, Stevie posted on his instagram a photo of himself being held from behind by the man who had appeared in his MV. Some even noticed the golden bands on the couple's ring fingers.

The caption was "yours 🩷".

He knew his older brother didn’t actually mean that. He knew Dean was just as tired as he was of the same old fight: keep working the cases their dad sent or help him find the demon that most likely killed their mother.

And it’s not like Sam didn’t want to help save other people’s lives; he understood the importance of the family business – he had learned it from a very young age –, but Dean was taking the ‘being a good son’ thing really far. The faith and adoration he held for their father was blinding him and prevented him from understanding Sam’s view of the situation.

How could they work a case in Indiana, two thousand miles away from John, while their father was apparently closing on the thing that killed Mary and Jess?

It didn’t seem fair to Sam, especially when the wound from losing Jess was nowhere near healed. Her beautiful face and delicate voice still met him in his dreams in warm conversations about the most trivial topics, just like those they used to have on sleepless nights curled up on the bed. The difference was that now each time he woke up, the scar was torn wide open, raw, once again.

Could that really be deemed selfish?

Besides, that night six months ago, he hadn’t only lost Jess. He was also stripped from the only shot he had at a normal life. He had managed to leave the supernatural world behind, get into a great school to pursue a law degree, be around people his age and make friends, have a steady relationship with the most amazing girl, and suddenly… it was all… gone.

Sam cleared his throat and took a deep breath, his stance unwavering. He had to go to California and help his father kill this demon. Not just out of revenge – sure, anger, rage and shame were harboured in his chest, but because he wanted, needed, some kind of closure. He wanted to look this creature in the eyes while he exorcised it, put a bullet through its skull, or drove a blade where its heart should’ve been and make it pay. 

Perhaps, once it was all over, he would visit Jess’ parents. He wasn’t exactly sure about  what he would say – either the hard, inconceivable truth or a deliberate, adorned lie –, but he felt he had to say at least something. He owed it to the memory of Jess and the permanent mark she had left on him.

Selfish bastard? 

Yeah, right. Dean could shove those words where the sun didn’t shine. 

A mechanical screech snapped Sam out of his thoughts and his eyes took in the sight of the bus he’d caught to Sacramento. It wasn’t absolutely packed but there were far more people than he had expected on a random Wednesday that early in the morning. The sun was just starting to climb up in the horizon, painting the scene in warm yellow and orange tones. 

He took a look around and saw a guy around his age with a book on his hands but one side of his face was fully pressed against the headrest, his mouth wide open and the reading long forgotten. He also noticed a man in a black suit leafing through a newspaper and a woman trying to lull her baby to sleep, whispering soft tunes and sweet words in an attempt to stop the kid’s whimpers.

Then, he felt a sudden bump on his shoulder. He tilted his head to the left and was met with the top of somebody’s head, from the girl sitting next to him.

Until that moment, she had been sleeping with her body propped against the window, but she must have shifted and, without realizing, ended up with her head laying on Sam’s shoulder.

He was about to wake her up; he even got to the point where he lifted his arm to gently poke her with his index finger, but stopped on his tracks when he took notice of the girl’s features. 

She was really pretty – not in the manufactured way that actresses and singers seemed to be, but like a butterfly on a flower: quiet but not invisible, gentle, dashing. The early sunrays casted a glow on her skin that made her look angelic, out of this world. However, it wasn’t her beauty that called his attention. Well, at least not the only thing.

He also noted the mild puffiness and the darkish circles under her eyes. She looked like she couldn’t afford to lose that sleep. She looked as if that moment right there was the first in a couple of days that she’d been able to rest. She had that peaceful expression that only a much needed nap could provide. 

He sighed, not in defeat but in understanding.

What harm would it cause to let her sleep on his shoulder? None, really. 

As if to back up his decision, the corners of her mouth occasionally twitched upwards, indicating she was having a good dream. He didn’t want to be the jerk that yanked her out of it just because she was a stranger.

So, he extended his arm, this time to grab the book inside his duffel bag and settled comfortably in his seat, careful not to disturb her, and flipped through the pages until he got to where he’d let off.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You opened your eyes slowly, your brain fogged with sleep, and your limbs tingled from the uncomfortable position. You looked to your left and saw the sunlight spilling through the window, but it wasn’t right above you just yet, so you figured it must have been 9 or 10 am. You blinked, mentally going over your name, what date it was and where you were, and then…

Wait, wasn’t I sleeping with my head against the window?

You turned your gaze a bit to the right and realization hit you like a truck.

“Oh my god!” you exclaimed as you jolted and pulled your head sharply off the stranger’s shoulder.

“It’s all right, don’t worry,” he hurried to say, his voice soft and gentle, and a smile flickered across his face, the dimples on his cheeks quickly appearing and disappearing. He closed the book he was reading after signalling the page with the bookmark.

“This is so embarrassing.” You said, heat rushing to your cheeks, and you laughed under your breath, muffling your words by covering your face with the palms of your hands.

“Hey,” he shifted slightly towards you and shook his head, “no big deal. Really.” You took a peek at him to see if he was serious and he let out a chuckle. A genuine one. “You were out cold and looked so peaceful. Honestly, it felt like a crime to wake you up.” He shrugged, lips curving into a quiet, toothless smile.

You lowered your hands, exhaling deeply.

“Wow, that’s the kindest thing anyone’s done for me in days,” you blurted out, mostly to yourself, but he caught it.

“What do you mean?”

You hesitated, fingers tugging at the hem of your denim jacket, debating whether you should explain your current situation to this random guy. Then, you remembered you’d spent God knows how long sleeping on his shoulder. Apparently, your body unconsciously took him for a safe place. So you figured you kinda owed it to him. 

“I live in New York, but my family is in San Francisco,” you paused, clearing your throat. “My mom had a car accident three days ago and was admitted to the hospital.” The words came out heavier than you meant to, your eyes getting glassier. “When I asked my boss for some time off to visit her, the shithead said I could go but that the days would be docked from my pay.”

You  let out a small, humourless laugh and the guy shook his head. 

“Then came the question of the flights. The time options weren’t the best and they cost one arm, both legs and possibly a kidney, so I had to resort to bus tickets,” you tilted your head to the side to emphasize your following point, “which led me to be stuck on busses for two days straight, sleeping whenever I can because I can’t afford a place to spend the night, so… yeah.”

“I’m really sorry to hear all that.” His expression softened, the corner of his mouth twitched upwards in sympathy. “Do you have any news about your mom?”

“Yeah, my older brother’s been keeping me posted. She took a pretty hard hit to the head and was unconscious until yesterday, but now she’s awake and stable. The doctors are keeping her under observation and running tests to check for any sequels.”

He gave you an acknowledging nod as he weighed the right words, but nothing came out. He just flashed you a lopsided smile. After a beat, he extended his hand.

“I’m Sam, by the way.”

“Oh, how formal,” you took his hand, laughing softly, and becoming too aware of the spark that ran through your arm. You told him your name and said it was nice meeting him, despite the circumstances.

He returned the feeling and you took the chance to ask about him, about how he ended up on this bus. He didn’t give you any specific details but he did say he was going to Sacramento to ‘help his dad with a work thing’ and that his older brother wasn’t really happy with his decision.

If you were being honest, curiosity was getting the best of  you  – you didn’t consider yourself a nosey person, but a little voice inside of you told you he needed someone to talk to.

However, you decided not to press further, and instead, you pointed at the book on his lap.

“So, what are you reading?”

The change in subject instantly lit him up. Sam’s eyes brightened and his dimples deepened as he held  the cover towards you while he told you who the author was and briefly summarized the plot.

You couldn’t stop your heart from skipping a beat at how handsome he was.

From there, the conversation unfolded easily. You talked about the book you were reading, and then moved on your favorite movies, musicians, and even your favorite food. At some point, he even  did an impression of Dean, his older brother, teasing him about his taste in music. You laughed so hard that you had to cover your mouth with your hand to prevent yourself from snorting. 

Two hours slipped by minutes, and suddenly, the driver announced the next stop – yours. You had to gather your things quickly and hop on, thank God, the final bus.

You stood up and Sam brought his long legs closer to his to let you slide to the other side.

“So… this is me.”

Sam nodded, his smile softening, and his eyes lingered on you for a second too long, as if he wasn’t ready to let that moment go. Honestly, you weren’t so sure you were ready either.

“I hope your mom gets better soon.” He said, almost shyly. 

“Thank you, Sam.” You returned the smile and crouched down to place a soft peck on his cheek. ”For everything.”

It was cute how warmth spread across both your faces – yours because of your foreign boldness and Sam’s because you’d caught him off guard.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and walked towards the bus door. The outside air hit you, colder than you had expected, and you looked back on the bus one last time. Sam was still watching you, a soft smile on his face, so you waved at him and he returned the gesture with a nod.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Later that day, after spending the whole afternoon with your mom while your brother was at work, you went to your brother’s apartment to have a quick but much needed shower and catch at least two hours of sleep. Now, however, the heaviness that had been pressing on your chest since you got the first call from the doctors seemed a lot lighter now: they told you your mom would be discharged tomorrow morning.

You dropped your bag on the floor and began pulling out toiletries and other stuff you needed, and then while you were emptying the pockets of your jacket, filled with remnants of your journey: bus tickets, receipts and candy packaging, your fingers brushed against a small folded piece of paper you didn’t recognize. 

Your heart thudded as you opened it carefully.

It was a note.

“Hey, would you mind sending me a quick text when you get to your mom so I know you arrived safely? Here’s my number: 1-866-907-3235.”

Beneath it, in slightly slanted handwriting, there was a second line:

“It was really nice meeting you, and I hope we cross paths again soon. Looking forward to you falling asleep on my shoulder some time again. - Sam.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

end note: i'm blushing and my heart is blooming in my chest. i wish i could grab sammy's cheeks and give him a forehead kiss🥰.

thank you for taking the time to read it and if you liked it, please leave a reblog, like and/or a comment. i’d love to read your feeedback and interact with you ❤️

btw, my requests are always open here, so feel free to drop any idea or ask. or even if you just wanna say hi, i’d be absolutely happy to read your message!

also, here's my masterlist in case you want to read more of the nonsense i write🙃.

lots of love,

“Would you look at that?” Emily gaped. Penelope stared, “Oh my hotchness,”

By the threshold, their Section Chief, Aaron Hotchner, was talking to one of their support agents. However, what caught their eye was his outfit. His suit jacket foregone, shirt sleeves rolled up, and those toned rippling muscles but the cherry on top?

No tie.

“Okay, one question and one answer,” he addressed the team that gathered at the bullpen. Morgan immediately countered. “We only need one anyway,”

“Where’s your tie?” Penelope asked away. Their curiosity bursting through the seams the moment he comes through without one, “It’s not that we don’t like the new look it’s just…”

“You don’t go to work without one,” Reid finished.

His team impatiently waited for an answer as he smirked then softly laughed at what just transpired this morning.

“My girlfriend decided to hide them,” he honestly answered, as the girls squealed, “I attempted to coax its’ location out of her, but she didn’t yield despite my best efforts so I’ve no tie today it seems,”

Was that an innuendo? Or did he simply try to talk to you to get his ties back?

His message went through the ladies as their cheeks burned at the thought of your morning shenanigans. On the other hand, the innuendo made Rossi and Morgan smile but went straight through Reid’s head.

“Okay, back to work, guys,”

“I’m liking his new girlfriend,” JJ said, as they walked away from the bullpen, “Those dimples are showing,”

The bed under him pounced as Robin threw herself down next to him. He finally got his glasses on and looked at the phone again while Robin kicked her feet nervously.

On the screen of Robin’s phone was a picture of him and that hot stranger he’d met at the airport yesterday when his flight had been delayed. He could still remember the way his lips had felt on his own as they’d kissed in that airport sleeping pod, not the best of places to kiss a handsome stranger, but the chemistry between them had been instant and consuming. And they’d done far more than kiss, making him thankful it was a soundproof sleeping pod, if not one that was out of sight enough. He skimmed the text accompanying the photos, his groggy mind not quite wanting to focus on the words, except the name.

He looked up at Robin. “Who’s Eddie Munson?”

She threw up her hands and buried her face in her hands. “You tell me, you clearly know him better than I do or would ever care to. Just read.”

He did.

Words like “mystery man” and “handsome stranger” were all that were used for him, as he had apparently escaped recognition so far even in this age of social media, but for him… “Eddie Munson.” “Corroded Coffin front man.” “Scandalous.”

Robin was staring at him as he looked up.

“What?”

“That is you, don’t try deny it. You were at Boston Logan yesterday.”

He had been, catching a flight back to LAX after visiting Dustin at MIT. But his flight had been delayed and he’d ended up talking to a handsome tattooed stranger, a wide smile, and an even more talented tongue. Big hair and doe eyes looking up at him wetly as cheeks hollowed...

He was suddenly completely awake and scrambling for his own phone, yanking it off its charger in his haste.

Flicking through his contacts he landed on the new one labeled “Eddie” with a photo of a dark haired man sticking his tongue out and making devil horns above his head with his fingers. It was now him showing his phone to Robin’s face.

She batted him away, just like he’d done to her. “Yes, that’s Eddie Munson. Congratulations on your conquest.”

Steve felt a little gooey as he looked down at his phone and the picture of the man making a goofy face, the same man who featured in the photos on that photo on Robin’s phone, exciting the sleep pod hand in hand with Steve, whose hair clearly looked messy in a way that said someone had been running their hands through it. You could almost see the hearts floating between them. They’d both had flights to catch, leaving each other wanting.

“Fuck,” Steve said, breathless. It had been good, a chance encounter that had felt like it could become more, because they had exchanged numbers after kissing for far longer than anyone having just a hookup would have. But now photo’s of them were on the internet, would likely soon be all over because Eddie was famous. Why hadn’t he said? Why and how had Steve not known? “I didn’t know he had such a talented mouth.”

Robin shoved him. “Don’t wanna know!”

Steve was about to retort something quite bitchy, because part of him was quite annoyed that Robin had been hiding the existence of the dish that was Eddie Munson from him, as irrational as he knew that was. He didn’t mean to objectify Eddie, but damn. He was just Steve’s type, all big doe eyes, big hair and a no-nonsense attitude, but with a softness that rounded the edges.

And he was calling Steve. On the phone in his hand.

He stared at Robin, paralyzed for a moment, but then swiping to answer and bringing the phone to his ear.

Anthony said, studying his reflection in the mirror of the restaurant restroom where he was having dinner with his usual group of friends. He splashed water on his face, smoothed his hair, and left the restroom.

As he weaved his way between the tables, he had to stop because of an unexpected obstacle in his path, a beige coat.

He bent down to pick it up and looked left and right to see who it might belong to. He found the owner easily since it was the only visible backrest.

It was a man sitting alone at a table near the window, with his back to him, a half-finished manuscript open in front of him. The man seemed absorbed in his reading, his brow furrowed and chewing on a fountain pen, his half-full plate abandoned next to the manuscript.

Anthony leaned over and softly said, "Excuse me, but I think you dropped your coat."

Startled, the man turned his head toward Anthony, who gently placed the coat on the back of the chair. Anthony found himself immediately captivated by the most adorable face he had ever seen.

"Oh, thank you! I hadn't noticed!"

With a chuckle, Anthony pointed to the manuscript on the table and said, "I figured as much. You looked pretty engrossed.” Are you a writer?"

The other man pouted and replied with a touch of self-deprecation, "Let's just say that. But you’ve probably never read anything I’ve written.”

"Who knows? What kind of book is it?"

"Mystery novels set in the art world, kind of like Dan Brown."

Anthony exclaimed, "Exactly my kind of book!" Then he asked eagerly, "What’s your pen name?"

The other man laughed softly and said, "My real name: Aziraphale Fell.”

"You're the author of the mystery series intertwined with Turner's works?!  I’ve read them all! I'm sorry, but your books are so much better than Dan Brown's! They are so well documented and accurate! I love Erza, the detective character who has the air of an old-fashioned detective but is so quick-witted. I also love the new character you introduced in the last two books: Muriel. She's such a little minx!” Anthony narrowed his eyes and added, "By the way, you look a lot like Erza."

Aziraphale’s mouth hung open. He was stunned that someone knew his novels so well and actually loved them. He looked for a way to respond when they were interrupted by loud voices.

“Hey, Anthony! What are you doing? Dessert is served.”

"Oops."

Anthony gave Aziraphale a sheepish smile.

"I have to go. My friends are waiting for me."

A little disappointed by the sudden interruption, Aziraphale nodded and watched the other man walk away.

Then he murmured, "Wow..."

He downed half his glass of wine in one gulp before trying to focus on his manuscript. However, the image of the redheaded man—named Anthony, apparently—kept popping into his mind. It was quite the coincidence that Aziraphale was working on a volume that introduced a love interest for his main character, Erza.

Meanwhile, Anthony was having roughly the same trouble concentrating. He tried his best to join the conversation with his friends, but his gaze kept drifting to the window where Aziraphale's silhouette stood out. 

Suddenly, a waiter stopped at the writer’s table, took his plate, and replaced it with a strawberry dessert. Anthony’s heart skipped a beat when he saw Aziraphale smile at the dessert.

He had a hard time not looking so much at the writer as he enjoyed his dessert. He regretted not having his drawing supplies because watching this scene was like watching a masterpiece.

“Hey, lover boy. We’re talking to you!”

Anthony turned his eyes toward his friends and said sheepishly, "Sorry."

His best friend, Nina, nudged him and said with a chuckle, "We were thinking of wrapping up the night with a good movie and some beer at my place, but I get the feeling you’re not going to be joining us."

“What?” 

Maggie, sitting across from him, retorted, "I think Nina's right."

Justine, next to her, added in a theatrical tone and with her hand over her heart, "And there you go, another one bites the dust."

“What on earth are you all talking about?”

Arnold leaned toward him, looking at him over his glasses and saying, "We've all noticed you haven't been the same since you came back from the restroom—or rather, since you picked up that coat."

Nina leaned toward him and said gently, "We don't have a problem with that, you know."

“But you’d better tell us everything.”

"There might not be anything to tell."

Maggie retorted doubtfully. “Not if I’m judging by how many times he’s been looking this way.”

Anthony couldn’t deny that he was tempted. 

His interest had certainly been piqued, more than it had been in a long time.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t immediately notice his friends getting up and getting dressed to go out.

Nina’s hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it, and she whispered, "Go for it. I have a good feeling.”

She gave him a wink, then walked away with their group of friends, leaving Anthony alone at their table.

He looked over at Aziraphale and saw that the writer had also stood up and was putting on his coat. 

At that moment, Anthony knew he had to give it at least a try. He quickly stood up, nearly knocking over his chair, and slipped on his coat as he made his way over to the writer.

He followed him outside to the front of the restaurant and gently placed his hand on his arm. "Sorry to approach you like this again, but would you like to have a drink with me?"

Aziraphale looked up at Anthony, and when he saw the smile on the writer’s lips, Anthony knew he’d done the right thing by taking a risk.

Aziraphale chuckled softly as he turned fully toward Anthony.

"And here I was thinking I'd end the evening alone with my manuscript. What a surprise!"

"A good one, I hope?"

"The evening will tell," Aziraphale replied with a wink, implying that he accepted Anthony's invitation.

After spending a few moments choosing the right bar, they walked away from the restaurant together. A little later, they entered a bar just two blocks away. Their conversation flowed easily right from the start, building on their first encounter. It paused briefly only while they took their seats at a table and took off their coats. Anthony bombarded Aziraphale with questions about his books, and the writer could tell he wasn’t lying when he said he’d read them.

What surprised him most was Anthony’s knowledge regarding the artwork and artists mentioned in Aziraphale’s books.

That’s how he learned that Anthony had studied art and was a painter.

They talked for hours in hushed tones. Their conversation shifted between art and literature, then to more personal topics. It wasn’t until the bartender made it clear that he was about to close up that they stopped talking.

A little later, they were both standing in front of the bar, neither of them wanting to say the word or make the move that would bring the evening to an end.

Anthony spoke first. “May I walk you home?”

Aziraphale’s face lit up with a smile as he replied, "I'd love that."

They left the bar at a leisurely pace. The conversation was as easy as ever, if a bit more intimate given that they were the only ones left on the deserted streets at that late hour. When they came to an old building on the corner of two streets, Aziraphale stopped and pointed to it. 

“That’s my place,” he said.

Anthony chuckled softly.

"Why are you laughing?" asked Aziraphale, looking confused.

Anthony pointed down the street before answering, "Because I live right across the street."

"What a coincidence."

The painter shrugged and replied, "It's as if we were meant to meet."

Aziraphale replied softly, "I never believed in fate until today."

"Neither did I until your coat got in my way."

Anthony gently took Aziraphale’s hand, squeezed it lightly, and added in a soft tone, "And I don't regret it."

Aziraphale nodded.

"Neither do I."

"Would you—"

"Would you like to—"

They shared an awkward laugh because they had spoken at the same time. Aziraphale motioned for Anthony to continue.

"Would you like to meet up again? Tomorrow?”

Aziraphale nodded eagerly.

"I was going to ask you the same thing. I go to Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death every morning to write. Would you like to meet me there?”

"I'd really like that, actually," Anthony replied as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone.

Understanding his intention, Aziraphale took out his phone, and they exchanged numbers before putting them away again.

Silence fell again until, on impulse, Aziraphale stood on tiptoe and brushed Anthony’s cheek with a light kiss. In a barely audible voice, he said, "Good night, Anthony. See you tomorrow.” 

"Good night, Aziraphale," Anthony replied, his voice barely louder than Aziraphale's. Then he added more firmly, "Yes, see you tomorrow."

Aziraphale turned to open the door to his building, and Anthony watched him dreamily until he disappeared behind it, the jingle of keys bringing him back to his senses.

Anthony turned around and walked down the street toward his home, his thoughts swirling in his head and his heart full of hope.

As soon as he arrived home, he grabbed his phone and typed a message.

I had a wonderful evening!

Take care of your coat! 😉

I can't wait for tomorrow morning's coffee.

He tapped "Send," then flopped down on his couch with his eyes closed, replaying the events of the evening in his mind. 

Although he was past the age of believing in love at first sight, the rapid way his feelings were developing for the man he’d just met came pretty close to that description. 

When he heard his phone vibrate, he grabbed it immediately, eager to read Aziraphale’s reply.

My evening was just as great.

I just thanked my coat for it 😛

I’m just as excited for tomorrow.

Anthony decided to go to bed early to get a few hours of sleep and be well-rested for his date with Aziraphale. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell asleep with a smile on his lips and thoughts of an adorable writer with blond, curly hair and eyes as blue as a cloudless sky.

*********

Despite the little sleep he’d managed to get, Anthony was full of energy a few hours later. 

As the time for his meeting with Aziraphale drew near, he grabbed his phone and, on a whim, typed a quick message. 

Good morning! Are you still at home?

Aziraphale’s reply came just a few seconds later:

Yes, I was just about to get ready to leave.

Anthony’s fingers flew across his phone as he replied.

I’ll pick you up. We’ll go together.

Another immediate reply came from Aziraphale.

I’ll wait for you then.

Excited, Anthony finished getting ready, left his apartment, and went to Aziraphale’s place. A few minutes later, he rang the doorbell.

The intercom crackled, and Aziraphale’s voice came through: “Anthony?"

"Yes. It's me."

"I’ll let you in. Come up to the third floor. The door’s open at the end of the hallway.”

Anthony pushed open the door and rushed up the three flights of stairs as fast as he could. 

Once on the third floor, he walked the few meters to the open door and entered the apartment, where Aziraphale was waiting for him.

They stood motionless for a moment, both a little unsure of how to act, the ease of their text conversation fading away.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, a nervous laugh escaping before he said, "This is...a little awkward, isn't it?"

Anthony nodded. "A little, that's right.

Aziraphale bit his lip, unsure of how to ease the tension.

"Stop it."

The command, though delivered lightly, made Aziraphale jump. 

He asked, confused, "What?"

In a hoarse voice, Anthony replied, "If you keep doing that, I won't be able to resist the urge to kiss you." 

Aziraphale gasped, then composed himself and said challengingly, “I won’t stop you.”

"Are you sure?" 

Aziraphale nodded, his eyes locked on Anthony’s. 

Anthony gently cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hands and leaned in to press a tender, gentle kiss on the writer’s lips. It was a light touch, just enough to leave a mark. To test. To tempt.

When Anthony pulled back, Aziraphale exhaled softly. Feeling the painter pull away, he instinctively grabbed the lapels of his coat, and in a sudden burst of boldness, pulled Anthony toward him. Their lips met a second time in a deeper, more insistent kiss that lingered until they had to pull apart to catch their breath.

Between gasps, with his eyes locked with Anthony’s, Aziraphale whispered, “I know this is fast. We’ve known each other for less than 24 hours, but…”

So right.” 

"Yes..."

They stayed like that for a few moments, enjoying the fact that they were on the same wavelength. 

They kissed tenderly once more. When they finally parted, Anthony took a step back with a smile on his lips and held out his hand to Aziraphale.

"It's time to share that coffee. I don’t want to keep you from writing the next chapter. I can’t wait to read it.”

Aziraphale laughed softly as he took Anthony's hand. As he let the painter lead him, he wondered how Anthony would react when he read the next adventure of Detective Erza and his new lover, Tony, the art expert.

He couldn't wait to write and live this new chapter.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝