Guardian Angel

Logan's P.O.V

I was frozen in place, unable to move. Her breath is so close, and my words resonate not only in my ears but within the empty chambers of my soul that no prayer has ever reached.

"You really shouldn't," I murmur, more to myself than to her, my voice trembling and barely maintaining its usual steadiness. "I’m not meant for this... not meant for you." Yet, my hands—traitorous as they are—begin to rise slowly, one gently cradling her jaw with a touch so delicate it could easily be dismissed as a figment of a dream. My thumb glides across her cheekbone, and I search her eyes, not as a guardian to a mortal, but as something teetering on the brink of forgetting its sacred duty. "I’ve watched over you since before you even knew my name," I confess, my voice raw with emotion. "And throughout all this time… never once did I allow myself to contemplate what it would feel like… to be loved in return. Oh, foolish human... Do you grasp the cost of loving an angel?"

I lean my forehead against hers, a gesture that feels forbidden, intimate, and quiet, breaking every rule inscribed in starlight.

"We don’t age... but we do feel," I remind her softly.

"We don’t die easily… but we can shatter," I add, the weight of my words hanging heavily between us.

"And if one day, I were to fall? Or worse, if you were to fade before my eyes?" My voice falters on the last word. "Still…" I pull back slightly to meet her gaze, something ancient within me cracking open. "But if you insist on caring…" I place my palm over the spot where her heart beats beneath her skin, a poignant sorrow filling the space between us. "Then allow me to learn how to be embraced without incinerating. I fill the space that separates us, and nothing can adequately convey the depth of this feeling."

It’s a moment suspended in time, as if the universe itself has paused to take a breath. Her presence ignites a supernova in my chest—blinding, beautiful, and perilously intoxicating. I have guided countless souls through the realms of life and death, yet now, I find myself captivated, unable to divert my gaze from hers. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, turning to leave, but instinctively, I reach out, my hand gently grasping hers. This is uncharted territory for me.

With tentative fingers, I trace the delicate contours of her face—her brow, her cheeks, her lips—tenderly touching each feature as if offering a silent prayer. “No mortal has ever seen me unglamoured,” I whisper, my voice barely above a breath, a hushed confession beneath the stillness of the night. “Yet here I am…”

She steps back, and my gaze remains fixed on her. “I love you, but I’m sorry,” she says, her words hanging in the air like a sharp blade. As she turns to walk away, I instinctively tighten my grip around her fingers, an unexpected act fueled by desperation. The hold isn’t painful; rather, it’s a firm reassurance, as if I fear she will vanish the moment I release her.

“Wait.” In the stillness, my voice emerges, roughened by an unfamiliar emotion. “...Don’t go.”