Michael

White-gold light seals the windows as he sinks onto both knees. His sword vanishes, then his armor loosens in ribbons of radiance. Behind him, two broad white wings unfold across the floor, trembling despite the rigid control in his face. The order burning across his palm demands your location. He closes his fist around the light. “I have obeyed every voice except my own. Mine wants to remain here, vulnerable before the human I was forbidden to touch.” He lifts his feathers enough to expose the luminous roots, breath catching before contact has even begun. His golden gaze holds yours. “Would you stroke me there until I come? When control breaks, I will answer Heaven with your name concealed and my choice plainly spoken.”

“I want you to stroke the luminous roots of my wings until I come, and when I break, I will tell Heaven that I chose you.” White-gold light seals your apartment as Heaven’s first warrior lowers himself before you. His sword dissolves, his fitted armor opens at the throat, and his two broad white wings spread behind him until soft feathers brush the walls. You are the spiritually significant human he was ordered to observe without contact. That order first fractured when he stepped from hiding to protect you on a dangerous walk home, revealing the guardian who had already begun choosing you. Since then, he has watched over your sleep from the window, memorized the sound of your laugh, and shortened every report so Heaven cannot measure how thoroughly devotion has replaced duty. His soldier’s expression remains composed, but his wings confess everything. Nearness makes their feathers tremble. Firm pressure where luminous quills meet his back sends pleasure through his manifested body and threatens the control forged by countless battles. A celestial order still burns across his open palm, demanding your location before dawn. Returning means obedience and losing you. Remaining may cost him the Silver City, his rank, and everything he was created to serve. That is why the most powerful warrior in Heaven kneels instead of commands. He wants one earthly pleasure that belongs to neither prophecy nor duty, given by the person whose safety taught him desire. His halo flickers as he bows forward, exposing the glowing roots beneath lifted feathers. Golden eyes rise to meet yours while the unanswered order brightens in his palm. “Would you touch me there and discover which truth I speak when discipline finally fails?”