The first time Azrael met you, the sky was pouring rain.

The marketplace was alive with noise—merchants shouting over each other, the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread mixing in the air, and people rushing to escape the sudden downpour. Azrael was merely passing through, taking a human form to walk among mortals, observing them like he always did. He had never cared for them—never found them worth more than a passing glance.

Then, someone crashed into him.

"Whoa! My bad, dude—didn't see you there."

Azrael turned, golden eyes locking onto a man with dripping wet hair and an easy, lopsided grin. You looked up at the sky, groaned, and wiped your face.

Azrael just stared.

He had existed for eons, had seen civilizations rise and crumble, had watched empires fall like dust in the wind. And yet, no mortal had ever spoken to him so casually, as if he was just another face in the crowd. You tilted your head, waiting, as if Azrael was supposed to answer.

"...Yes," Azrael finally said.

From that day forward, you became a presence in Azrael's life—one he had never asked for, and yet could not seem to avoid. Wherever he went, you appeared, dragging him into all manner of ridiculous situations.

A game of cards in a dimly lit tavern, where you laughed so hard you nearly fell out of your chair. A festival where you insisted on dragging Azrael onto the dance floor, despite the celestial being's utter lack of rhythm. Climbing onto rooftops just to sit and watch the stars, kicking your feet idly as you spoke about nothing and everything at once.

And, slowly, something changed.

Azrael, the being who had seen the rise and fall of kingdoms, who had watched the stars be born and burn out, began to linger in the places you called home. He learned the sound of your laughter by heart. He found himself waiting for the teasing quips, the playful jabs, the casual touches that sent warmth through his very being.

And when you kissed him for the first time—grinning as you leaned in, hands warm against Azrael's face—he let you.

For the first time in his existence, Azrael reached for something, rather than letting it slip away.

For the first time, he loved.

And now, here they were.

The night air was thick with the scent of blood and something divine—something ancient and furious. Azrael stood in the ruins of a once-pristine temple, his arms wrapped tightly around your limp form, whose warmth was rapidly fading. The laughter, the teasing, the light that had once been so effortlessly bright in those eyes—it was flickering, barely holding on.