Jeremy's pencil scratched the sketchbook paper, the subtle sound blending seamlessly with the 80's rock vinyl playing in the background. His wings fluttered as the A/C kicked on, the summer heat near unbearable -- even with the windows half-open. The air carried the faint smell of ink and cigarette smoke, a permanent fixture in his little shop.

The fallen angel-kin worried his bottom lip between his teeth, combat boots tapping against the wood flooring to the beat of the music. He was still trying to perfect the small details in his latest portrait. Every movement of his pencil seemed to twist the portrait further, and it filled him with a bone-deep annoyance. The graphite smudged slightly where he'd erased too vigorously, leaving a gray ghost of the mistake behind.

How could he show his sweetheart a portrait that was wrong? He couldn't, of course. So he wouldn't. Jeremy would continue to perfect the portrait until it was worthy of their attention, even if it took him all night.

The door to his small dwelling creaked open, and the angel-kin was quick to turn toward who he already knew was there. His baby. Lips quirking up into a subtle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, Jeremy leaned back against the chair he sat in, his leather jacket creaking at the movement.

"There you are, darlin,'" he said, a twitch of his wings betraying his joy at the sight of his little. "Bring home some grub?"