I can't help but be a little in love with my Angel, as I watch him chuckle at some private thought and chop vegetables for tonight's dinner. He's just so…him. He combines the transcendence of the angelic hosts with the personal, compassionate nature of humanity and I know him. I know him and he's mine. His bright grey eyes flicker up to meet the dark blue of my own, his deep and full of laughter. He winks, saying,

"I know I'm pretty, Kara, but really, the staring is getting a bit much."

I blush and look down, burying my head in my book, pretending to laugh it off, but really swallowing embarrassment at my silliness. I seriously need to stop fantasizing about the only father-figure I've ever had. At this point, my fantasies might be considered incestuous, and that's pretty much off-limits if I'm to continue rooming with an angel of the lord.

I'm still pleasantly surprised when I hear his joking about like this. It's been—13 years now? 14?—since he and I have been together, and to say that I grew up with very little sarcasm or humor would be an understatement. I've had to teach him about the finer things in life—that is, anything outside of food, clothes, and prayer. It's been quite a journey, but if he's winking I'd say it's been a successful one.

I refocus on his figure, watching the muscles in his forearm flex as he kneads the dough. Zeus it's hard to think chaste thoughts when he looks like that. Why couldn't he have picked an ugly vessel—or a vessel who looked older than 21? How is he supposed to be my mentor when I can't stop watching his mouth biting his lip and now my mouth is watering.

I glance over at my reflection in the glass hanging on the wall. Large eyes, thick hair. Too small, but I choose to believe I make up for my stature with curves. I know I'm nice to look at, there's no denying it. I'm not a little girl anymore.

I wonder how naive he is. I've not exactly broached the topic with him. He might not even notice.

But he might.

I stand up and walk slowly toward him, allowing mu hips to undulate as I walk, looking at him steadily, never breaking eye contact, peering through my lashes. He glances up absently, then back at the vegetables.

Then he double takes.

His eyes are on mine now, knife slipping onto the counter, vegetables forgotten. I see his eyes flick up and down my form, then back to my eyes as I continue walking. He is inches away from me, our breath mingling, my hand resting on his chest. I can feel his heart beating—too fast. My breath is coming so fast I'm afraid that I'm quite close to panting. My eyes are locked on his, and his on mine, the sheer force of his gaze causing my heart to race. I lick my lips. His gaze flicks down to my mouth and remains there and I know it's not his vessel I want, it's him. I lean forward…

Holy Hera what am I doing.

Literally Athena I thought you were my friend.

I laugh breathlessly, nervously, and push away from him, saying something vague about needing to put my book away while I hurriedly escape this whirlpool of dangerous feelings.

I fly up the stairs and close the door to my room, crossing quickly and flinging the balcony door wide. I feel the cold air hit my face, which is stinging with tears. I breathe deeply to calm my racing heart. The only person I care about. We couldn't handle this. He can't handle this.

But at least he isn't immune to me—to this—to what we have.

But angels don't feel that way. Not like we do.

They're not allowed.

That can't ever happen again.

I collapse onto the soft chair and weep until I have nothing left.

Then I wash up and head down to dinner.

I'm sitting with him, both of us reading our respective tomes—mine on ancient witchcraft, his an early edition—possibly the first or second written—of Homer's Iliad (he's so fascinated by the human condition) when he ungracefully rips the veil from the elephant in the room that's been plaguing us this week.

"I can't seem to put your predatory approach of me last week out of my mind. It's been quite irritating."

I inhale sharply as he frowns at me, his brow furrowing and his lips slightly pursed, looking more perturbed at himself than irritated at me. I take a moment to recover, standing up and walking over to the window. I don't want to hear him belittle that moment. It ruined my peace, but it was also one of the best moments of my life. How pitiful. I respond with admirable calm.

"Predatory? Angel, I was trying to discern the color of your eyes—they switch so often, and you know how I am with colors."

Hades, I sound like an idiot. Color of his eyes? Who the hell am I, I'm supposed to be witty and quick on my feet.

I hear footsteps behind me and turn to face him.

Damn.

My arm bumps his leg as I swing around, he is so close to me. I find myself staring determinedly at the hollow at the base of his neck, forcing my mind into pristine blankness and crossing my fingers that he won't embarrass me when I'm at my weakest. He must know how cloudy my mind gets when he's close enough for his delicious scent to be surrounding me, for the warmth of his chest to be seeping under my skin.

I feel his hand cup my chin, like he did when I was a child, and my breath hitches in my throat. I find that I cannot look away from his eyes.

I'm trapped.

I feel his deep voice vibrate through my rib cage as he mumbles, almost to himself, his voice confused and husky,

"I can't get this out of my mind. It's all I can think about, and I find myself wanting to—"

His lips, nearing mine as he speaks, finally close around my own, hot and soft. I feel my self melt into him, too dizzy and liquid to rationalize my way out of this. This. This is what it's all for. This is what makes it okay.

His tongue slides against my own, and I am flying.

In am lying in my bed, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun that is pouring through the open window. He lets me leave the windows open at night because he knows that the darkness and stifling heat terrify me. The breeze calms me in the night, after a nightmare.

Now, the breeze simply caresses my skin, leaving me feeling refreshed and ready to begin the another blissful day.

I smile, aware of just exactly how happy I am, and leap out of bed. I dress hurriedly and skip down the stairs, expecting to see my Angel in the kitchen. He was called away suddenly last night by the angels, but I am sure he will be back now.

I'm right. As I walk—well, skip—into the kitchen, I see him leaning against the rough wooden table, his back to me. He looks so tense. His head is bowed—praying? No, inspecting a book. I come closer. A…spell book? How odd. That's certainly not his expertise. Maybe I can help him. I peer over his shoulder to inspect the page.

"Good morning, my Angel," I speak the words right into his ear, and am pleased to see him jump, surprised. I was quite careful to tread lightly, just as I was taught, but he is so attuned to my Essence that he is usually able to sense me anyway. I guess I win this round. I smile playfully,

"So, what are you up to? A little light morning reading?"

I glance down at the spell book and note the title of the spell: "Demillicus' Trap"

I peer at him in confusion, "Hey, isn't that the one…"

I glance around the room, noting the cylindrical silver chest on the table, the bowl filled with already-burnt offerings, the cut on his palm.

And suddenly it dawns on me.

My eyes come to rest, finally, on Angel's face. And then, without a doubt, I know.

Oh God no.

He is cold. Distant. He takes a step forward, and I take a step back, and suddenly there seems to be a pocket of thick air around me, trapping me. I look down. That crafty bastard. His advances have forced me into a Demillicus Triangle. I'm stuck. Just like mother.

I'm trapped.

Somehow I can't seem to care about my future. My now hurts too much.

My eyes do not shift from my Angel's face. I do not blink. I feel hot tears cascade down my face, and I let them fall. His cold grey eyes—so different from when I saw him yesterday—stare mercilessly back into mine.

What could I have done to warrant this? I was sure everything was going so well.

He kissed me.

I thought I was helping.

He said it'd never come to this.

He promised.

My lip trembles, and the weight on my chest makes speaking impossible. He picks up the chest and begins the final incantation. He looks up at me when the spell is completed, and I manage to choke one word out through the tightness in my throat.

"Why?"