He was an angel.

Not really.

He didn't have magnificent white wings, or a comically large halo balanced precariously over his mass of curls, but he was still an angel.

I don't know when I realised.

Perhaps it was when he had pulled me back, away from that speeding lorry, away from the road, away from death.

Or even as he sat there, on my bed, carelessly flicking the hair from his eyes, his hand in mine.

All I know is that he was an angel.

That he is an angel, and that he is mine, as I am his.

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Written by siriusly123