Only Angel 2 [h.s] AU

Smoke signals

Beau's POV
New York.

It was nearly 3:30 a.m. and the building was dead quiet, save for the soft buzz of fluorescent lights and the dull hum of the city pressing against the tall glass windows. Most of New York was asleep, but I was still here—half-slumped in my office chair, rereading the same headline for the third time. I wasn't sure if I was polishing it or punishing myself.

I shouldn't have still been at the office, but it was either finish now or drag myself in again at six. And the idea of waking up that early made me want to spike my phone into the wall.

My neck ached from craning over drafts all night. My fingers were stained with pen ink and highlighter. A cold cup of coffee sat forgotten by the edge of my desk, as bitter now as the thoughts swirling around in my head.

I'd just gotten off the phone with my dad. Another guilt-ridden reminder of how rarely I visited, how often I let work become an excuse. But it wasn't just an excuse—it was the truth. The job was demanding, all-consuming, and just when I thought I'd gotten ahead, something else knocked me back a few paces.

Like the plagiarism fiasco.

A junior staffer had lifted an entire feature from a rival magazine and nearly cost us a lawsuit. Ever since, upper management had been combing through everyone's work like we were under federal investigation. Deadlines were tighter. Tension was high. We were all exhausted.

My reflection in the dark window across from me looked just as hollowed out as I felt. I'd started keeping makeup wipes in my desk drawer—not for vanity, but because I kept forgetting to take my mascara off at night.

I reached into the drawer now, swiping one across my face absently, eyes scanning the room. My heels were somewhere under the desk. My scarf was balled in the corner. And my dinner... never happened.

Typical.

I didn't think of him.

Not really.

Every now and then, I'd catch a smell on the street—woodsy, clean, expensive—and something in me would hitch, just for a second. But that was it. Just passing ghosts of something I didn't have time for anymore.

Love didn't belong here. Not in this office. Not in this city. Not in the version of me I'd had to become to survive it.

I glanced at the time again. 3:36 a.m.
If I left now, I might still get four hours of sleep. That had to count for something.

I gathered the papers on my desk into a loose pile, shoved them into my leather tote, and pulled on my trench coat. The office lights dimmed behind me as I walked toward the elevators, heels in hand, bare feet padding softly against the marble floor.

The city lights blinked back at me through the glass. Endless. Blinding. Alive.

Just like me.

Tired. But still alive.

Darien had become somewhat of a constant in my life again.

It wasn't intentional. In fact, if I were being honest with myself, I only let it happen because there was no one else. The quiet after Harry left—after we left whatever we were—was louder than I expected. And Darien, with her laugh, sharp wit, and tendency to show up unannounced with wine filled that silence without asking questions.

We'd grab drinks after work, sometimes dinner. She talked enough for the both of us and I let her. I was grateful for her. But sometimes, when the night got too long and the music too loud, I felt that ache in my ribs again. The one I promised myself I wouldn't name.

And of course, there were the group nights.

Colson and Nes. Alec. The whole chaotic mess of them. I tolerated those nights for the sake of pretending I still had a social life. Darien would nudge me to come along and I'd agree, even if my gut twisted the second I walked in.