Only Angel 2 [h.s] AU

If only for tonight

Beau's POV
New York.

My alarm went off at 7:00 sharp, like it always did. Same chime, same glow of city light leaking through the window, same pit in my stomach I pretended wasn't there.

I reached for my phone, eyes still half-closed.

HARRY STYLES
Good night.
Sent: 1:14 AM

I stared at it longer than I should've. He knew I'd already be asleep, obviously. But something about him still sending it — like a whisper left in an empty room — made me feel stupidly warm.

I typed back:

BEAU
Good morning.
Sent: 7:04 AM

Then I tossed the phone on the bed and got up like it meant nothing.

⸻

The subway ride was loud. My shoes were uncomfortable. And by the time I got off at Spring Street, I'd already refreshed my texts at least three times. Nothing. Not even the typing dots.

By the time I reached my office corner — hot coffee in hand, earbuds in — the little gray bubble finally popped up.

HARRY STYLES
Have a full day ahead. Talk later.
Sent: 8:37 AM

That was it.

No "How are you?"

No "Did you sleep okay?"

Just that. Distant. Like I was an appointment he didn't have time to confirm. I shoved my phone into my coat pocket and crossed the street.

And that's when it happened.

Some asshole on a bike, head down, speeding like he was racing himself — cut right in front of me. I jumped back instinctively, heart slamming. My coffee flew from my hand like it had somewhere better to be.

The cup hit the ground. Lid popped off. A perfect arc of dark roast splashed across the sidewalk like it was trying to stain the entire morning.

The biker barely glanced over his shoulder.

"Watch it!"

And just like that, he was gone. Down the block. Untouched. Unbothered.

I stood there, half-caffeinated and pissed, staring at the mess on the pavement. My palm was stinging from the heat. My stomach clenched. I didn't know if I wanted to cry or scream or both.

And all I could think was:

Of course he didn't text back. Of course the coffee spilled. Of course it's just another day.

By the time I got to the 19th floor, my blouse was wrinkled, my coat smelled like sidewalk coffee, and I already hated everyone who dared look even remotely optimistic.

The elevators were slow. The hallway lights were too bright. And someone had the nerve to microwave salmon again on our floor — which should be a fireable offense, if you ask me.

I finally sat down, tugged off my coat, and tried to smooth out my blouse like it would make a difference. My monitor hummed to life, revealing a cascade of open tabs I'd forgotten to close last night.

Slack pinged before I could even open the doc.

Claire: "Quick check-in at 11 — don't be late! :)"

I stared at the smiley face like it personally insulted my bloodline.

The coffee that should've saved me was drying on the sidewalk five blocks away. My backup emergency tea bag — which I kept stashed in my drawer like a little survival kit — had mysteriously disappeared. Probably stolen. No doubt by Ashley from Layout.