Only Angel 2 [h.s] AU

Out of frame

Beau's POV
New York.

The restaurant was dimly lit, all velvet booths and low music — the kind of place that made everything feel a little more expensive than it actually was. I sat across from Darien and Jonathan, sipping from my second glass of wine, legs stretched out beneath the table like I belonged in this world now. Like I wasn't still faking pieces of it.

"...I don't know," I said, swirling the glass. "I just think it's time. My lease is up next month and I'm over the shoebox apartment era."

Darien lit up immediately. "Finally. You deserve something bigger. Something you. Not that little box with the drafty windows and that godawful hallway lighting."

I laughed. "It's not that bad."

"You write for Vogue," she said, gesturing with her wine. "You deserve hardwood floors and a clawfoot tub."

Jonathan raised his glass. "To clawfoot tubs."

I smiled, letting my eyes flick to him. He was easy tonight — rolled sleeves, open collar, that same warmth in his gaze that never asked too much from me. Just enough to notice.

"Well," he said, leaning forward slightly, "if you're seriously looking, there are some great places over in Chelsea. Bit pricey, but... worth it."

I nodded. "That's where I've been looking."

He tilted his head. "You know... it's not a bad time to consider a roommate."

Darien made a noise into her glass, like she was pretending not to react, but she was totally reacting.

I arched a brow. "Oh?"

He shrugged, easy. "Just saying. Makes a lot of sense. Cut costs, split utilities... not be alone all the time."

There it was.

I let out a small laugh, light enough to dodge the moment. "You trying to sublet your place to me, Jonathan?"

His smile twitched, something unreadable behind it. "Just thinking out loud."

Darien looked between us, too quiet.

I reached for the breadbasket, needing a distraction. "I think I'll go solo for now," I said, casual. "I need space to write. And scream into pillows, depending on how the day goes."

Jonathan chuckled, but I didn't miss the flicker in his eyes — disappointment, maybe. Or just understanding.

The conversation shifted after that. Darien picked it up, asking Jonathan something about his latest shoot, and I leaned back in the booth, letting the low hum of the restaurant fill in the silence behind my eyes.

I knew what she was doing. Darien.

Pushing Jonathan toward me. Trying to nudge me out of whatever shadow Harry left behind.

And God, I wanted that. I wanted to be over it. Over him. Over the stupid ache in my chest every time I opened my phone and saw no message. No call. No nothing.

But the truth was simple.

I couldn't give Jonathan a key to a space that was still haunted by someone else.

There just wasn't room.

We stepped out into the night air, the city buzzing around us in that low, late-hour kind of way — the sidewalks still alive, but softer, blurred at the edges like a dream.

Jonathan offered to call a car, but I waved it off. "I need to walk it off. That third glass of wine hit me harder than expected."

He laughed, lingering just long enough. "You sure?"