Perfection

I used to think I was the perfect one, but looking at him now, as the yellow rays of sun catch in his deep, brown eyes, I wonder if I was mistaken all along; that he was perfection, and I was the mistake. He turns to look at me, mouth curving into a smile that's made only for me.
“You look at me as though I'm an angel,” he says softly, leaning in closer.
I shrug, embarrassed. I want to tell him that that's exactly what I think; that in this moment he is an angel, that I hope he'll always be one to me. But I don't. I keep my mouth shut and look away. “I feel bad.” I say shortly.
He stirs a little, hiding his annoyance. “Why?”
I leave the question hanging. We both know the answer anyway.