CHAPTER 2 (Adam x (fem)Reader) - And the lack of it
It isn't just a temperature; it is a presence. It settles over you before you even open your eyes, a heavy, suffocating blanket that whispers the truth before your mind is ready to accept it.
Consciousness returns not with a snap, but with a reluctant, sluggish drift. You wake up under sheets that feel too crisp, too unwrinkled, and entirely too cool against your skin.
A dull throb hammers a rhythm against your temples, the lingering, physical toll of crying yourself to sleep… again. It begs the question: when did sleep become essential? You are a Heaven-born angel, forged in light. Rest had never been a necessity, nor a craving. You were designed to be tireless.
But Adam… Adam had loved it.
Old habits died hard for the First Man. He hadn’t technically needed sleep either, yet he insisted on the ritual of it. It aided his routine, helped him focus, gave his chaotic, noise-filled mind a moment of rare silence.
Sitting up requires a monumental effort, as if gravity has doubled overnight. The mind is empty, hollowed out, while your heart feels like lead in your chest.
You wait for it. The muscle memory is there, waiting for the heavy arm to pull you back down. Waiting for the sleepy, gravelly grumble of a complaint. Waiting for the heavy flop of a wing to trap you against a chest that radiated furnace-like heat.
The air is still. The silence is deafening. The warmth is gone.
The chill is absolute now. It seeps past your skin and into the marrow of your bones, making your own wings shiver involuntarily, feathers rustling with a dry, lonely sound. Even the sunlight filtering into the room seems purely cosmetic, a pale imitation of light that makes no effort to warm the space. Not even a little bit.
Your gaze travels over the room. It is a disaster zone. Clothes and pillows are scattered across the floor, the debris of a grief-stricken rage and apathy that feels like it happened a lifetime ago. But then, your eyes catch it—a splash of white and gold. One of Adam’s robes, laid out on the mattress.
It takes a long, painful moment to register that you are sitting on his side of the bed.
He hadn’t lived here, technically. But he had consumed the space. He had filled every corner of it. He spent his time here sleeping, eating, crashing in your living room to loudly critique movies after training the Exorcists, or simply clinging to your presence like it was the only thing keeping him sane.
And there, leaning against the wall in the corner, is the golden staff, your golden staff.
It sits completely forgotten. Its intricate design feels like a taunt now—ornate golden wings at the tip where magical fire should be roaring. The metal wings were always there; the design predated him. But now, looking at the static, cold gold only summons the ghost of the shimmering wings that used to wrap around you.
The thought stings, sharp and sudden. The tears threaten to return, burning the back of your throat.
“Emotionally compromised.”
The memory of Sera’s voice echoes in the quiet room. That was her verdict. A Dominion—a high-ranking authority—cannot be seen crumbling. You cannot feel too much; you cannot breathe wrong. Her words had been soft, delivered with the gentle cadence of a friend—and she is your friend—but her eyes…
God, her eyes. They had been brimming with pity. A terrifying, humiliating pity. You don't want them looking at you like you are broken. It sickens you.
Standing up feels like lifting the weight of the entire world. Your legs feel unsteady, but there is no choice. You cannot rot in this bed. There is a guest to tend to. Sort of.
Abel. The light of your life. The sweet boy who forces you to keep moving. Adam’s son.
Walking toward the adjoining bathroom feels wrong. The silence follows you. There are no snarky comments drifting in from the bed, no wolf-whistles, no pair of hands pulling you back away from the door with a laugh.
The shower is ice cold. You don't turn the heat up. Warmth is no longer part of this life, so it feels better to wash it away entirely. The water hits you like needles, shocking the numbness out of your system, if only for a minute.
Dressing is another battle. Putting on the standard white robes feels sterile. Wrong. It feels like wearing a shroud. Instead, your hands drift to yellow. His color. It’s a small, pathetic rebellion, but you wrap yourself in it anyway.
The kitchen offers a mechanical distraction. The clatter of pans, the hiss of the stove—it fills the void. Cooking breakfast—even if neither of you needs to eat—feels comforting. It is something to do. It is a routine to cling to when the rest of the world has shattered.
It takes half an hour for Abel to drag himself in.
You hear his footsteps first—slow, dragging. He stops in the doorway, and you see a small, surprised smile touch his lips from the corner of your eyes.
“Good morning… Oh! You’re… making breakfast.”
His voice is rough, unused, scratching against the silence. He seems shocked at the sight—not because it’s unusual, but because he clearly thought you didn’t have a reason to do it anymore. Why cook when the person with the appetite is gone?
“Of course,” you reply. You try your best to sound upbeat, but the voice that comes out is thin, strained, haunted by an underlying exhaustion that no amount of sleep can fix. “You may not feel hungry but… You, uh, enjoy eating, right?”
Abel blinks, then rushes to reassure you, the desperation to be okay mirroring your own. “Yeah! Yeah, of course! I… really like it. Your cooking is the best. Like… ever.”
As you turn to look at him, the facade slips. It’s hard not to notice the dark, bruised bags under his eyes. It seems this was another night spent mostly lying awake for him. Maybe crying?
“Thank you,” you urge gently, pushing the plate towards him. “Now come on... Sit down to eat.”
It is impossible to know for sure what he feels. Sometimes, you think Abel isn’t too affected by his father’s death. He masks it well. But then, he gets that look—the same hollow, lost look you wear when you think no one is watching. He clings to company now, stuck at the hip with either you, Emily, or Saint Peter. Terrified of being alone.
He sits at the table, seeming a little more upbeat now as you fill his plate.
Despite the effort, the food feels like ash in your mouth. You don’t take a bite. Instead, you stop behind Abel’s chair. Your hand lifts, trembling slightly, before you gently run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp with careful precision.
He freezes for a second, then hums softly at the touch, leaning back into your hand to peer up at you.
The affection swells in your chest, heavy, protective, and agonizing. Leaning down, you press a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. It is a silent promise. I am here. I am not going anywhere.
He smiles at the gesture, a genuine, soft thing. You force the muscles in your face to smile back.
But then, the light catches his face.
His eyes. They are Adam’s eyes. Perfectly alike. The same shape. The same painfully bright intensity.
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. It is a physical blow to the chest, a phantom punch that leaves you reeling.
As much as it hurts to look at them, you are the only stable—mostly—parental figure in his life. You cannot let the cracks show. You cannot let him see that his face breaks your heart.
So, you swallow the sob threatening to rise. You wait until he looks back down at his food. Ruffling his hair one last time, you turn away. You retreat to the sanctuary of your bedroom, slipping away from view. Away from the pity. Away from everyone.
