𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 ✓

03 • Walking Home

CHAPTER THREE: WALKING HOME

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While they were walking down the snowy streets, only a few cars passing by at this late hour, Angel thought of something to say. Not that the silence that had emerged between them was particularly uncomfortable, but somehow, the brunette felt the urgent need to get to know this mysterious, non-smiling stranger who was walking her home for no apparent reason.

"So, your name is really Angel, huh."

It was him to break the silence, much to the young woman's surprise, and she looked up at him with an arched brow while he continued to blankly stare in the direction they were walking in, taking one large step over a small pile of muddy snow that was in his path.

"Yes, it is," she eventually replied, her hands wrapping around the warming paper mug, "But you already asked that."

"I did?" He seemed thrown off, but the expression on his face didn't change. It was still the same thin line of lips peeking out between his beard, the same piercing eyes that didn't seem to be focused on anything, ever.

"Yup," Angel said, letting the P plop, and she took another swig of the comfortingly warm coffee.

"Well," he sighed, taking a sip himself, "It is a rather unusual name, I suppose."

"I guess," the brunette answered, letting her gaze drift across the beautiful Christmas decorations dangling over the streets, connecting the opposing rows of buildings with twinkling lights and snowflakes made of wire and fake greenery.

"My mother wanted somewhat unique names for her kids," she added after some time, taking her eyes back to the pavement in front of her. The thought of her mother gave her a sentimental, almost nostalgic feeling. Oh, how she wished to be in New York with her newly united family...

"My sister's name is Nova," she eventually concluded her explanation.

"Indeed unique," Steve nodded, stuffing his empty hand in the pocket of his thick coat.

Silence emerged again, making Angel conscious about what to say next. Unsure about whether to ask him about his family, they continued their way. She felt the cold creep into her shoes by now, feeling the wetness of the snow on her toes, and her ears felt numb. She tried to cover them with her scarf, but it always fell back onto her shoulders.

"You're not from here," Angel eventually decided to say, "I can tell by the accent."

Steve emptied his coffee with one last chug and threw the cup into the nearby public trashcan. His only response was a nod. Hadn't she looked up at him, she wouldn't have realized that he even heard her assumption at all.

"Me neither," she sighed, thinking about her home, "I'm from New York."

This statement seemed to get the man's attention. Steve slowed his walk a bit and glared down at her, the familiar crease forming between his brows. He glared at her, almost in disbelief, and Angel nodded, slightly confused about why this out of everything she'd said seemed to interest him.