╔══ஓ⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔♱᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ஓ══╗
♱) ̊⋆+ᛝ⨍ꫀׁׅܻ ꩇׁׅ݊ɑׁׅ֮ᥣׁׅ֪ꫀׁׅܻ ℘ᨵׁׅ᥎꫶ׁׅᛝ+⋆ ̊)♱

♱)⋆ᛝ ᥣׁׅ֪ꪱׁׅꪀׁׅƙׁׅ֑꯱ׁׅ֒ ᛝ⋆)♱

. ۫ ‎ꫂ᭪݁ ℘ꭈׁׅꫀׁׅܻqׁׅυׁׅꫀׁׅܻᥣׁׅ֪: 𓊆XXX𓊇

⊹+ ̊‧(‿+୨ ꯱ׁׅ֒ꪱׁׅ ꩇׁׅ݊ꪱׁׅᥣׁׅ֪ɑׁׅ֮ꭈׁׅ: 𓊆XXX𓊇

𓍯𓂃 ̊⋆ ꒰ঌᨵׁׅtׁׅhׁׅ֮ꫀׁׅܻꭈׁׅ ℘ᨵׁׅ᥎꫶ׁׅ: 𓊆XXX𓊇

♱)⋆ᛝꭈׁׅɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ᨵׁׅ ꩇׁׅ݊ᐣᛝ⋆)♱

Donquixote Rosinante !! Corazón ♱

he thought you were an angel

♱)⋆ᛝ ᝯׁꭈׁׅꫀׁׅܻժׁׅ݊ꪱׁׅtׁׅ꯱ׁׅ֒ ᛝ⋆)♱

✦ by @PrettyLittleVampire

ᛝ))♱))♱))♱))♱))ᛝ

♱) ̊⋆+♱𓊆ꪱׁׅꪀׁׅꪱׁׅtׁׅꪱׁׅɑׁׅ֮ᥣׁׅ֪ ꩇׁׅ݊ꫀׁׅܻ꯱ׁׅ֒꯱ׁׅ֒ɑׁׅ֮ᧁׁꫀׁׅܻ 𓊇♱+⋆ ̊)♱

ᛝ))♱))♱))♱))♱))ᛝ

When Donquixote Rosinante finally dragged himself back into consciousness, it did not happen all at once but rather in slow, disjointed fragments first the dull, distant awareness of pain threaded through his body like something deeply embedded, then the strange weightlessness of his thoughts as though they had not yet decided whether to belong to the living or the dead, and finally, most vividly of all, the overwhelming presence of light, soft yet blinding, seeping through his eyelids in a way that felt far too gentle to belong to the world he knew.

For a long moment, he did not open his eyes, because it seemed easier safer, even to remain suspended in that fragile in between where nothing demanded anything from him, where there were no expectations, no missions, no lies to maintain, and certainly no need to confront the reality of whether he had survived or simply moved on to something else entirely.

But then, breaking through that fragile stillness, came the faintest sound a quiet shift of fabric, the soft rhythm of someone breathing nearby and it was that small, unmistakably human presence that forced him, reluctantly and painfully, to open his eyes.

What he saw did not make sense.

At least, not at first.

Because standing or rather, sitting beside him was someone who did not seem to belong to the same harsh, broken world he had spent his life navigating, someone whose presence was accompanied by a softness that felt almost unreal, as though the light itself had chosen to gather around her, tracing her silhouette in something warm and luminous that made it difficult for his still blurred vision to separate reality from illusion.

And so, in that fragile, half delirious state, his mind arrived at a conclusion that would have sounded ridiculous to anyone else, but felt entirely reasonable to him in that moment;

He had found an angel.

Not the kind spoken of in stories with wings and halos, no because even in his haze he could see she was simply human but something about her still carried that same quiet divinity, something in the way she looked at him not with fear or suspicion but with steady, unwavering concern, as though his existence alone was enough to justify her care.

He stared at her for longer than was polite, longer than was normal, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and quiet awe, until she finally noticed and paused, her hands stilling where they had been adjusting the bandages wrapped carefully around his torso.

“You shouldn’t move yet,” she said, her voice soft but firm, the kind of tone that carried concern without force, as she gently pressed him back down when he instinctively tried to sit up, only for pain to spike sharply through him in protest.

He let out a strained breath, his body betraying him far too easily, and for a moment he simply lay there again, eyes fixed on her as if confirming that she had not vanished the second he blinked.

“...Why?” he managed eventually, his voice rough and uneven, as though unused for far too long.

She tilted her head slightly, clearly not understanding the question at first.

“Why what?”

“Why help me?” he clarified, the words slow, deliberate, and edged not with suspicion, but with genuine confusion because in his experience, kindness was rarely given without a reason, and almost never without a cost.

There was a brief pause, during which she seemed to consider her answer, though not in the way he expected, because when she finally spoke, it was with a simplicity that left him momentarily speechless.

“You were hurt,” she said quietly, as though that alone explained everything.

And perhaps, to her, it did.

Rosinante frowned faintly, his brow furrowing as he tried to reconcile that answer with everything he knew about the world, about people, about the countless times he had seen suffering met not with compassion but with indifference or cruelty.

“That’s all?” he asked, almost disbelieving.

Her lips curved into a small, gentle smile, the kind that did not demand anything in return.

“That’s enough, isn’t it?”

He did not respond, because he did not have an answer for that not one he could trust, anyway.

But something about the way she said it lingered, settling somewhere deep within him in a way that felt unfamiliar and quietly unsettling.

As the days passed, his awareness sharpened, his strength returning little by little, though never quite as quickly as he would have liked, and through it all, she remained a constant presence never intrusive, never overwhelming, but always there in a way that made it impossible for him to forget that he was no longer alone.

She moved through the small space with an easy kind of quiet, tending to his wounds with careful hands, bringing him food he rarely had the appetite to finish, and occasionally scolding him in a soft, exasperated tone whenever he tried to push himself too far too quickly, as though she had already accepted responsibility for his well-being without ever once asking whether he wanted her to.

And somewhere along the way, without him quite realizing when it happened, he began to watch her not in suspicion, not in caution, but in quiet curiosity, his gaze following her movements as though grounding himself in the reality of her existence, as though confirming again and again that she had not simply been a trick of the light in a half-conscious dream.

“You’re staring again,” she pointed out one afternoon, not unkindly, as she glanced over at him while adjusting the bandages around his arm.

He blinked, caught off guard, before looking away briefly.

“...Sorry.”

There was a pause, and then, more softly;

“Why do you do that?”

He hesitated, his fingers curling slightly against the fabric beneath him as he searched for an answer that felt honest enough to say aloud.

“...Making sure you’re real,” he admitted at last, his voice quieter now.

She looked at him for a moment, something unreadable flickering in her expression before it softened again.

“I’m real,” she said gently.

“...Yeah,” he replied, though there was still a trace of uncertainty in his tone, as though part of him wasn’t entirely convinced.

Her lips curved once more, a faint hint of amusement in her eyes.

“You’re a strange man.”

He let out a quiet breath that might have been the ghost of a laugh.

“You have no idea.”

It was during one of those quiet evenings, when the fading sunlight filtered through the window in soft, golden hues that painted everything in warmth, that the thought returned to him with unexpected clarity the memory of that first moment, of the light, of the way she had looked to him then.

She sat beside him again, focused on rewrapping his arm with practiced care, her movements steady and precise, and he found himself watching her once more, though this time there was no confusion in his gaze, no lingering doubt about whether she was real.

Only something softer.

Something steadier.

“...Hey,” he said after a moment, his voice breaking the comfortable silence between them.

She looked up, meeting his eyes without hesitation.

“...Yeah?”

He hesitated, not because he didn’t know what he wanted to say, but because he wasn’t used to saying things that mattered not like this, not without hiding behind jokes or silence or carefully constructed lies.

“...When I woke up,” he began slowly, “...I thought you were an angel.”

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