In honor of Singles Awareness Day Valentine’s Day, I’ve written a little short story for you, my adoring public. Enjoy! (Spoilers through the end of The Black Parade.)

If there was one thing being a Seer taught me, it’s that nothing in life is ever simple.

Take my personal life, for instance. After six long months of God-mandated separation, Michael returned to me and proposed. I said yes after some careful consideration and then we had a sweet little courthouse marriage with the immediate family—Gabriel, Lauren, Lily, and Raphael. We promised to do an actual ceremony when things were less hectic, which was reasonable considering how much trouble the two of us get into on a regular basis.

A couple weeks later, I was in the kitchen peeling carrots when Michael snuck up behind me—a habit he developed because he thought it was hilarious when I jumped in surprise—with an idea.

“I just realized something,” he said, pressing a kiss against my nape.

“You’re secretly Batman?”

He chuckled. “No. We’ve never spent Valentine’s Day together.”

I paused, my nose scrunching as I thought about it. He was right. We met in August of last year and were with each other for a few months before he was sent away. “Guess not.”

“Well, I had an idea,” he continued, resting his chin on my shoulder, his muscular arms wound about my waist. It was so terribly comfortable I almost stopped peeling the carrots. “The fourteenth is next week. What if we have a late celebration?”

“Michael, it’s April.”

“So?”

“So that’s two months after the fact. You don’t want to just do it next year?”

He shrugged. “I thought this could be fun. Plus, it’d be easier to get you stuff since the holiday passed.”

My ears metaphorically perked up at the mention of stuff. I wasn’t a material girl, but I did like to eat. “Don’t suppose any of said ‘stuff’ would include chocolate?”

He angled his face towards my hair, his lips brushing my ear, dropping his voice to a seductive tone. “I’ll get you a Lindt chocolate basket.”

I shuddered. “I love it when you talk dirty.”

He laughed and kissed my cheek. “It’s a date then.”

Fast forward to a week later with me curled up on the couch blowing a quart of snot out of my nose.

Like I said. The life of a Seer is never simple.

“I cannot believe this,” I moaned through the tissue. “I should be up to my ears in chocolate! And sex. But mostly chocolate. And some sex.”

I could hear Michael’s rumbling laugh from the kitchen. “I know. I’m sorry you caught a cold, baby.”

I tossed the tissue in the wastebasket next to the couch, pulling the comforter I’d stolen from Michael’s bed tighter over my shoulders. The television blared the second season of Castle—my go-to viewing in an attempt to cheer myself up—but my pounding head, itchy throat, and congested sinuses eradicated any sense of enjoyment.

I flopped over onto my side, sniffling. “Why? Is God punishing us because we boffed like ten times in the first 48 hours of being soul-married?”

“I don’t recall there being any commandments against sex marathons,” he answered. “Besides, you work at a restaurant. There’s no telling how many people you come in contact with on a daily basis, so someone was bound to get you sick.”

He finally returned from the kitchen with a white ceramic bowl and a spoon. I sat up and he handed them to me, revealing what he’d been cooking for the past hour. Rotini pasta floated in hot chicken broth amongst chunks of boneless chicken thigh meat, carrots, and celery. I couldn’t smell anything thanks to the congestion, but my mouth watered at the sight of non-canned, non-preservative-stuffed soup.

“Thank you,” I mumbled, shoveling in a couple spoonfuls. Heavenly stuff. “This is so good I wanna divorce you just so I can marry you all over again.”

“Thanks, that’s sweet.” He kissed my forehead and sat down next to me.

I squirmed, trying to put some distance between us. “Not too close. You’ll get sick.”

Michael arched an eyebrow. “I’m an angel, you dork. I don’t get sick.”

I frowned. “Want some hot soup in your crotch?”

He bit his bottom lip, trying to hide a smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to rub it in. I just meant you don’t have to quarantine yourself because I won’t catch it.”

“That’s my point, though,” I said, putting the soup down on the coffee table. “This is two weeks into our marriage. You shouldn’t have to see me all gross and disgusting yet. I’m supposed to be your smoking hot wife. This stuff doesn’t come until way later.”

He shook his head. “Our lives have never been normal. I wouldn’t expect our relationship to be either. You’re still my smoking hot wife no matter what. I’m in it for the long haul, remember? ‘Til death do us part.”

The honest sincerity in his words made me glance down and fidget with my shirttail. “I’m not used to this.”

“Used to what?”

“Being taken care of,” I whispered. “Someone making me soup and saying nice things to me. Even when I was with….” I swallowed, trying to say his name without my voice cracking. “Terrell, I always hid at my place when I caught a cold.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he caught my chin, lifted my face, and kissed me very gently. “You are such a freaking killjoy, woman.”

I laughed. “Sorry.”

“You are forgiven. Now eat your soup that I slaved over a hot stove for all day.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stretched out on the couch and picked up my bowl, eating quietly while watching Richard Castle break down the door to Kate Beckett’s exploded apartment. Michael tugged my legs across his lap and started massaging my feet. Maybe it wasn’t a fairytale fake-Valentine’s-Day like we planned, but this would certainly do for now.

Five days later…

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

“I really, really hate you.”

“I know.”

“I’m an archangel of the Lord. How did you get me sick, Jordan? How?”

“I don’t know, babe.” I sifted my fingers through his dark hair, smoothing it away from his sweaty forehead. About half of his upper body was curled up in my lap. He wore a stony expression, his nose as red as Rudolph the Reindeer’s, his eyes bloodshot, his skin a couple shades paler than normal. I wasn’t surprised that he was this grouchy. Angel or not, a man-cold was a man-cold.

“You want anything?”

“To breathe through my nose,” he groused.

I rolled my eyes. “Not what I meant, Captain Sassypants.”

He paused. “I mean, I wouldn’t be upset if you took your shirt off.”

I flicked him in the ear. “Food. I meant food.”

He sighed. “Green tea. Make like a gallon of it.”

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna pour onto my head and melt my face off so I can’t feel anything.”

I bit my lip to keep from smiling and gently slid out from beneath him. “Yes, dear.”

I walked towards the kitchen. His voice reached me before I got there.

“…seriously, though, do you have to be wearing a shirt right now?”

“Don’t make me hurt you, pretty boy.”

Thanks for reading! Have a happy!