Paul Merron again sat on his roof.  The sky was on fire.  God was at work again, painting sunlight over all creation.  It was a warmer day, at least.  And the heavy sense of loneliness had been lifted from his shoulders.  The pain and aggression of the world was temporarily removed from him, and a sense of peace washed over him.  
     He sat on the same slate roof as before.  Watching the same landscape transform under the growing sunlight.  
     She slipped a bit on the slate shingles as she plopped down next to him.  He smiled at the soft grunt she let out as she landed.  Angels could grunt, it would seem.  She was bundled up in his sweatshirt, which was just long enough to hide her hands.  She pushed the sleeves up to the elbow, despite the cold.  Paul removed his jacket and draped it over her small shoulders.  Her head lulled slightly towards him.  It had been a long night for both of them, staying up to watch the sun rise.  His eyes burned, even now, feeling dry.  The corner of his soft blues felt gritty.  A soft warmth emanated from them, and Merron knew he was bloodshot.
     It was a cloudy morning, and it make the sunlight glorious.  Each cloud was a different color, gracing the sky with the beauty of creation.  The beauty of creation was seated right next to him.  Paul smiled at the thought, and put his arm around her.  Whether it was done out of intention or friendship, is unclear.
     "I'm glad you came tonight, Lyla."  She smiled a bit, fighting sleep.  
     "Technically its a new day," she said, looking up at him.  Her brown eyes held his gaze for what felt like a very long time.  They were very orange, as a reflection of the sky.  She finally broke his gaze and turned back to the sunrise.  Delilah let her head lull again, landing softly on his bare shoulder.  It was cold, even with the coming of the sun.  He was wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt despite the March weather.  The first day of march.  
     They sat there for ages, in the morning air.  They were motionless, letting the first miracle of the day wash over them.  She moved her face occasionally, and each time he felt the damp feeling of rubbing flesh.  With a small show of courage, Paul lifted his left hand and took Delilah's right.  She responded by gripping it tightly.  He squeezed her once, and she squeeze him back.  Two sharp squeezes between his thumb and forefinger, and she copied him.  As he lifted her hand to his lips, he felt her arm flex and she brought it up herself.  He kissed her knuckles gently.  They felt rough against his lips, and he was a bit surprised.  But the pleasant aroma of her perfume, coupled with the beauty of the whole situation left him distracted.  It took a lot of strength for him to do even this simple thing.
     They remained, statues frozen there.  Paul had done this for ages, seated unmoving.  He was accustomed to not moving, to being a gargoyle surveying the land.  She fidgeted often, and he would kiss her on the scalp to calm her.  It did, each time he could see her smile lightly.  And just then, he felt that his love was reciprocated.  It didn't matter where they were or what pretty words he'd use to make her blush.  In that moment, they just existed together.  He held her, and she kept her face pressed against the flesh of his arm.  Each time he squeezed her right hand, her left would squeeze gently on his bicep.  She leaned down to kiss his arm softly.  He smiled broadly at this.  It was a clear sign of reciprocation.
     And though his heart leaped, he remained stoic.  The smile quickly faded from his lips, as he made the effort to remain unreadable, invulnerable.  This time was perfect to him.  And then, it became clear that she was drifting in and out of sleep.  Paul nudged her gently in the ribs, and whispered softly in her ear.
     "Delilah.  Delilah, wake up.  Let's go inside."  She looked up at him, red-faced where she'd been leaning on him.  A line ran across her cheek, the seam of his shirt.  It tickled some part of him, deep inside.  Paul stood and offered her his hand.  She took it, and he pulled her up to her feet.  She stumbled slightly, spinning on a loose shingle.  But Paul's hand was there to catch her, in the small of her back.  She spun a bit further, but managed to her feet, and they climbed in his bedroom window.  "You fell asleep."
     "Yeah...  I'm really tired," she said.  She stood in the artificial light of this room, facing him.  Paul fixed a loose strand of hair from her bangs.  
     "We talked...about this whole... hand holding thing.  Cuddling, all that."  Delilah made a face at him.
     "...yeah?"  Paul knew the look immediately.  She was confused, and didn't know what he was talking about.
     "So why'd you take my hand?  Why kiss me?"  Delilah frowned, and so did Paul.  He should have known better.
     "I'm so sorry!"  She spurted her words without thinking them through.  "I get like that when I'm tired.  I don't even remember."  Paul felt the dagger slide into his heart.  "I promise I wouldn't have if I had known..."  The dagger twisted, hilt brushing against his chest.  
     "It's okay," Paul said, with a false smile that could fool the world.  "I figured that's all it was."  Secretly, he wept.  Inside, he felt his heart pound faster and faster.  She hugged him then.
     "I should get going," she said after the short, tight hug.  "Have a good night.  Day!"  She corrected herself with an exclamation, but Paul could hardly hear.  He knew his face was turning red, and he could feel the sound of blood in his ears.  He felt stupid.