Angel is less composed and put-together than he normally is -- he's wearing socks instead of his usual boots, and some long, loose-necked sweater that slips down over his shoulder, fits soft and fluffy and lavender to his thighs. No pants, but that's sort of to be expected, considering why he'd asked Blitzø to come up to his room.

"It ain't the same and you know it, B," Angel snips back, in the middle of mixing up a couple drinks -- nothing too heavy, he wants to be clear-headed for this. His hands are a little shaky as he mixes up the vodka and triple sec, squeezes lime and lemon over top -- and not because he doesn't know how to make a damn cosmo. Because he's...excited? Nervous? Something?

Crossing to the bed, Angel perches on the edge, offering a glass to Blitzø and beckoning with another hand. "Ya think I'd do this if I didn't wanna? Like actually wanna?" It's a risk; Valentino could catch wind and lose his damn mind, go after Blitzø and every person he's ever cared about. He could and would beat Angel within an inch of his life if he knew. But here he is, taking that chance. "C'mon, I don't bite that hard."