In hindsight, it was obvious that it was a mistake. But he can't tell you why. Their friendship might have been—better, less brittle and fractured in places, if sex hadn't been a brief part of their relationship. Initiating sex never got him what he wanted, and it harmed what they might have had otherwise. That's why it was a mistake. He knows no way to explain that, though. It's largely irrelevant now. This is one night, and they have no future.

He turns his face towards the passenger-side window, leaning his weight into your side, hand settling against your thigh. "I felt something."

The version of him that existed here, and died. He doesn't know how he wouldn't have felt something for you. He doesn't know when it started, if something changed in him the moment he saw you in Hell, but he should have been aware of it by now, even as an angel. He should have known he loved you, even if he didn't know how or whether to express it.

It's not something he sees a point in discussing. He doesn't want—to ruin whatever small amount of peace they've established for right now. He wants to pretend that none of that ever happened, or that none of it matters now. They're together; he wants to be together.