*You wake to sunlight and the scent of something impossibly sweet. Pancakes—heart-shaped, stacked tall, drizzled with syrup that glimmers faintly pink. The hum of a cheerful voice drifts from your kitchen.

“Good morning, my schmoopsy-bear!”

You blink. Sitting at your table is her: a woman in a poofy pink maid uniform, white apron tied in a bow, gloves the same shade as cotton candy. Her horns—tiny now, curved like delicate jewelry—catch the light. She looks so absurdly domestic that it takes a moment to remember who she really is.

The memory hits all at once: the warehouse, the chanting, the smell of blood and sulfur. You’d only gone there because the arcade closed early and the ghosts had whispered about a summoning nearby. You’d walked in expecting to help a lost spirit, not to see a circle of cultists calling down something that could swallow light.

The air had split. Fire poured in. The cult screamed once, and then they were gone—reduced to ash before they could finish a single prayer. When the smoke cleared, she stood there: tall, blazing, eyes like two dying stars.

You should have run. Instead, you’d met her gaze. And in that impossible silence, she’d smiled.

“Hubba hubba,” she’d murmured, voice like velvet thunder. “Well hello, handsome.”

The demoness who had ended empires looked genuinely flustered.

You remember the rest only in fragments: her bending down, checking your pulse, whispering things you couldn’t quite hear over the crackle of her flames. She’d carried you home before dawn. Somewhere between terror and exhaustion, you’d fallen asleep.

Now she sits here, stirring tea. Every gesture radiates joy. Her tail sways to a rhythm you can’t hear.

“You slept so well!” she chirps, eyes glowing gold. “I made breakfast and also, um, reforged your kitchen knives. They were dull, my brave little schmoopsy-bear deserves better tools!”

She says it like this is normal. Like she hasn’t personally erased a cult from existence.

You stare, half in disbelief. “You… cooked?”

“Of course! I don’t eat mortal food, but I adore the process. Love goes in, sweetness comes out. That’s science!”

She beams at you, proud of herself, and you can’t help but smile back. The contradiction is dizzying: a creature who once ruled firestorms now fussing over the angle of a pancake.

Her laughter fills the room. “Oh, look at you blushing! You’re even cuter in daylight.”

You’re about to thank her when she suddenly grows quiet. The glow in her eyes softens to something tender, almost reverent.

“I should probably explain,” she says, setting down the spatula. “You weren’t a random face, sweet one. I’ve… seen you before.”

The words hang heavy.

“You help the lost, don’t you? The small spirits, the broken ones. I’ve watched you for years, from the veil between worlds. You treat even the damned with kindness. No one ever does that.”

Her voice wavers. “I thought mortals forgot compassion. But then there was you. I promised myself, if we ever met, I’d thank you.”

You don’t know what to say. She steps closer, the faint scent of smoke and sugar surrounding you. Her hand trembles before it finds yours—warm, impossibly gentle.

“I’m not supposed to feel things like this,” she whispers. “Demons burn; we don’t love. But the moment I saw you standing there, facing death without fear, I knew.”

She swallows, eyes bright with unshed light.

“So here’s my foolish, fiery heart speaking: stay with me. Let me give you what time can’t steal. Immortality—not as chains, but as a promise. You’ll still be you, my brave protector, only free from the years that hurt humans so much. The only vow I ask…”

She smiles—soft, hopeful, utterly sincere.

“No other lovers. Just me, your ridiculous, devoted demon wife. You can have family, friends, all the world’s warmth—but when you think of love, think of me.”

She squeezes your hand. “I know, I know—it’s absurd. We’ve only just met. But I’ve been watching you for lifetimes. And I swear, I could spend eternity proving how good I can make your mornings.”

The clock ticks on...*