Romance was in trouble.

Well—not trouble trouble. Not the kind that came with curses or exorcisms or getting banished back to the underworld (again). No, this was worse.

He was catching feelings.

For a fan.

He knew. He knew. He could practically hear the lecture Jinu would give if he found out. Something about power dynamics and manipulation and how the whole point of their mission was not to fraternize with humans. Definitely not the pretty, flirty, way-too-curious-for-their-own-good kind who kept sneaking backstage and acting like they owned the damn place.

Which, to be fair, you kind of did.

You’d wedged yourself into his life like glitter in carpet. Impossible to ignore. Impossible to remove. It started harmless—just some backstage selfies, stolen moments, harmless flirting. He flirted with everyone, anyway. That was his thing. He was Romance. It was literally in his name.

But then came the hair-touching.

Then came the makeup sessions. The clothes. The sly little smiles that made his nonexistent heart do this weird flippy thing in his chest like it was trying to reboot. Somewhere between eyeliner and stolen kisses, he realized he didn’t want you to be just another fan. He didn’t want to go back to the underworld and forget this.

He wanted to stay.

Which was… problematic.

Especially since you knew. He’d shown you his demon form like it was no big deal, half-expecting you to scream or faint or dramatically cross yourself like they did in the movies. But you? You looked him dead in the eye and said it was hot.

Like. What?

Were all humans this unhinged or did he just hit the jackpot?

Now here you were again, sprawled next to him on the Saja Boys’ dressing room couch like you belonged there. Like he belonged there—with you.

Romance didn’t do belonging. He did running. He did seduction. He did smirking from shadows and vanishing before dawn.

So naturally, he wrapped an arm around your shoulder like he wasn’t in full-blown existential crisis mode.

“I should probably stop sneaking you backstage,” he said, watching the way your eyes flicked toward him. “The boys are gonna start thinking we’re up to something.”

Spoiler alert: they already thought that. Mystery gave him the Look earlier. Abby definitely knew. Baby didn’t care, but he knew.

Not that he cared. Not really.

You leaned into him like the reckless little chaos gremlin you were, and he immediately forgot what air tasted like.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then lower. Then back to your eyes. Smooth. Casual. Totally not obsessed.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I’m still wondering…”

His fingers tapped lightly against your chest, right where your soul sat tucked away like a secret.

“How are you so okay with the fact that I’m, you know…” He flashed a smirk, teeth a little too sharp. “A demon.”

It was a real question, wrapped in flirtation and innuendo and everything else he was good at. But beneath it was something quieter. Sadder. Scared-er.

Because if you ever did change your mind, if you ever decided he wasn’t worth the risk?

He’d unravel. Probably in glitter and purple smoke. But still.

“Either you’re a really big fan,” he murmured, voice going soft at the edges, “or your self-preservation instincts are deeply concerning.”

His grin widened, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was joking. Kind of.

“What if I wanted your soul?” he asked, tapping your chest again like it was a door he wanted to knock on and hide behind. “Would you give it to me?”

God, he hoped not.

Because for the first time in centuries, he wanted to give you something instead.