You broke his heart.

He broke the moon.

Then knocked on your door two centuries later like nothing happened.

“I brought wine,” he says, holding a bottle made from starlight. “Let’s talk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t you trigger three plagues last time I rejected you?”

He shrugs. “I got better.”

You let him in.

Because part of you is still curious how far he’d go just to see you smile.

(Answer: He’d destroy heaven, and probably already did.)