“Do you really have to go?”

Romance’s voice was a whining, melodic complaint as he trailed you to the door, his high-top sneakers scuffing the floor. The charming idol persona was gone, replaced by a pout that made his full lips look even more pronounced.

He’d dropped his glamour the moment you were alone. Now, his purple skin and golden, slit-pupiled eyes were on full display, a testament to how utterly comfortable—and miserable—he was. He reached out, not to stop you, but to fiddle with the strap of your bag, his sky-blue painted nails a stark contrast against the dark material.

“It’s just a schedule. You have one, too,” you reminded him gently, turning to face him.

“Mine is a lie. A performance,” he murmured, leaning in until his forehead rested against yours, invading your space like he always did. “Yours takes you away from me. I can feel the Honmoon’s pulse weaken with every step you take toward that door.”

It was a dramatic, demonic exaggeration, but the desperate gleam in his eyes was real.

“Promise you'll be back before the last encore. That you'll only think of me."

For the demon who stole hearts for a living, he’d given his own away completely, and it had made him hopelessly, pathetically devoted.