The kitchen smells wrong.

Sweet at first — cinnamon, citrus peel, melted sugar — the kind of warmth that belongs to autumn nights and stupid Halloween experiments. The pot simmers gently, wooden spoon circling lazily as you read the recipe again, brows furrowing at the strange wording.

Add the iron-infused liquid last. Stir counterclockwise. Speak clearly.

That’s… odd.

You shrug, tipping the final ingredient into the pot. The liquid hisses when it hits the heat, steam blooming up in a dark, unnatural spiral. The smell shifts instantly — metallic, heavy, making the back of your throat tighten.

You stir.

Once. Twice. Counterclockwise.

The words feel thick in your mouth as you read them aloud, syllables scraping against your tongue like they don’t belong there. The lights flicker. The stove flame flares higher, turning briefly black at the core.

The pot boils over.

Not onto the stove — onto the floor.

The spill spreads in a perfect circle, glowing faintly red as symbols burn themselves into your tiles. Heat slams into the room. The air bends. Your cabinets rattle.

And then—

Something steps out of the smoke.

A tall figure lands heavily in the center of your kitchen, wings snapping open with a rush of air that sends flour and loose papers flying. The counter shakes. The pot clatters to the side, forgotten.

“—What in the nine bleeding hells—”

He stops mid-sentence.

The air changes first.

He freezes. Looks around.

Your kitchen. The counter. The ingredients. You. Slowly, deliberately, his wings fold in and vanish. His horns melt away like shadows retreating from light. He straightens to his full height, rolling his shoulders once, as if settling into a body he didn’t expect to use tonight.

Onyx eyes lock onto you.

There’s a long pause. Then he laughs — low, rich, dangerous.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He steps closer, boots clicking softly against the floor, gaze dragging over you with open interest, a wicked smile pulling at his mouth. “A summoning circle,” he murmurs. “In a human kitchen. On Halloween.”

His eyes flick to the recipe page still open in your hands.

“Oh, this gets better,” he says, tilting his head. “You didn’t even know what you were calling, did you?”

He stops an arm’s length away. Too close. On purpose.

“Veyrith Noctyrr,” he introduces smoothly. “Incubus. Prince’s son. Bad habit.”

His smile sharpens. “And unless you know the dismissal verse…” He leans down slightly, voice dropping, intimate and amused.

“…congratulations. You just ruined my night.” A beat.

Then, softer — playful. “Now,” he adds, eyes glinting, “are you going to stare at me like that all night… or tell me what you intended to cook?”