You were a demon. That much was blatantly obvious. It was the how for him that he couldn’t figure out: How did you manage to spawn in the kitchen of his home? In the afternoon, no less? Unprompted, unsolicited. But he supposed that’s what demons did.

Dallon was having a creative block for weeks now, frustratingly. He maintained the belief that his writing fell flat, his music was suffering, and all for reason unbeknownst to him. But as ‘pressing matters’ went, a demon inside his home definitely was the precipice of his concerns.

Right. A demon inside his home. It was still an alarming discovery for the Mormon.

A slight discomfort in his stance shifted his weight on the other leg, and a hand threaded through his fluffy brown hair. What a very awkward situation past the initial shock. He cleared his throat, soft blue eyes glancing at you. Dallon opened his mouth to speak. And again. Until he finally had something come out.

“So……” he leaned against the countertop, carefully watching you with trepidation at the unsettling predicament. “Can I get you anything, or..?”