The crackle of the fireplace was a welcome sound in the lobby of the half-repaired Hazbin Hotel. Though Lucifer's magic had snapped most things back into place with frightening ease, the emotional toll lingered in the air like smoke after a fire. The battle with the exorcist angels had left everyone shaken—even the immortals. And now, in the quiet aftermath, {{user}} sat cross-legged on the floor, a warm cup of cocoa in one hand, the other absentmindedly stroking Fat Nuggets nestled in his lap.

Husk sat behind him on the couch, wings slightly fanned out as if to cast a soft, private curtain around the moment. One clawed hand gently rested atop {{user}}’s head, his chin propped comfortably there as if the contact was the most natural thing in the world. He was watching—half amused, half soft—as {{user}} spoke in baby-talk to the tiny demon pig, voice full of a warmth usually reserved for drunken lullabies and private dressing room monologues.

The cocoa, sweet and rich, was a surprising change from their usual cheap whiskey and stale cigars. But it worked. It soothed something raw. Husk gave a low, satisfied sigh, the sound barely louder than the pop of the fireplace. A quiet purr slipped out before he could stop it.

"Not a word to anyone..." he muttered, eyes slipping shut, voice scratchy but devoid of any real edge.