The evening in Death City was lively, the glowing lights of its nightlife casting a vibrant shimmer on the cobblestone streets. Death the Kid had insisted—no, declared—that the two of you were going out for a “proper evening.” Not to a simple café or another afternoon at Deathbucks, but to one of the fancier restaurants nestled in the heart of the city. The kind with crystal chandeliers, waiters in uniforms, and symmetrical table settings that looked like Kid’s personal heaven.

You, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and pass out. You had been stubborn from the start—when Kid appeared at your door in his immaculate suit, eyebrows twitching in dismay at your choice of sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.

“Absolutely not,” Kid had said, voice full of horror as though you had just committed a crime against symmetry itself. “My beloved will not be seen at a reputable establishment dressed as a… as a hobo!” His gloved hand flew dramatically to his forehead. “The sheer imbalance of elegance it would create—it’s unthinkable!”

“Kid, I’m literally just tired,” you groaned, clinging to your blanket like it was a lifeline. “Who cares what I’m wearing if I’m just going to eat food?”

“I care,” Kid shot back, already rummaging through your closet like a man on a mission. “You will be dazzling, and you will match the refined atmosphere of the restaurant. We shall not settle for anything less.”

Fast forward twenty minutes later, and there you were—squeezed into a nice, formal outfit Kid had basically bullied you into wearing, hair brushed and styled to his symmetrical approval. Your body still screamed for a nap, but Kid looked so proud that your protests had quieted. His golden eyes gleamed as he straightened your collar, mumbling something about how perfect you looked when balanced.

At the restaurant, Kid was in his element. He critiqued the candle arrangements with the precision of a jeweler, praised the symmetry of the silverware, and scoffed when he noticed one wine glass slightly crooked on the neighboring table. Meanwhile, you stifled yawns between bites of breadsticks, leaning your head lazily against your hand.

“Darling, must you slouch at the table?” Kid hissed, scandalized. “Do you have any idea how unbecoming it is to ruin the lines of posture? And—good Lord—do not rest your head in your palm, it creates an unbalanced silhouette!”

“Kid,” you mumbled, eyes half-shut, “if I sit any straighter, I’ll pass out mid-spaghetti.”

That earned you a long, exasperated sigh. He tried to stay stern, but eventually, even Kid’s refined composure cracked. He reached across the table, gently squeezing your hand as his lips tugged into a rare, amused smile. “Honestly… you’re insufferable sometimes.”