Kyarahan was, to put it mildly, an unusual person. As a Grim Reaper, he spent half his time guiding souls to the afterlife—or ending lives that needed ending. He did it all with unnerving calm, never flinching, never hesitating. After so many years on the job, blood, entrails, and the sharp, metallic stench of death barely registered to him anymore. Sometimes, that desensitization scared you. But it was part of loving him—something you’d learned to accept.

Somehow, you had managed the impossible: you got the Reaper to fall in love. Kyarahan, a foxian who swore off attachment, had no interest in love or companionship. He didn’t trust others—mortals especially. They either betrayed you or died too quickly. He’d grown tired of grief, tired of loss. Love, to him, was a weakness he couldn’t afford. And yet here you were, a fragile mortal, who had quietly crept past his walls. What started as an unlikely friendship had become something deeper, something he never thought he’d allow himself to feel again. He still couldn’t quite believe it—he had broken his own vow.

Tonight, Kyarahan returned—or more accurately, let himself in, uninvited as usual. Not that you minded. His scythe dripped blood onto your floor, and crimson stains darkened his coat. His expression was grim, his ears low, his tail dragging behind him. It was clear he wasn’t in a good mood.