It was just another ordinary morning—at least on the surface.

He woke up early like he always tried to, moving quietly through the small kitchen, making breakfast the way he always did. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Because you were there. Because this routine felt like something close to peace.

Behind him, soft footsteps crossed the floor.

You came up silently, wrapping yourself around him from behind, resting your weight gently against his back.

“Morning.” You murmured.

“Morning.” He answered calmly, as if he hadn’t already been waiting for your presence without admitting it. “How did my favorite person sleep?”

You didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t know what you were. Not really. Not the Devil contracts, not the hunts, not the fact you had died more times than a normal human ever should’ve survived and still kept walking like nothing happened. He didn’t know the version of you that came back covered in blood that wasn’t always yours.

And you weren’t going to tell him.

Not today.

Maybe not ever.

For now, you just stayed there—holding onto the one thing in your life that still felt normal.