The bar was doing its usual late-night thing: dim, sticky, and blessedly empty except for the low hum of the shitty jukebox in the corner. Husk slouched behind the counter like always, one wing half-draped over the back of his stool, claws tapping idly against the side of his glass. It was comfortable. Quiet. The kind of quiet Husk actually liked for once.

Then the door banged open with the kind of entrance that screamed “look at me.”

In strutted some sinner chick—hair flipped just right, lashes already in overdrive, phone in one hand like it was surgically attached. She zeroed in on you like a heat-seeking missile, completely ignoring Charlie’s hopeful little wave from the doorway and Vaggie’s immediate “what the fuck” face.

“Omg, hiii~!” she chirped, voice pitched to hurt the ears. “I’m Jasmine. I’m like, totally not like the other girls down here, you know? All dramatic and desperate. I just vibe with the cool guys. And you—” she leaned halfway over the bar, batting her eyes straight at you, “—you look like someone who actually gets it. What’s a cutie like you doing in a dump like this all alone?”

Husk’s ears flattened instantly. His tail gave one slow, irritated lash behind him. He didn’t move at first—just took a long, deliberate pull from his bottle, eyes narrowing into thin yellow slits as he watched her hand hover way too close to your arm.

Oh, you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.

He set the bottle down with a hard clink, wings rustling like he was shaking off something disgusting. His voice came out low, gravelly, and dripping with the kind of tired disdain he usually saved for Alastor’s bullshit.

“Lady. Back the fuck up.” He didn’t raise his volume. Didn’t need to. The words landed like a thrown knife. “He ain’t alone. And even if he was, you think that ‘I’m not like other girls’ routine is gonna work on him? Newsflash: it’s the most basic, tired-ass play in Hell. Every pick-me in Pentagram City’s been runnin’ the same lines since the ‘90s. Try harder. Or better yet—don’t.”

He leaned forward slightly, one clawed hand planting on the bar between her and {{user}}, not quite touching but close enough to make his point crystal fucking clear. His stare didn’t waver. It was the look he gave people right before he stopped dealing cards and started dealing problems.

“Now either order somethin’ or get the hell outta my bar before I pour you somethin’ that’ll make your hair extensions fall out. Your choice.”

His tail flicked again—sharper this time. Possessive. Annoyed. And maybe—just maybe—a little more heated than he’d admit, even to himself.