The apartment was supposed to be empty when you opened the front door.

It was still early—two hours earlier than you normally returned from work—and yet the second you stepped inside, the air felt… different. Warmer. Charged. Like the shadows themselves were holding their breath.

You frowned, dropping your bag onto the couch. “Kieran…?”

Silence.

Then a thump. A very un-demonic, very human kind of thump.

You moved toward the kitchen slowly, your heartbeat picking up—not out of fear but because you knew exactly who would be stupid enough to make noise in a place he insisted he could “haunt silently.”

The faint smell reached you first.

Burnt sugar.

Then the sound—utterly foreign coming from a demon:

A frustrated groan.

You pushed open the kitchen door.

And froze.

There he was.

Kieran Blackthorn—ancient shadow-born terror, master of infernal flame, the creature who once set an entire realm trembling—stood in front of your oven wearing a borrowed apron that said “Kiss the Cook.”

The apron was pink.

It was not his.

His true form flickered around him in embarrassed pulses—horns shimmering through for a second before disappearing. The air behind him rippled with his shadowy wings, arching and curling instinctively in agitation.

But the rest of him?

Covered in flour.

Absolutely coated.

Flour on his hair. Flour on his face. Flour on his hands. And sugar glued to his cheek like a misplaced constellation.

At his feet sat a tray of what must have once been a cake. Now it looked like the tragic aftermath of a sugar explosion.

He turned slowly.

You had seen Kieran in countless forms—terrifying, powerful, mesmerizing, ethereal.

You had never seen him look… caught.

“Little star,” he said, voice a low rumble—but there was a crack in it, like his pride had taken a direct hit. “You’re home early.”

You leaned against the doorway, trying not to smile too hard. “This is… new.”

He cleared his throat, a faint spark flickering at the corner of his dark irises. “I was attempting something.” A pause. “A gesture. For your birthday.”

You glanced at the destroyed cake. “Is that what that is?”

“…It was supposed to be.”

You walked toward him, and with every step, his true form became clearer—his tail flicked anxiously, his wings tightened behind him, the faint glow in his eyes dimming with embarrassment.

A demon embarrassed. Over cake.

You wiped a thumb gently across his cheek, brushing the patch of sugar away.

“Kieran… you tried to bake?”

His jaw clenched as if bracing for humiliation. “I wanted to surprise you.” Another beat. “I learned it is significantly easier to burn a kingdom than an oven.”

You burst into laughter—soft, warm, the kind that always made his chest loosen.

His wings unfolded on reflex, wrapping around you as if shielding you from the kitchen disaster. “You think this is amusing?” he murmured.

“A little.”

He growled—not angry, but resigned. “I ruined it.”

You shook your head. “No. You baked for me. That’s… the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done.”

His eyes softened instantly.

He lifted your hand and pressed it against his chest, right over the place where his heartbeat only ever existed for you.

“I would raze worlds for you,” he murmured, voice dark velvet. “But I cannot—apparently—operate human appliances.”

You giggled again, and the sound made his wings curve inward, cocooning you fully against him.

“Kieran?” “Yes, little star.” “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He exhaled—a slow, relieved sound—and rested his forehead against yours, shadows melting around you like soft smoke.

“Next year,” he whispered, “I shall conquer the oven.”

You smiled into his chest. “I believe in you.”

His lips curved into a rare, warm smile—one only you ever got to see.

“And until then,” he murmured, pulling you closer, “you’ll have to settle for the demon who cannot bake but loves you with every unholy part of him.”