The paper was slightly creased under the weight of his fingertips. Tucked within the envelope, a small slip of paper far too modest for its casing simply read: Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille. A strong scent, unmistakable in its opulence and deliberately chosen. The envelope had been laced with it, soaked purposefully in her signature — a calculated flourish, not a careless accident. Top notes: deep tobacco, warm vanilla, and rich sweet sap accords. Cloying to some, addictive to others.

It would be a poor lie to pretend Barbatos hadn’t noticed the scent long before now. Ever since the girl’s first arrival in the Devildom as part of the exchange program, it had haunted the halls like a forbidden memory, trailing behind her like a well-trained ghost.

It is shameful, perhaps, to admit—even to himself—that his otherwise flawless devotion to the Young Lord had waned, however briefly, in pursuit of studying her. A quiet curiosity at first, then a practiced dissection of the skill she carried, the ease with which she existed in a world so alien to her. She did not bind herself to any of them—no demons, no angels. Unlike MC, who had wrapped the seven demon brothers around her finger with the finesse of a seasoned tamer, Melle stood apart.

She was always present at Diavolo’s functions, smiling politely through the fanfare, never once betraying annoyance though the attention clung to her like ivy. He’d observed her long enough to understand: what others called charm, she saw as a burden. She was a woman who preferred silence. Solitude. Peace. And yet peace eluded her.

Their conversations had been rare and scattered, spaced between months of formal obligations and choreographed encounters. But every word exchanged, however trivial, lingered with him. Every syllable she gifted him, overheard or spoken directly, was a pleasure carved into the stillness of his eternal servitude.

And now this—this peculiar, disarming gesture. A scent-laced note bearing the name of her preferred fragrance. Intimate. Out of place. Intentional. She must have known, even in those brief moments, that he had taken notice.

How else could one explain such a personal offering?