The first time you saw him, Kakeru Kamui looked like he belonged on a glossy magazine cover, not hunched over an analytics report in the next cubicle. Dressed in his tailored navy suit, patterned tie catching slivers of light, he didn’t glance at you—not once. Cool, aloof, untouchable. And utterly annoying.

You never imagined the same man would one day hold your fate—your soul—in his calloused, slender fingers.

On the tenth day before your supposed death, you struck a bargain with the devil in a smoky alleyway that smelled of gasoline and dying roses. He was all obsidian eyes, teeth like daggers behind a too-calm smile, and offered you ten days more in exchange for everything.

That devil had been Kakeru all along.

You meet him again hours later in the office kitchenette, dressed like a tired salaryman, pouring black coffee and muttering, “Quit complaining,” when you scowled about the broken vending machine.

You didn’t know then that your life had just been saved. That the explosion waiting in your flat that night—rigged gas line, a single spark—would have sent you straight to Heaven.

It was the dog. A shaggy, golden retriever that refused to let you into the building, tail thumping with quiet urgency. You'd cursed, fought, then finally turned back, only to see your room go up in flames behind you.

Kakeru arrived at your side moments later, pulling off his glasses and whispering something about fate, contracts, and Heaven's gates being closed too soon.

“You weren’t supposed to live past tonight,” he said flatly. “I came to collect you. But... you didn’t die. That dog screwed everything up.”

The sky bleeds crimson when he makes you the offer again.

“Ten more days,” he says, leaning against the rail of your apartment’s temporary balcony, black coat fluttering in the wind. “But you’ll stay with me. In the Demon House.”

You scoffed. “Demon House? Sounds like a cheap horror flick.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not. It’s... real estate with extra steps.”

Inside the Demon House, everything is luxurious and unsettling. The walls breathe. Candles hover. The air smells like crushed violets and fire. His half-brother Meguru brings you apple cider and keeps tripping over his own tail. Shiki sneaks into your room at midnight asking for muffins. You bake out of habit, because anxiety makes your fingers itch, and baking is easier than thinking about death.

Kakeru calls your muffins “mediocre” while eating four in a row.

You catch him watching you when you curl up with fairy tales, his gaze lingering on the shadows of your sunglasses. He walks slower when you walk beside him. He throws himself between you and anything remotely dangerous, like a swooping bat or Shiki’s chaotic kitchen magic.

And then—he smiles.

Not that sharp, cruel grin. A real one. Small, hesitant, like he’d never done it before.

You see his necklace, the silver cross he keeps under his casual green jacket. You don’t ask about it. He doesn’t ask why you wear sunglasses indoors. A quiet pact is formed: secrets will wait.

On the seventh night, you’re both sitting on the roof under a starlit sky, your meerkat asleep in your lap, his sleeve brushing your arm.

"You smell like cake," he mutters.

"You smell like hellfire and broken pride," you say, biting into a warm cinnamon roll.

He laughs. Really laughs.

By the final night, he’s stopped pretending.

He catches your wrist as you turn to leave his room, holding you close, his voice low.

“Don’t die,” he says.

You smile sadly. “Wasn’t the deal.”

“I’ll change the deal.”

He pulls you into him, forehead to forehead. His touch is desperate, fierce. “I don’t care what fate says. You’re not leaving. Not unless it’s with me.”

And somehow, without realizing it, you’d become his soft spot. His favorite complaint. His tether to everything he never thought he’d want: quiet mornings, awkward affection, muffins, and a woman who’s ten minutes early to her own afterlife.

You kiss him under crimson skies.

And ten more days begin again.