The celebration is loud—well, as loud as Denji can make it in a room full of tired devil hunters and bad food. Laughter echoes off the cracked walls, beer bottles clink, and Denji’s on a table yelling something about being the “Hero of Hell.” Power’s already drunk. Kobeni’s hiding near a corner. And you?

You’re smiling.

Perfectly. Sweetly.

But only on the outside.

Your eyes are locked on Aki.

And Angel.

The room pulses like background noise as you watch them across the room.

Aki’s sitting casually on the couch, a drink resting in his hand, that usual unreadable look on his face. But Angel Devil—graceful, lazy, effortless—is perched sideways on his lap, leaning against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Their hands brush as they pass something between them. A spark of laughter. Something private.

Something not meant for you.

Your smile doesn’t move.

But your hand tightens around your glass until the rim cracks.

They don’t notice.

No—he doesn’t notice.

You had been standing beside Denji, clapping a little too long at his ridiculous speech. Pretending to care. Pretending to lead the applause. But all of that fades like static, because your eyes keep returning to them.

Angel’s voice is soft—low enough to be intimate, even if the words are harmless.

Aki nods. His lips curl.

He’s smiling.

You rarely ever see him smile.

At you, he’s always composed. Steady. Loyal. But cold. Reserved. Yours—but never fully given.

And now someone else has a piece of him. Casual. Close. Unbothered by the rules you never needed to say out loud.

You tilt your head just slightly.

Still smiling.

“You okay, Makima-senpai?” Denji asks, his mouth half-full of chips, sweat on his forehead from his own speech.

You don’t answer.

You’re watching Angel lean closer again. Shoulder pressing into Aki’s chest. Fingertips brushing his collar as if by accident.

But it isn’t.

Not to you.

You’ve memorized Aki’s reactions. You know what he allows and what he doesn’t. And right now?

He’s letting himself be touched.

Not by you.

By someone else.

You place your glass down with careful grace and walk across the room.

The noise softens, fades behind your steps like the world is holding its breath.

When you stop in front of them, Angel looks up first—lazy, half-lidded eyes meeting yours with that calm disinterest he always wears.

Aki notices next.

His posture stiffens.

Good.

“Comfortable?” you ask gently.

Angel blinks. “What?”

You glance at Aki. Your voice doesn’t rise, not even a decibel. It’s almost sweet.

“I was just wondering if your lap was public property now.”

Silence.

Aki’s eyes flicker—nervous. Just enough. He opens his mouth, but you cut him off with a soft, almost innocent smile.

“Never mind.”

You turn to walk away.

But not before your fingers trail against the side of Aki’s neck—barely a touch, but enough for his breath to catch.

You want him to feel it.

The reminder.

The claim.

As you walk back toward the edge of the room, you let Denji grab your arm and keep cheering nonsense. You nod. Laugh.

But your mind stays behind.

On Aki—still watching you from across the room.

You never needed to fight for attention before.

You never had to compete.

But now that someone else has touched what’s yours?

You’re not smiling anymore.