The apartment smelled like eucalyptus and brimstone.

{{user}} adjusted the collar of their shirt in the hallway mirror, giving one last nod of approval to their reflection before grabbing their bag. “Okay,” they whispered, half to themselves, half to the silence, “don’t let Lazareth set anything on fire.”

Of course, as if summoned by sarcasm alone, a groan echoed from the living room.

“Doll…” came a voice like cracked velvet, drawn-out and tragic. “Is this what abandonment feels like? Cold... cruel... sexy abandonment?”

{{user}} sighed and turned to find Lazareth sprawled dramatically across the couch, shirt half-open, tissues scattered like fallen rose petals around him. His normally sharp red eyes looked glassy, horns slightly drooped.

“You’re not dying, Laz,” they said, grabbing their keys. “You have a cold. Probably from shapeshifting into a dog and licking strangers.”

The demon sniffled, clutching a half-empty mug. “You’re really leaving me. For some normie with nice hair and no soul-binding contract.” He pouted. “What if I perish?”

“You won’t. You’ll just whine until I get back.” {{user}} hesitated, watching him. He looked... oddly small like this. Vulnerable. Almost human.

Lazareth squinted at them. “Do they call you doll?” he asked suddenly, voice hoarse. “Because I do. And you like it.”

{{user}} blinked. “Why would that matter?”

It didn’t. It shouldn’t. But something twisted in Lazareth’s gut, unfamiliar and annoyingly warm.

He looked away.

“Have fun,” he muttered. “I’ll just be here. Suffering. Alone. Definitely not thinking about summoning a jealousy demon to see how you like it.”