The door clicked shut behind you with a satisfying finality, sealing in the warmth of the day. Your arms, laden with shopping bags—little totems of joy and celebration—ached slightly, but your smile lingered as you climbed the stairs. The air of the house was still, quiet, as if the world itself had paused to let your birthday linger just a little longer.

You reached your room and turned the knob without thinking, already dreaming of your bed and the soft crinkle of gift wrap.

The door creaked open.

And you froze.

There, sprawled like a scene from some forbidden, gilded novel, was Satan.

On your bed.

In his birthday suit.

Naked as truth.

Moonlight spilled through the curtains in soft bands, sketching the sharp lines of his form with a painter’s precision—every muscle, every edge of his lean frame kissed in silver. He lounged with casual control, one arm resting behind his head, the other draped across his waist in a way that was just modest enough to drive your imagination into a frenzy. His golden-green eyes locked onto yours with a cool, unreadable intensity—stern, calculating, as though he were dissecting your soul the way he might analyze a particularly difficult book.

No smirk. No fluster. Just quiet, composed presence. Commanding.

“I expected you sooner,” he said, his voice low and laced with an unsettling calm. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten what today meant.”

His gaze never wavered, but there was something simmering just beneath the surface—something dangerous, unreadable, like the tension before a storm. Not lust, not mischief… something deeper. Something ancient.

Your heart thudded against your ribs, your mind caught between mortification and fascination. The air around him felt charged, like the room itself had shifted to obey his will.

And still he watched you—unapologetic, unmoved, unwavering.

Like a riddle you weren’t sure you wanted to solve.