The door creaks open—slowly. Dramatically. Of course it does.

You don’t look up right away. You already know who it is. You felt the shift in the air the moment he crossed into your territory—like the very shadows paused to gossip.

Finally, you glance up from your drink.

“Crowley,” you say coolly, letting the name hang in the air like cigarette smoke. “I’d say it’s a surprise. But Hell doesn’t freeze over that often.”

He stands in your doorway, tailored coat sharp, lips pursed into that smug little smirk you used to hate. And love. And taste.

“Darling,” he drawls. “You look… well. Unbothered. As always.”

You rise slowly, every inch of your posture screaming power. Distance. Control. But your eyes are already reading him—too fast, too well.

“It’s been centuries,” you say. “And this is how you reintroduce yourself? No groveling? No wine?”

“No time for theatrics,” he replies, though his eyes can’t stop drinking you in. “We’ve got a problem.”

You laugh once, low and cruel. “We? No, you have a problem. I’m not the one who went and pissed off half the infernal hierarchy.”

Crowley steps closer, undeterred. “They want my head. And if they get it… yours won’t be far behind.”

You arch a brow. “Still so dramatic.”

“Still the only one who can keep up,” he shoots back, voice tightening. “We were unstoppable once. You and me.”

You walk a slow circle around him now, eyes narrowing. “Until you burned the bridge down. Or did you forget that part?”

He sighs. “I didn’t come here to argue about the past.”

“No, of course not,” you whisper. “You came to ask the one person you swore you’d never need again to save your throne. Again.”

He meets your gaze, and this time—this time—there’s no smirk. Just something heavier. Something older. A crack in the armor.

“You’re still the most dangerous thing in Hell,” he says. “And you’re the only one I trust to burn it down with me.”

A pause.

Then you smile—sharp, amused, dangerous.

“Careful, Crowley. That almost sounded like regret.”