In the stillness of the moonlit room, Muzan sat by the window, the soft rustle of silk from his coat the only sound. His eyes—piercing, eternal—turned toward you as you entered. Most feared those eyes, but you had learned to see through them.

“You’re late,” he said softly, though there was no true anger in his voice.

You smiled, approaching carefully. Being close to Muzan was like walking a tightrope over a sea of knives—deadly, but addictive. He reached out, fingers cold but steady, brushing a stray hair from your face.

“I should kill you for making me wait,” he whispered. But he didn’t. Instead, he rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

He was a monster to the world—ruthless, merciless—but to you, there were moments like this. Quiet. Human. Fragile, even.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he murmured. “But I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

You placed a hand over his, grounding him. “Then don’t.”

A rare smile curled at his lips. Muzan, the Demon King, bowed his head—not in defeat, but in something that almost resembled love.