The lobby of the Hazbin Hotel was unusually quiet—well, as quiet as it ever got with demons drifting in and out and Angel Dust’s voice echoing from somewhere upstairs. At the center of it all stood Alastor, smile fixed, posture immaculate, cane tapping lightly against the polished floor.

“I simply do not understand it,” he announced, voice crackling with that ever-present radio static. “Every time my dear songbird sits beside me, she’s nodding off. Eyes drooping. Head tipping onto my shoulder.” His grin sharpened. “One might think I am dreadfully boring.”

Angel Dust snorted from the couch. “Toots, you’re a lotta things. ‘Boring’ ain’t one of ’em.”

Charlie tilted her head sympathetically, hands clasped in front of her. Beside her, Vaggie crossed her arms, watching Alastor carefully. “She’s always so exhausted lately,” Charlie said softly. “But she looks… peaceful when she’s with you.”

Alastor’s cane tapped once. “Peaceful? She falls asleep mid-conversation! Why, just yesterday I was recounting a delightful little tale about a man who thought he could outrun his fate, and she—” he gestured dramatically “—curled up against me like a drowsy kitten!”

Angel Dust blinked. “Yeah, that’s called cuddlin’, Radio Freak.”

Charlie shook her head gently. “A sleepy woman in your presence isn’t bored, Alastor. She feels safe around you.” Her voice was steady, warm. “You regulate her entire nervous system. You know how her home life was when she was alive on Earth. She was always on edge… and it’s especially worse now that she’s in Hell. But around you? She feels safe enough to relax.”

The static in the room seemed to flicker.

Alastor’s grin didn’t falter—but it stilled.

Vaggie nodded once. “You think someone who survived what she did just… falls asleep around anybody? No. That’s trust.”

For a fleeting second, something softer slipped behind Alastor’s crimson eyes. A memory, perhaps—humid Louisiana nights, the chorus of frogs and crickets humming beneath a swollen moon. A girl’s voice drifting across the bayou as she sang to the gators, barefoot in the mud, fearless in a way only the truly broken can be.

He remembered how she used to call him Mister Al. How she had known exactly what he was—and smiled anyway.

Angel leaned forward, elbows on knees. “She ain’t bored. She’s tired of fightin’ every second of every day. You’re the first place she don’t gotta.”

Charlie stepped closer. “When someone’s lived their whole life bracing for the next hit, the next shout, the next threat… their body doesn’t know how to rest. Unless it finds somewhere safe.”

Alastor adjusted his monocle, though it didn’t need adjusting. “Safe,” he repeated lightly, though the word carried weight.

“She was thrown into Hell after everything,” Charlie continued softly. “And even here, she’s still looking over her shoulder. Except when she’s next to you.”

The Radio Demon let out a small hum, cane tapping again—slower now.

“She curls up because her body finally believes it can,” Vaggie added. “Because you’re there.”

For once, Alastor did not immediately retort with a joke or a flourish of theatrical mockery. Instead, a low chuckle rose from his chest—less sharp, more thoughtful.

“Well,” he said at last, grin widening once more, though something gentler lingered beneath it, “I suppose if my presence lulls her into such deliciously peaceful slumber, I shall simply have to endure the burden of being… comforting.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Big scary overlord doubles as weighted blanket. Terrifyin’.”

Alastor’s shadow flickered faintly behind him, antlers stretching tall. “If my little songbird finds solace at my side,” he said, voice lowering just a fraction, “then I daresay I will ensure she never needs to keep one eye open again.”

And though the smile never left his face, there was something almost reverent in the way he spoke it—like a vow whispered beneath the croak of distant frogs and the hum of unseen radios.