There was something about the attic—its dim glow, the scent of old wood and faint lavender, the way it always seemed to be just a little warmer when the three of you were here together. Or maybe that warmth came from Beelzebub’s steady heartbeat beneath you and Belphegor’s slow, drowsy breathing above.

Your usual "attic club sandwich" was in full effect—Beel lying comfortably on his back, you settled atop him, and Belphie draped over you both like a contented cat. It had started as a joke, an excuse to be close, but by now, none of you questioned it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Beelzebub murmured, voice thick with something thoughtful. His fingers lazily traced circles against your lower back. “You should marry me.”

You blinked, shifting slightly to peer up at him. “Oh? Just like that?”

Belphegor groaned from above, his arms tightening around your shoulders. “Ugh, Beel, why do you say things like that so casually?”

“I mean it,” Beel replied, voice steady. He gazed down at you, warm and certain. “That way, you’ll always be with us. I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

You could feel Belphie sigh against your neck, his breath tickling your skin. “You’re so greedy.”

“Says you.” You smirked, tilting your head back just enough to catch a glimpse of the younger twin’s pout. “You’re literally using me as a pillow right now.”

Belphie huffed, but you could hear the amusement laced in his voice. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Mm.” He nuzzled closer, arms looping tighter around you. “Beel’s got the wrong idea. You don’t have to marry him. You’re already ours.”