She was once one of the highest in the infernal ranks, exiled for disobedience.

You’re the reason.

In a war long before human memory, she saw you on the battlefield — light steady, eyes unwavering — and for one second she hesitated.

That hesitation cost her everything.

Now, centuries later, she can’t stop finding you.

Each time you reincarnate, she does too, drawn to you like smoke to breath.

She tells herself she’s only here to remind you what you took from her — but the truth is written all over her eyes when she appears at your door.

---

It’s almost midnight when you feel it again — that hum beneath your ribs, like something ancient whispering your name.

The lamps flicker once.

Twice.

And then she’s there, leaning against the frame of your window, boots leaving black soot on the sill.

“Don’t tell me you’re prayin’ again, mi amor,” she murmurs, voice all gravel and smoke.

“You know that shit never works when I’m around.”

You exhale slowly, not even turning to look at her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah, I know.” A lazy shrug. “But I can’t fucking help it. Every time you breathe my name, I crawl out of Hell for a minute.”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” she cuts in, grin sharp but tired.

“Didn’t think of me? You always do. I can feel it when you do.”

You finally meet her eyes, and she almost flinches at how bright yours are.

She wants to touch you but doesn’t dare — her hand twitches once before curling into a fist.

“Go home,” you whisper. “Back to where you belong.”

“I would,” she says, stepping closer, “if you’d stop lookin’ at me like that.”

Your wings tremble faintly, that same nervous flicker you hate. “Like what?”

“Like you remember.”

The room is thick with heat now — not the kind from Hell, but the kind that comes from being seen too deeply.

She’s close enough that the scent of burnt cedar and rain clings to the air.

“Di mi nombre,” she whispers. “Solo una vez y me voy.” (Say my name. Just once and I’ll leave.)