He remembered the first time he saw you. He had been sent down to earth for one of his usual tasks — something dirty, something destructive, something meant to shake the fragile humans below. You arrived in a flash of light, wings hidden but presence unmistakable. You were an angel, and he knew it instantly.
You looked nothing like what he thought an angel would. You were sharp-tongued, eyes that cut into him, lips quick to spit out venom disguised as wit. It infuriated him. It intrigued him. He hated the way you looked at him, like you could see right through him, and he hated even more how much he wanted you to keep doing it.
Your first fights were brutal. Words first, claws later. He remembered pinning you against cracked stone, your blade at his throat. He should’ve ended you, and you should’ve ended him. Instead, you lingered. Both of you always lingered.
He used to laugh after those battles, licking the blood from his lip and saying: “You fight like you hate me, but you hesitate like you don’t.”
And you always snapped back, but never denied it.
It became a pattern. Every task, every assignment, somehow, you were there. He stopped believing in coincidence. Maybe Heaven and Hell enjoyed throwing you both together, knowing it would unravel you. Maybe it was fate. He didn’t believe in fate until you.
The first time it happened, you were both too tired to fight. A hotel on the edge of a nameless city. He remembered the rain hitting the windows, the faint smell of smoke still clinging to him, and you — standing there, wet hair clinging to your face, exhaustion in your shoulders.
He had meant to mock you. Instead, he touched your face. He kissed you before either of you could think better of it. And it was wrong. You both knew it. Angels didn’t belong with demons. Demons weren’t supposed to crave the light.
And yet, your lips parted for him. Your hands pulled him closer. That night wasn’t planned — it was messy, desperate, forbidden. But it wasn’t the last.
He began to crave it. Not just your body, not just the kisses he stole when no one watched — he craved you. Your arguments in quiet alleys, the sting of your words, the way you still let him hold your wrist a second longer than necessary. He loved how you made him furious, how you made him alive.
No one knew. No one could ever know. If Hell discovered he was tainting himself with an angel, they would tear him apart. If Heaven discovered you were falling for a demon, they would strip you of your wings. The secrecy was half agony, half thrill. Every time you slipped into his arms in the human world, it felt like sin itself and salvation all at once.
Now, another task brought you both down again. Another mission. Another chance for the world to crumble under your hands. He caught sight of you from across the street, disguised in human clothes, but your presence still lit something in him.
He smirked as he closed the distance, brushing close enough that only you could hear. His voice was low, taunting, but softer than he wanted it to be:
“You know, my angel, I’m starting to think heaven sends you here just for me. Maybe they already know. Maybe they want us to burn.”