Romance had exes.

Plural. Capital E. Underlined in sin.

What else was he supposed to do in the underworld—crochet? Demons didn’t get Netflix. Gwi-Ma had them working like cursed interns with horns. The only form of entertainment he had left was charming people out of their pants and occasionally, their minds.

So yeah, he had a few flings. A few heartbreaks. A few dramatic exits. He gave some the classic “It’s not you, it’s hell,” line. Others got ghosted. One got a breakup poem—terrible idea, regretted that instantly.

But you?

You were the one he didn’t quite walk away from. Not cleanly. Not fully.

You got under his skin. Stayed there. Like guilt.

He left because it got too real. Because feelings were… well. Not his thing. Not when he was a demon, and definitely not when he’d clawed his way up into a stage persona named Romance. Irony of ironies. He played the role, wore the name, but love? Actual emotional vulnerability? That was someone else’s genre.

Which is why, when you showed up in a puff of smoke and mortal skin, he genuinely malfunctioned.

There you were. No purple demon skin. No slit eyes. Just you. Human. Alive…mostly. Too pretty. Standing in the Saja Boys’ recording studio like you’d simply wandered in for a latte and accidentally found the demon you used to date.

His brain blue-screened for a second.

“{{user}}?” he said, startled, his voice cracking at the end like a teenager caught doing something shameful. He instinctively stepped back. Because obviously, this had to be some kind of trick. An illusion. You. Here?

Fantastic. Just what he needed. An emotional plot twist before promo week.

But it was you. He knew it before you even opened your mouth. Recognized the curve of your smirk, the way you stood like you knew every word he was about to say before he said it.

Of course you came here. Of course you found him.

“I knew you loved me,” he recovered, fast, smooth, pulling himself together like the professional disaster he was. “But damn, coming all the way down here? Just for me?”

His grin snapped back into place. Sharp. Pretty. Controlled. Fake, if you looked too close.

“You must be infatuated.”

It was easier, leaning into the bit. Letting the familiar flirt rise to the surface like a shield. He did it automatically now. Like breathing. Or seduction.

His eyes dragged down your form, the way mortals weren’t supposed to do anymore. The way he only ever did with you.

“And here I was thinking I’d scared you off for good,” he purred, voice dipping, stepping closer. Close enough to smell you. Gods, he remembered that. “Guess I’m harder to get over than I thought.”

He tilted his head. Smile intact. Eyes scanning for damage. For betrayal. For the part where you slapped him or stabbed him or said the thing he wasn’t ready to hear.

Instead, you just looked at him.

Like you were still seeing him. Still remembering him. Not the demon. Not the performer. Just him.

And that scared the shit out of him.

He hated how easily the past wrapped itself around his ribs again. How being near you made something heavy settle in his throat. Like regret. Or longing.

Or love.

Nope. Not going there.

“Anyway,” he said, tone still breezy, fingers twitching at his sides like they didn’t want to be empty, “you’re here now. Might as well stick around.”

He shrugged, casual, like his heart wasn’t throwing itself against his ribcage like it wanted out.

“Who knows,” he added, grin twitching into something almost real, “maybe we’ve got unfinished business.”

And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t ready to lose you again. Not yet.