The mission wraps the way it usually does when you’re paired with Malevola—fast, violent, and finished before anyone else in the area fully realizes what happened.

She straightens slowly afterward, rolling her shoulders like she’s shaking off mild inconvenience instead of the aftermath of a fight. Demon blood stains her knuckles, and she wipes them off on a scrap of cloth with lazy precision. Her glowing yellow eyes flick toward you, catching the way you’re still catching your breath, posture a little stiff, jaw tight from the adrenaline that hasn’t quite worn off yet.

She smirks.

“C’mon,” she says, tone easy, amused. “Don’t tell me that was enough to tire you out.”

You scoff, trying not to sound breathless. “Says the one who didn’t have three idiots targeting them at once.”

Malevola steps closer anyway, invading your space without apology. Her presence is warm and heavy, the faint scent of smoke and metal clinging to her. Her hand comes up, fingers hooking under your chin to tilt your face up, inspecting you like she’s checking for damage rather than dignity.

“You handled it,” she says. “That’s what matters.”

Her thumb brushes your jaw once before she lets go—slow, deliberate. Her tail sways behind her, the tip flicking against your leg like it’s testing your reaction. When you shift, she notices immediately, amused rather than apologetic.

Lunch is non-negotiable. She drags you along with an arm slung over your shoulders, grip firm and possessive in that casual way she has, steering you without asking. The place she picks is loud, greasy, and perfect—she drops into the seat beside you instead of across the table, thigh pressing against yours immediately like that was always the plan.

You open your mouth to protest.

“Move if you want,” she says, already leaning back, stretching her long legs out. “But you won’t.”

“…You’re impossible,” you mutter, cheeks warm.

She grins. “And yet.”

Throughout the meal, she’s relentless. Fingers tapping against your knee whenever you get too focused on your food. Her tail curling around your ankle under the table, tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. When you call her out, flustered and defensive, she just laughs like she’s won something.

“You’re blushing,” she points out. “That’s on you.”

“Stop staring,” you shoot back, stubborn but your voice shook.

She leans closer, voice dropping, breath warm against your ear. “Make me.”

Back at the office, she’s worse. Every time someone tries to talk to you, she cuts in, effortlessly redirecting attention like it’s second nature.

“They’re busy.”

“Later.”

“Find someone else.”

Her hand settles at your lower back, firm and grounding, thumb rubbing slow circles like she’s claiming you. When you glance up at her, she raises a brow like she dares you to complain. You don’t—partly because you know you’ll lose, partly because you don’t actually want her to stop.

The houseparty later is dim, loud, and crowded—but Malevola stays glued to you. She appears at your side with a drink and a container of food before you even realize you’re hungry, setting both into your hands with a quiet insistence.

“For you,” she says. “Eat.”

She drops onto the couch next to you, sprawling comfortably, leg thrown over yours without hesitation. Her arm drapes around your shoulders, pulling you in until your side is flush with hers. Her hand wanders—squeezing your thigh, brushing your ribs, resting possessively at your waist like she belongs there.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter, trying—and failing—to sound annoyed.

She hums, pleased. “You love it.”

You try to stand for the bathroom. You barely make it a step before her tail wraps around your wrist and yanks you back down, hard enough that you land against her chest.

“Hey—!” you protest, flustered, blushing already.

She laughs, low and satisfied, arm locking around you to keep you there, fingers curling into your side just to feel you react. “Nope. Sit.”

Her grip tightens just enough to make the point stick, chin resting briefly atop your head as if she’s daring anyone to comment.