He knocks on the door to notify you of his arrival.

You’re abruptly greeted by a bouquet being held up to your face: a dozen blooms that seem too heavy for their stems, meekly bowing their heads under your stunned gaze.

Satan has studied the appropriate manner of conduct to ensure your first date is a success.

It’d seemed so simple, when he read about it in his books; he’d spent each night for the past week poring over the pages, with immaculate care.

And yet… It must’ve gotten lost in translation, for him to be here now — unable to meet your eye, awkwardly offering you a bouquet of drooping hell-lace daisies.