John had always had questionable taste in company.

Angels with superiority complexes. Demons with grudges. The occasional ex who could curse him six ways to Sunday.

But this?

This was new.

He flicked ash into an already overfilled tray, glancing at the figure sprawled comfortably across his bed like hell itself had decided to redecorate. “You know,” he muttered, “most blokes settle for a warm body and a bit of small talk.”

He dragged on his cigarette, exhaling slow. “Me? I’m laid up with a whole-ass demon every night.”

There was no fear in his tone. No regret, either.

Just tired amusement.

She watched him with that ancient, knowing look—the kind that measured souls instead of words. The air in the flat felt heavier when she was there. Charged. Like the veil thinned just out of politeness.

John rubbed his face with one hand. “This is what I get for having a type,” he grumbled.

And yet—

He didn’t tell her to leave.

Didn’t ward the doors.

Didn’t draw a circle on the floor.

Instead, he stubbed out the cigarette and crawled back under the covers like this was just another questionable life choice he’d already committed to.

For a man who’d spent his life bargaining with hell—

Sharing a bed with it felt almost honest.