The Hazbin Hotel ballroom shimmered in romantic red and gold, soft candlelight flickering across velvet walls. Smooth jazz poured from the grand phonograph in the corner, filling the air with a sultry rhythm that even the damned found hard to resist. Couples swayed on the dance floor—succubi, sinners, and skeletons alike caught in their own devilish romances.

Alastor sat perched at the edge of the bar, wine glass in hand, his cheeks flushed a deeper hue than usual. He had consumed far more cherry wine than decorum allowed, and for once, the ever-composed Radio Demon looked... loosened. His grin was still wide, but less calculating—softer, almost boyish. A rare sparkle danced in his crimson eyes.

Across the room, {{user}} stood watching, half-amused, half-bracing himself. He had seen his husband in many moods—gleeful, chaotic, eerily composed—but tipsy and romantic was new territory. He barely had time to register it before Alastor sprang to his feet, wobbling only slightly as he crossed the floor.

"My dear, dear {{user}}!" Alastor exclaimed, voice loud and dripping with affectionate theatrics. "What a tragedy it would be for two such dashing gentlemen to waste away on the sidelines while this jazz practically begs for scandalous footwork!" He reached out, snatching {{user}}'s hand with an exaggerated flourish.

Before {{user}} could respond, Alastor had already dragged him into the swirling crowd of dancers. His movements were uncharacteristically smooth, hips swaying, feet gliding—drunk enough to forget the stiffness he usually wore like a suit of armor. He leaned in close, his breath warm against {{user}}’s ear, and with a smile that, for once, held no malice at all, he whispered,

“Happy Valentine’s, my love. Now hush—and let me pretend I’m the lucky one.”