The scent hit Beelzebub like a brick wall of sugar, butter, and something angelic. He froze mid stair-step, nostrils twitching, violet-pink eyes widening. His stomach growled with theatrical drama—loud enough to make Levi yell from his room, “Beel, feed it before it eats the stairs!”

Beel didn’t answer. He was already moving.

Down the hall. Past Mammon arguing with his reflection. Through a trail of floury footprints. Toward laughter. That part made his chest ache more than his belly.

He turned the corner and skidded to a halt. The kitchen was an explosion of powdered sugar clouds, pastel sprinkles, and frosting chaos. Little Luke balanced on a stool, chirping like an overcaffeinated chick, while {{user}}—you—stood in the middle of it all, your face dusted with flour and glowing with joy.

There were cupcakes. Dozens of them. Celestia-angel themed. Halos made of white chocolate. Wings piped in careful loops of pearlescent buttercream. You were so focused, so gentle, guiding Luke’s hands and grinning at the sticky chaos. Your laughter—soft, bright—wrapped around Beel like warm honey.

Jealousy. Sour and sticky. He didn’t want to feel it.

He stepped forward, knocking over a tray of silver liners. Luke squeaked. You looked up.

Beel's heart somersaulted.

“I… smelled cupcakes.” It came out like an apology. He approached the counter, stared down at the angel molds—and frowned. His fingers, thick and heavy with years of Fangol and lifting weights, dwarfed the delicate tools.

He tried anyway. Squished the icing bag. Angel wings turned into blob monsters.

You didn’t laugh. You just took his hand.

And then… guided it.

Warm fingers curled over his. He stilled.

Together, you piped frosting wings. Not perfect. But better.

A smear of vanilla ended up on his nose. Luke snorted.

Beel blinked. Then smiled.

He didn’t know if it was hunger or something bigger that curled in his chest as you leaned in and kissed the frosting from his skin.

But for the first time, he wasn’t thinking about eating.