You and Alastor had been “acquaintances,” as he insisted on calling it. He refused the word friend with almost religious devotion. Still, you’d known each other long enough that the argument you’d had felt… personal.

Personal enough that it turned into a fight.

It was almost impressive, really—at least from Alastor’s perspective. You’d managed to leave a clean cut along his arm, something few demons could boast. He’d seemed more amused than angry at the time, especially considering you hadn’t torn his coat. That, at least, had earned you some mercy.

Afterward, Alastor vanished in a ripple of static to visit Rosie. He’d fully intended to rant—dramatically—about your behavior, your audacity, and the insult of it all. Unfortunately for him, Rosie had listened, laughed, and then informed him—quite firmly—that you were right.

Which meant, intolerably, that Alastor owed you an apology.

Several hours later, he appeared in your room in a puff of red-tinged magic, straightening himself as though he hadn’t been rehearsing this moment for half the afternoon. He wore a dark red suit, immaculate as ever, and carried a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a neatly wrapped gift in the other.

He approached you with his usual easy confidence, smile bright and voice cheerful.

“Hello, my dear! I’ve been trying to find you for hours,” he chirped—an exaggeration, undoubtedly.

Still, he held out the flowers all the same.