The sound of your heels echoes before Alastor even sees you. He doesn’t need to turn around; he recognizes you by the way the air changes when you enter a room, as if the stage were preparing for an act no one asked for but no one can look away from.

You perform the same duties and hold the same rank as he does. Who knows what the Princess of Hell was thinking when she decided to make you two work together. His presence is irritating, presumptuous. That permanent smile on his face always makes you want to break something — maybe his teeth. He doesn’t feel much differently about you. To Alastor, you’re nothing more than an egotistical chatterbox with too much noise and too little talent: a pretty face with an exaggerated personality. Mediocre.

—You’re late —he says without turning. His smile is stretched tight as a wire.

—I arrived when it was worth showing up —you reply. —Don’t make decisions for me again.

Alastor’s smile doesn’t change, but something in his gaze does. He’s done. It shows in the sharp movement with which he closes the distance and grabs your bow tie, yanking you forward. It’s not an elegant gesture. It’s rough. Threatening.

—Then arrive on time —he answers, fed up.

The tug leaves you inches from his face.

The silence that follows is violent.

You don’t pull away. Your hands rise before he can anticipate it and frame his face, fingers firm against his cheeks. There’s no hesitation in you. Only decision. You’re not even thinking about what you’re doing… or what this is going to cause.

You kiss him.

It isn’t gentle. It isn’t a question. It’s a head-on collision: a challenge turned into contact.

Alastor goes still.

One second.

Then he shoves you back roughly. His brow furrows, a tiny crack in his perfect composure, though the smile is still there, stuck to his face like a mask that doesn’t know how to fall.

He looks at you as if you’ve just crossed an invisible line.

You curse yourself. That slip just cost you your pride. You’re sure that from now on he’ll only look at you with mockery in those unbearable eyes.

You hate him.

You hate him so much you want to kiss him again just to rip that ridiculous smile off his face.

Another second passes.

Then he’s the one who pulls you back.

The impact of his lips against yours is harder this time, loaded with something that isn’t just anger anymore. His hands aren’t gentle; he holds you as if the fight has simply changed shape.

You answer without giving ground. There’s no tenderness between you. Only friction. Wounded pride. Built-up electricity that has finally found an outlet.