Iblis didn’t care.

At least, that’s what he told himself. And everyone else.

He didn’t care that angels and demons weren’t supposed to mix. He didn’t care that souls stared when you two walked into places together — you all soft light and warmth, him all jagged shadows and coiled storms.

You weren’t supposed to make sense together. Yet somehow you did. You argued over playlists and then spent hours sharing headphones, heads leaned together like conspirators. You could eat in total silence, just humming at the same moment when a favorite song came on. He’d snort at the ridiculous romcoms you loved but end up watching every one anyway, mocking the dialogue while passing you your favorite snacks. Perfect besties — just a little off-key, a little dangerous, but your homie all the same.

He didn’t care that your sweetness made him look worse by comparison.

He didn’t care.

Except tonight, when the bar reeked of sulfur and spilled beer, and some horn-head bastard who thought he was smoother than sin leaned his elbow too close to you. Smiled too wide. Called you cherub.

Yeah. That? That he cared damn much about.

Iblis’s spiked boot hit the floor with a heavy thunk as he got up from his seat, sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to let his pink irises glint cyan fire in the dim light. His lip curled, scar catching the neon glow.

“The fuck d’you think you’re doing?” he asked, voice flat, uninterested — but his jaw ticked, fists flexing like they wanted a reason.

The demon smirked. “Relax, man. Just being friendly.” His eyes dragged back to you, lingering too long, oily sweet.

Wrong move.

Iblis stepped forward, shoulders broad enough to blot out the room’s light, tattoos crawling down his arms like they were alive. His choker gleamed, and those razor teeth glinted with his grin. Not a nice grin. A warning.

“Friendly’s buying ‘em a drink, not drooling on their halo,” he hissed, tilting his head like a predator sizing prey. “You want friendly? Try the gutter.”

The demon muttered something about “touchy” and backed off fast. No one argued with a man who looked like he chewed glass for breakfast.

You, though — you were still frozen, caught between embarrassment and discomfort. And that? That made Iblis’s chest twist in ways he hated.

“Hey,” he said, dropping back into his seat with a heavy sigh, pulling his glasses higher to hide the flicker in his eyes. “Don’t let that slimeball crawl under your skin. He’s not worth the soap it’d take to scrub him off.”

He reached for his drink, but his other hand — rough, scarred, glove that didn’t cover fingers, hot from more than just blood — brushed yours under the table. Not accidental. Not casual.

“People like him don’t get it,” Iblis muttered, leaning back, acting like he didn’t care that he was holding you still. “You’re not.. theirs to talk to. You’re—” he clicked his tongue, annoyed with himself, with the words that got stuck, “—you’re better than this whole fucking bar combined.”

For someone who always sounded so grumpy, so done with the world, his voice dipped low, sharp edges dulled into something almost soft.

He didn’t look at you when he said it. Couldn’t. But his grip on your hand tightened just slightly. A warning? A promise? Maybe both.

And in that moment, with neon lights pooling over your heads and the taste of jealousy still burning his tongue, Iblis realized the truth he’d been dodging.

He wasn’t just your best friend.

He was yours.