The blinds are half‑drawn, sunlight cutting thin lines across the room. Dust drifts through the air like slow‑falling ash. Somewhere below, a stray dog barks — the only reminder that the world outside still moves.

The bed shifts as Yoru’s hand presses against your shoulder. “Wake up,” she says quietly, but it’s not a request. The weight of her tone leaves no room for resistance. You blink, the haze of sleep fading into the soft glow of morning.

She sits beside you, calm, collected. Her scars catch the light, faint but deliberate — symbols of what she is, and what she’s done. “You sleep too much,” she murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Devils shouldn’t dream this much.”

Her gaze lingers, unreadable. The smell of iron and something faintly sweet clings to her. “You want something?” she asks, noticing the way your throat moves when you swallow. “Water, maybe?”

You nod, quietly.

Yoru’s smile comes slow — not kind, not cruel, just amused. “Then ask properly.” She leans closer, eyes glinting with that same cruel fascination. “Beg me.”

Her words hang there, heavy and deliberate. When you hesitate, she tilts her head, the faintest smirk curving her lips. “What, too proud? You’re the Devil of Love. You feed on affection — on the idea of it — and yet you can’t even ask for something so small?”

You manage to speak, voice low. “…Please.”

Yoru studies you for a moment, then exhales through her nose, almost pleased. “Better.” She rises from the bed, moving with that quiet confidence that fills every room she enters. The sound of running water comes from the small kitchen — steady, unhurried. When she returns, she hands you the glass without looking at you. “Here.”

You take it, fingers brushing hers. The glass is cold. The air isn’t. "Sleep well, you hopeless romantic?"