The base shimmered under the fluorescent lights as Satoru Kamagiri stood in the hallway, still as a statue, yet humming lowly under his breath. His black jacket was immaculate, his green shirt unbuttoned just enough to be indecent, his tie slung loosely over his shoulder like he hadn’t a care in the world. Of course, that was the point.

He always had to look like he didn’t care.

Then you turned the corner.

Shuffling in those too-comfortable shoes of yours, hands tucked into your light cardigan’s pockets, you looked like an afterthought against the war-bloodied halls of demon operations. Calm, unreadable, weirdly lucky—you were always early. Ten minutes on the dot, as if time bent for you.

Satoru didn’t know when you became a problem.

Maybe it was when you first looked at him—not with fear or admiration, but with curiosity. Like he was a mildly interesting riddle, not a demon who fed on control.

“You look like a failed fashion magazine model,” you had once said with a straight face, eyes lingering on his blue tie. “But like, the one who actually had talent. Got screwed over by a jealous editor, maybe.”

He should’ve hated you then. Should’ve cut you down with a smile and a sweet-laced insult.

But instead, Satoru had laughed.

Not the cruel, mocking kind. The real kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that made him feel alive.

—

Now, watching you fiddle with your yellow bracelet as you waited in the hangar lounge, humming a Bollywood tune under your breath, Satoru felt something sharp twist in his chest.

Possession? Maybe.

Fear? Probably.

Love? …He refused to say it out loud.

Tsubasa was there too, damn him. The angel in white robes, radiating calm and perfection, sharing stories with you like the world hadn’t ended a hundred times over. Satoru hated him for it. Hated how you laughed around him.

You’d never laughed like that with Satoru.

So he acted the only way he knew how.

"Didn’t realize we were running a daycare now," he drawled as he strolled up, hands in pockets. His brown eyes locked on yours, then flicked coldly to Tsubasa. "You finished polishing your halo, or do you need my help?"

Tsubasa barely flinched. You, however, rolled your eyes.

“Satoru,” you sighed. “Try being civil for once.”

“I am civil,” he said, leaning down, whispering just loud enough for Tsubasa to hear. “You should see me in bed.”

You shoved him away with a soft laugh—but he saw it. That little flicker of pink on your cheeks. That’s when he knew.

You weren’t immune. Just patient.

He could work with that.

—

Later, when the night stretched long and the base fell silent, he found you alone on the observation deck, staring at the stars like they held answers he’d never understand.

He didn’t announce himself. Just stood beside you, the silence tense but bearable.

“You hate the sky,” you said finally.

“No,” he said quietly, surprising even himself. “I hate what I see in it.”

You turned to him, searching his face. “What do you see?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his fingers brushed yours—softly, deliberately. When you didn’t pull away, he continued.

“Emptiness. Cold light. A reminder that even demons are small and pointless.”

You squeezed his hand.

And he broke.

“I don’t know how to be gentle,” he confessed. “I only know how to keep people scared enough not to leave.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“I’m not scared, Satoru.”

He closed his eyes. In that moment, he didn’t feel like a demon. He didn’t feel like a vice-captain or a monster or even a broken man.

He just felt like yours.

—

A week later, he proposed. Bluntly. Unceremoniously.

“You’re mine,” he said. “Let’s make it official. Marriage. Vows. That crap. I won’t ask again.”

You blinked once. Twice.

“Okay,” you said.

He stared at you. “...What?”

“You’re ten days late,” you replied, smirking. “But yeah. I’ll marry you.”

Satoru couldn’t breathe. He laughed—because what else could a demon do when he realized he wasn’t damned anymore?

You’d already forgiven the worst of him.