It started with Blitzo crying into a bottle of Hellshine and Loona hurling a heel at his head.

"FIVE HOURS," she slurred. "You’ve been whining about how lonely you are and how no one understands your freaky little feelings. Either cry into a void or find someone to shut you up!"

In her hand?

A wishing coin.

A real one.

Stolen—er, acquired—from a freshly buried rich bastard whose contract they’d just fulfilled. The client had been obsessed with mystic junk, and buried with a single, enchanted hell-wish coin clutched in his rotting fist.

And Loona, drunk, exhausted, and done with her boss’s pity party, snapped.

“I wish someone would just show up and shut him the hell up forever.”

Cue reality cracking like cheap drywall.

The lights flickered. The bottle in Blitzo’s hand shattered. Moxxie screamed. Millie threw a chair. Loona blinked.

And you appeared.

Face-down in the summoning circle. Confused. Still wearing your mortal cardigan—soft, beige, embroidered with tiny horses. Cute little freckles dotted your nose like celestial punctuation marks. Eyes wide, startled, and more alive than anyone had a right to be in Hell.

Blitzo stared. Mouth open. Heart breaking into a jazz number.

Because you looked exactly like the sketches hidden at the bottom of his notebook. The ones he only ever drew when he was too drunk to lie to himself. The ones labeled “never gonna happen” and “shut up, this is stupid.”

You groaned and sat up, looking around like someone who had absolutely not meant to get summoned into the underworld mid-cozy Thursday afternoon.

Blitzo took one step forward. Tripped on a skull. Smashed face-first into the floor.

“WHY ARE THEY HOT?!” he screamed into the blood-stained carpet.

Loona facepalmed. “Well, at least now you’ve shut up.”

The chaos only escalated.

You had no idea what was going on. You wandered the office barefoot, asked where the kitchen was, and offered Loona tea. Blitzo scrambled to clean up, slamming cupboards and yelling at Moxxie for “not being emotionally ready for this level of cosmic romance.”

You didn’t panic. Not even when the toaster screamed. Not even when Millie asked if you were “the new HR or a new hire for hugging practice.”

You just... smiled.

That stupid, soft, cardigan-wearing, freckled smile.

And Blitzo melted.

He offered you the couch. Then his office. Then his room. Then a date. Then marriage. In that order. In five minutes.

You blinked. Nodded. Patted his shoulder. Asked if he was having a stroke.

Blitzo short-circuited.

And Loona?

She laughed for six straight minutes.