The flat was lit only by moonlight slipping through half-closed blinds and the soft glow of sigils scrawled in chalk along the walls. John Constantine leaned back against the edge of the mantle, coat long gone, tie loose, boots kicked off somewhere in the corner.

She climbed up to meet him, hands braced against the cool plaster overhead, legs wrapping around him as if gravity were a suggestion. Constantine’s lips found the hollow of her neck, breath warm, fingers tracing the line where ceiling met skin.

They shifted together, gliding above the Persian rug and antique glass, the world inverted for a moment of reckless abandon. Spells and demons could wait—right now, the only magic was holding her up, the delicious tension between desire and inevitability.

He whispered against her ear, voice husky, “Never thought I’d make lust defy physics.”

Below them, the flat trembled—hearts, plaster, or both—and John grinned into her hair, knowing this was one ritual he’d gladly repeat.