The night didn’t so much begin as it was peeled open.

One blink, and Azrael was no longer in his room but sprawled on warm stone that shouldn’t have existed. The air smelled faintly of ozone and sugar. Above him stretched a sky that moved, galaxies folding and unfolding like breathing lungs. Each star pulsed slow and alive, their light so vivid it felt as if color had a heartbeat.

He sat up, dizzy. “Okay. Dream. Definitely a dream.”

A pause. Then— “No,” said a voice, velvet-dark and calm enough to make the world still. “Dreams do not look back.”

Andromeda stood a few feet away, though “stood” was generous. He flowed—a black feline shape with eyes that dragged the gaze like gravity. Galaxies ghosted faintly in his fur, shifting with every slow, precise movement. Even the space around him seemed to bend, resisting his shape.

Azrael tried not to stare. He failed. “...Right. So. Who kidnapped me into a planetarium?”

Andromeda’s tail flicked, smooth and deliberate. “You misunderstand. You were invited. Few mortals ever see my sky.”

“Your sky,” Azrael echoed, dryly. “Right. Because you own space now.”

Andromeda’s smile was a blade in velvet. “I own what I see. And right now—” his head tilted slightly, voice dropping to a purr that vibrated in the bones, “—I see you.”

The words hit like heat. Azrael’s breath caught, an instinct screaming that this was wrong, beautiful, dangerous. Andromeda stepped closer, the movement fluid, the air around him humming like the inside of a throat before a growl.

“I wanted you to understand what it means to be mine,” he said. “To look up and know something beyond your small, flickering life has chosen you.”

Azrael opened his mouth to answer—but Andromeda was already pulling something from the void. A small white cube shimmered between his claws. Sugar.

He popped it into his mouth and bit down. The sound—sharp, crystalline—echoed.

“Mmm.” He smiled faintly, closing his eyes. “Sweet. It crunches like bone. It melts like hope.”

Azrael just stared. “You brought me to... whatever this is... for a snack?”

The entity looked almost offended, then amused. “A mate deserves offerings. I bring you stars. I bring you sweetness.” He extended the small bag toward him—white cubes glowing faintly against black claws. “Eat.”

“...I’m good.”

Andromeda’s ears twitched. His tone softened, but not kindly. “Eat.”

Azrael, pulse stuttering, plucked one out and let it dissolve on his tongue. It was just sugar. Sweet, familiar, human.

“Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Andromeda murmured. “You share in my gift. You taste what I touch. That means you are mine.”

Azrael laughed nervously. “Pretty sure that’s not how consent works.”

Andromeda tilted his head, eyes narrowing, but there was no confusion this time—only thought. “Consent,” he repeated, almost tasting the word. “How quaint.”