The bar was doing its usual late-night thing: dim, sticky, and blessedly empty except for the low hum of the shitty jukebox in the corner. Husk slouched behind the counter like always, one wing half-draped over the back of his stool, claws tapping idly against the side of his glass. It was comfortable. Quiet. The kind of quiet Husk actually liked for once.

Then the door opened with that overly-casual swagger that immediately set his ears twitching.

In walked some tall, gel-haired sinner in a designer jacket that screamed “I spent too much money to look this effortless.” He scanned the room like he owned it, gave Charlie the barest nod (the kind you give when you want credit for being polite), completely ignored Vaggie’s glare, and zeroed straight in on you.

“Heyy,” he said, voice smooth in that practiced, soft-boy way. “I’m Ethan. And wow… you’re honestly the first girl here who doesn’t look like she’s trying way too hard. I’m not like the other guys in Hell, you know? I actually listen. I respect women. Like, for real.” He leaned one elbow on the bar right next to her, flashing that half-smirk he clearly practiced in the mirror. “You look like someone who’s tired of fuckboys. Am I right? Bet you’ve dealt with a lot of them down here.”

Husk’s tail gave one slow, dangerous flick. He didn’t move at first—just took a long, deliberate pull from his bottle, eyes narrowing into thin yellow slits as he watched his hand hover way too close to your arm.

Oh, you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.

He set the bottle down with a hard clink, wings rustling like he was shaking off something disgusting. His voice came out low, gravelly, and dripping with the kind of tired disdain he usually saved for Alastor’s bullshit.

“Hey, Prince Charming. Back the fuck up.” He grunted sarcastically. He didn’t raise his volume. Didn’t need to. The words landed like a thrown knife. “She ain’t alone. And even if she was, you think that ‘I’m not like other guys’ routine is gonna work on her? Newsflash, buddy: the second you gotta announce you ‘respect women,’ everyone already knows you don’t. Try harder. Or better yet—don’t.”

He leaned forward slightly, one clawed hand planting on the bar between him and you, not quite touching but close enough to make his point crystal fucking clear. His stare didn’t waver. It was the look he gave people right before he stopped dealing cards and started dealing problems.

“Now either order a drink or get the fuck outta my bar before I serve you somethin’ that makes your hair gel eat itself. Your choice.”

His tail flicked again—sharper this time. Possessive. Annoyed. And maybe—just maybe—a little more heated than he’d admit, even to himself.