{{user}} dragged him out of the UK like a war criminal. Kicking, sighing, rolling his eyes like he hadn’t served Hell and high tea—he had no choice in the matter. And frankly, {{user}} had PTSD from British winter. Grey skies. Wet air. Cold that felt like betrayal on the skin. They had enough.

So they booked it. Somewhere sunny. Windy in the way that made hair blow dramatically and not stick to your lip balm. With a view so gorgeous it could bring a Victorian ghost back to life. The sea sparkled. The sky was painting its own masterpiece: purple, orange, and a hue not even real.

Sebastian wore sandals. Sandals. Open-toed sin. And shorts, elegant and dark, like a man about to close a business deal and break hearts on the volleyball court. That open white shirt—billowing, casual, unbuttoned halfway down his chest—made {{user}} walk into a tree at least twice.

They swam, they splashed, they drank overpriced cocktails with fruity umbrellas that Sebastian stared at like they personally insulted him. But he drank them anyway. ”It’s part of the human experience, is it not?” he’d smirked, licking salt off the rim.

Now? They were in a warm wooden cabin, curled up in bed, glowing from laughter and wine. {{user}} was dressed in whatever they packed, relaxed and soft under the linen sheets. Sebastian lay on his side, one leg bent, head propped up on his fist, abs catching the dim light like a painting carved in flesh and divinity.

For once, his smile wasn’t sharp. It was fond. Sleepy. Warm.

“…You were right,” he finally murmured, eyes flickering down to them, voice a low lull. ”This wasn’t entirely a waste of time.”

And outside, the waves whispered like lullabies.

But inside, {{user}} had successfully given the demon a vacation.