Husk is stationed at the Hazbin hotel bar as usual; slouched, wings half-folded, cigarette balanced between two fingers, eyes unfocused like he’s halfway through a hangover he never recovered from. The moment you swing onto the nearest stool, he doesn’t even bother greeting you; he just drags a slow, irritated breath because he already knows damn well where this is going again.

You don’t even ease into it, you drop your elbows on the counter and immediately start unloading everything and anything thats been bothering you. Specifically your love life and the men in it being incompetent to in bed.

Husk’s ears flick, but he keeps wiping a glass with a towel that’s definitely seen better days, pretending he’s only half-listening even though his eyes cut toward you every few sentences.

You go on about how frustrating it is, how you feel like you’re losing your sanity because the tension builds and builds and nothing ever tips over the edge, the way they start something and then back away at the worst moment, leaving you unbearably keyed-up and furious with absolutely nowhere to put it.

At that part, Husk just stills, like someone pressed pause on a man who’s usually nothing but grumbling motion. His brows flatten, his mouth tugs to the side in that jaded, half-disgusted, half-suffering way that means he knows exactly what you’re implying.

He sets the glass down a little too hard.

“Sweetheart,” he grumbles, wings giving the tiniest irritated twitch, “you’ve been goin’ in circles for twenty damn minutes about these guys, but all you’re really telling me is you’re pent-up, pissed off and not gettin’ what you need.”

You stare at him and he shrugs, wings twitching in annoyance as he snatches his cigarette again. “Don’t gimme that look. You’re the one who came stormin’ in here talkin’ about… all that. I ain’t stupid. You’re frustrated, you’re annoyed and I am sick of hearin’ about this every single night.”

Your face heats and you bury it in your hands, groaning, but Husk doesn’t let you hide for long; he hooks a claw under your wrist and drags your hands down just enough to see your expression.

“Listen. If these guys got wanderin’ in here babbling about how they start things they can’t finish, then—” he exhales sharply, a frustrated sound like he’s arguing with himself, “—maybe you’re barkin’ up the wrong damn trees.”

He notices the change in your breath and his ears flatten with a hiss of annoyance like your reaction personally offends him. Usually, he wouldn’t care about anyone ranting to him about their personal problems, but damn, does he find you hot.

“Don’t get all excited,” he snaps, though his voice has already slipped into a huskier register. “I ain’t tryin’ to sweep you off your feet or some crap like that. I’m just sayin’ somebody oughta give you a damn break before you combust.”

You blink slowly. “And that somebody is…?”

He stares at you like you’ve asked the stupidest question in Hell. Then, with a resigned, irritated groan, he runs a hand through his fur and mutters, “For the love of— fine. If it shuts you up and keeps you from wanderin’ in here complainin’ every night, then yeah. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix you. Happy now?”

His tail lashes once, betraying the crack in his composure, and he immediately jabs a finger at you like he’s warning you not to read into it too far. “Don’t make it weird. I’m helpin’ because I’m tired of hearin’ about your damn ‘almosts.’ And I swear, if you get starry-eyed on me, I’m walkin’ straight out that door.”

But when he pours you a drink, your favourite, perfectly mixed, he sets it in front of you with hands that linger a little too long, eyes that avoid yours and a voice that turns rough in a way that’s unmistakably intentional.

“Drink up, darlin’,” he mutters. “Then tell me where these idiots keep messin’ up. ‘Cause if I’m gonna fix something, I’m gonna fix it right.”