Chapter Text
The clock blinked 2:37 a.m. in soft red digits, casting a lonely glow across the darkened penthouse hallway. Mira didn’t even glance at it as she padded barefoot down the stairs to the floor below. The silence was thick, broken only by the soft creak of polished wood under her steps.
Her long, dark-pink hair swayed like a curtain behind her, brushing the backs of her thighs. Sleep had abandoned her hours ago, and so—like always—she turned to movement. To music. Rumi, Zoey had stayed up to talk about everything that has happened. Mira was glad Rumi was finally able to be herself and it showed. They were better off like this. No secrets.
The studio lights were off, but Mira didn’t bother turning them on. Instead, she walked through the shadows like she belonged to them, flicking on only the neon white strip lights that ran along the border of the mirrors.
Their low white glow lit her bare midriff, her fitted crop top and dance shorts clinging to her like a second skin. Her mood was etched across her sharp eyes, sassy and stormy as ever. She let the music start from her phone—a low, haunting beat, something underground and moody—and stepped onto the polished floor. And danced. Her body moved like fire—wild, sharp, unrepentant. Every twist of her hip, every snap of her limbs, every spin and reach was hers. Untamed. Beautiful. Furious. She let the music take her. It’s the only thing she allowed control over her. Music has never betrayed.
What she didn’t see—what she couldn’t see—was the figure perched silently on the edge of the balcony outside, legs dangling straddling the balcony wall, shadows curling around him like smoke. Romance.
He’d been there an hour already before she had entered. He didn’t know why or what drew him here. After the fight at the studio he had puffed away and when a new honmoon was set in place he had felt it. Actually felt something. The only other time he had a small incline of the human emotions that had been taken from him was when he was around the fiery pink haired huntress.
So here he was watching her move. Of all the humans who’d ever captured his attention, none had stayed in his thoughts like Mira. Not the dancers who once fell at his feet. Not the admirers who screamed his name. Not even the humans he’d seduced to feed his vanity back in the days he was still human and had wished Gwi-man to make him like this. Only her. He didn’t even understand it fully. She was infuriating. She called him out. Refused to fall for his charm. Rolled her eyes instead of swooning.
And still… he watched her now, this firestorm in the dark, and he felt something he hadn’t felt in centuries. Something dangerous. Something he didn’t yet trust. Desire— not only for her body, but for her fire. Her refusal. Her soul.
She twirled and moved like she was water, then as the next music played to something more edgy she hit the beat hard. spear-sword flashing into existence for a heartbeat—pure light slicing through the dark—then vanishing just as fast. Still sharp. Still ready. Always.
Women have definitely changed since he was human.
Just as the music stopped he hopped off onto the flat of the balcony. Maybe he should say something. Maybe she will kill him on the spot.
As she panted and rest her hands on her knees a fimiliar tune to both of them reached their ears. “My little soda pop” started to play.
He heard her groan and run her hands through her long hair, before catching a glimpse of her shoulders start to move up and down.
A smirk tugged at his lips. He whispered just loud enough to carry over the beat: “You know, we really should stop meeting like this” She froze mid-movement. Not startled—never that. Just still. Her back straightened. Her head turned slowly toward the balcony, her expression flat and unimpressed. “And yet here you are.”
Romance slid past the balcony’s double doors and leant up against the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. He stepped forward, hands in his pockets, the low light catching the faint dark purple demon marks trailing along his collarbone. Still faint. Still there. “Couldn’t help myself,” he said with a lazy smile. “You looked... possessed. Thought I’d be doing my job checking in.” Mira arched a brow. “Oh, please. You wouldn't know ‘possessed’ if it bit you. Which it probably has. Repeatedly.”
That laugh—low, amused—sent goosebumps over her skin. She hated that it did. Or claimed she did. “You’ve missed me already,” he said simply, stepping closer. “Admit it.” Her spear snapped into existence with a sharp hum, now pointed squarely at his chest. Her voice dropped to a sultry threat: “One step closer and I’ll redecorate this floor with demon confetti, like I should have done before.” His eyes glinted. He liked this game.
“So dramatic. But no denying it—you did miss me. Or you would have banished me back in the arena” She didn’t lower the spear. But she didn’t strike either. “What do you want, Romance?” she asked, finally quieter. “Like you said, You escaped banishment. You got what you wanted.” For a moment, his smile slipped. “Did I?” he murmured, eyes scanning her face. There was silence between them, thick with questions neither had asked until now. The music had ended, but the echo of it still throbbed in the air.
Mira didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Her spear stayed steady, tip hovering an inch from the fabric of his dark shirt. This is when Mira noticed that he wasn’t in his usual pop colored outfit, he just had ripped blue skinny jeans on and a simple black baggy shirt. He looked almost to normal,
Her voice was low, steady, laced with suspicion and bite.“You must be dumb. Or a glutton for punishment. You escaped the demon world, Romance. You were free. So why,” her gaze sharpened, “why would you crawl back to the one place that could kill you—or worse, send you straight back?”
Romance met her stare. Unblinking. Unreadable.
“I don’t know.”
It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t a flirt. His voice didn’t drip with his usual charm or smug self-satisfaction. It was raw. Honest. Quiet.
He stepped back, just an inch, just enough to give her space as the spear shimmered out of existence once more. She didn’t trust him—not fully—but there was something new in his expression that made her hesitate.
“I can’t hear him anymore,” he said after a long beat. “Gwi-ma. It’s… quiet. That voice that used to twist inside my head—gone. Like the static just stopped.”
Her brows drew in slightly, still skeptical.
“And Jinu?”
A shadow passed across his features. Sadness? Guilt?
“Gone,” he murmured. “Sacrifices himself for love. And they call me romance. But it’s strange. I can still feel him. Like his soul is still here”
He looked down at his hands, flexing them slowly. They trembled faintly.
“He was as close to a friend that I had had in a long time. Honestly I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or be now.”
The silence that followed wasn’t tense—it was thick. Complex. Mira crossed her arms, her voice softer, but no less sharp.
“So what? You show up here like some lovesick demon stray? Thought I’d what—take you in? Show you how to blend in with the humans you used to toy with?”
He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I didn’t plan to come here. Didn’t even mean to. I was just… pulled.”
His gaze lifted to meet hers again.
“To you.”
Mira’s breath caught for half a second. Then she scoffed, spinning away from him to grab her water bottle.
“Of course, spouting your romantic bullshit.”
Romance watched her, tilting his head. The glint of amusement returned, but it was tempered now—gentler.
“You’re right,” he said. “I chased attention. Worship. Women. Men. All of it.” He paused. “But you’re different, Mira. You don’t give a damn about me. And that... drives me insane.”
She turned, raising one brow. “So now you’re here for emotional masochism. Got it.”
He took a few slow steps toward her again—measured, cautious, like approaching a wild animal.
“Maybe,” he said softly. “Or maybe I’m just tired. Of pretending. Of being this thing I barely remember choosing to be. Tired of feeling nothing.”
Mira looked at him, finally really looked at him. The faint purple marks still laced his skin, a reminder of what he was. But his eyes—they weren’t glowing, or wild, or manipulative. Just… lost.
And then, maybe, something worse.
Hopeful.
“You don’t belong here,” she said finally, voice quieter. “You don’t belong anywhere, Romance. This world isn’t going to make sense for you. You won’t know the rules. You’ll piss everyone off.”
“So what you’re saying is… I’ll fit right in with you.”
She threw the cap of her water bottle at him. He caught it mid-air with ease.
“Don’t push it,” she warned, but a smirk played at the edge of her lips.
He dared a step closer. “You could help me.”
“Help you?” she echoed. “With what? Being less annoying? we are not friends Romance. We don’t even like each other. You demon remember, me huntress”
“Speak for yourself.” He took a breath. “Maybe you can help me survive . . . At least for tonight, Let me stay.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her heart was beating faster than she liked. The idea of him here, in her world, in her space—it felt dangerous. Stupid. Reckless.
Exactly like her.
She tilted her head, considering. “Rumi and Zoey would kill me if they knew.”
“Is Rumi the only one good at keeping secrets.” Mira glared at him.
“I won’t keep things from them. They are my family.”
Their eyes locked again. Fire and shadow. Chaos and control.
And then—finally—Mira gave the smallest shrug. “You step out of line, I’ll spear you through the heart. Got it?”
Romance smiled slowly. “Fair trade.”
She turned away again, pretending she didn’t see his shoulders relax. Pretending she wasn’t already adjusting the thermostat in her head, calculating where he might sleep. Pretending she didn’t care.
But she did.
Because something in him had changed.
And something in her was starting to shift, too.
Romance followed her out of the studio like a shadow, his footsteps soundless, his eyes anything but disciplined.
He didn’t mean to stare—but damn, it was impossible not to.
Her long hair swayed like a living flame down her back, catching in the hallway light as it brushed across the curve of her waist and hips. Her bare legs were endless, toned and graceful, and the way those tiny shorts hugged her like they were made for her? Dangerous. Unfair.
Women definitely didn’t dress like that when he was human. Corsets. Petticoats. Skirts that swept the floor. And now—this? He swallowed hard. If there was a hell for distracted demons, he was already halfway back.
She turned suddenly—just a glance over her shoulder. Checking he was still there. Watching him, not in a flirtatious way, but like she was waiting for him to make a wrong move. Her brown eyes were sharp, hunting knife sharp.
“Still following?”
“Always,” he murmured without thinking.
Her eyes narrowed.
He quickly averted his gaze, pretending to admire a painting on the wall. Something abstract and neon, probably modern art he didn’t understand. It was better than staring at her thighs again.
Mira rolled her eyes. Typical. But her huntress instincts didn’t flare. No prickle of danger, no icy shiver down her spine. He wasn’t trying anything.
Still… better safe.
She’d tell Rumi and Zoey first thing in the morning. No more secrets. They’d learned that lesson the hard way. Silence between them only festered. The girls would understand. They might grill her—but they’d understand. And they wouldn’t judge.
The elevator dinged softly as they reached the penthouse level, stepping into the dim, open-plan apartment. The city skyline beyond the windows shimmered in soft lights, the streets still buzzing far below. Zoey’s notepads was still on the sofa, half a song written. Rumi’s snacks sat abandoned on the counter with a tea that had gone cold.
Mira didn’t pause. She walked fast—deliberately—toward her room, not looking back. Romance trailed behind her, a step slower now, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, silence fell. Intimate. Unexpected.
She turned, arms crossed over her chest.
“You’re not sleeping in my bed.”
He held up his hands, amused. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” A beat. “Okay, maybe I would, but not tonight.”
“Not ever, demon boy.”
He smirked, but his tone was gentler when he spoke again. “So... chair, then?”
Mira looked around her room. Posters of past concerts lined one wall. Her first spear that she had trained with hung by some gold chains above the bed, glowing faintly. A pile of black throw pillows lay scattered from her earlier restless night.
Her frown deepened.
She hadn’t exactly planned this far ahead.
She motioned to the corner. “You can take the chair by the window. Touch anything, and I’ll make you regret crawling out of that smoke cloud in the first place.”
Romance nodded, serious now.
“Understood.”
She walked to her dresser, pulled out an old throw blanket—too small for his frame but better than nothing—and tossed it at him. He caught it easily.
She didn’t meet his eyes when she added, “I don’t trust you. But... I don’t think you’re here to hurt me either.”
He sat slowly on the large round armchair, stretching his long legs out and crossing his ankles as he looked up at her. “I don’t think I could, even if I tried.” He muttered.
She blinked, caught off guard by the quiet in his voice.
“I’ll tell the girls tomorrow,” she said after a long pause, moving toward her bed. “About you. They deserve to know.”
“Okay.”
Mira didn’t move toward the bed just yet. Instead, she busied herself in her room—adjusting a crooked frame, checking her phone for nonexistent messages, straightening an already-perfect stack of vinyls. She told herself it was just to give him time to get settled.
Truth was, her guard was still up. And his presence, sprawled like a calm storm in the corner of her room, was doing strange things to her nerves.
She scratched absently at her bare midriff, fingertips dragging slow over her toned stomach—skin flushed warm from the dance, the walk, the tension. She didn’t realize Romance was watching—until he wasn’t.
His eyes darted away just in time, sharp and smooth, pretending to study the city skyline through her floor-to-ceiling window. But she’d caught enough of that look to know exactly where his eyes had been.
And what he’d been thinking.
His gaze lingered on the faint reflection of himself in the glass. For centuries, this had been the face he'd begged for. The beauty he’d traded his soul for. And now… all it did was remind him of everything he wasn’t.
Quietly, he peeled off his shirt.
The movement was casual, fluid, like it meant nothing.
It didn’t.
Except Mira nearly swallowed her own tongue.
His body was a sculpted canvas—long lines of lean muscle, skin inked with faded, shimmering demon marks along his sides and back like some kind of celestial punishment. He tossed the shirt onto her armchair, completely unfazed, then reached for the button on his jeans.
Mira’s breath hitched.
She turned her back on him, fast, pretending to fiddle with her dresser drawer, gripping it a little too hard to be subtle.
Get a grip, she told herself. He’s just a demon. A hot, infuriating, dangerously attractive demon. Whatever. You’ve seen abs before. You even killed Abs before.
Click.
His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud. She didn’t look. She refused to look.
Until she did.
A sideways glance, quick as lightning—and yep. There he was.
Standing tall by the armchair and the window of her bedroom, bare-chested and smug as sin in tight black briefs covered in little pink hearts. A walking contradiction. Gorgeous. Ridiculous. Unfair.
She bit down a laugh, hard.
Then he ran his fingers through that shoulder-length pink hair, gathering some of it into a half-up man bun like this was some damn shampoo commercial. Mira gripped the dresser again. She might as well have grabbed the whole thing and launched it out the window, it would’ve been easier than holding back what she was actually feeling.
He’s doing this on purpose, she thought.
He has to be.
Two can play at that game.
Mira’s smirk returned. Bold. Dangerous.
She straightened, flipped her long pink hair over one shoulder—and in one smooth motion, slid her shorts down her legs, revealing a lacy black underwear that hugged every sharp curve of her behind.
Behind her, she heard it.
A low, startled growl.
Then—crash.
She turned just in time to see Romance had stumbled back, knocking over her potted plant, soil and leaves fanned out around his feet like he’d stepped on a landmine.
He was staring.
His chest rose and fell slowly, eyes devouring her with a hunger that wasn’t even trying to be hidden now.
His voice was hoarse. “You trying to kill me?”
She sauntered over to the bed, expression calm and cocky, like this was nothing. Like he was nothing.
“Something wrong?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head with the kind of mock concern that barely hid her smirk.
Romance opened his mouth. Closed it.
Then, finally, “Are you sure You're not evil.”
Mira grinned, settling onto the edge of the bed with the grace of a queen.
“I’m a demon hunter,” she said, stretching her legs out. “You think I’d be anything else?”
Their eyes locked across the room—fire meeting flame, tension stretched tight between them, alive and charged.
But neither moved closer.
Not yet.
Because if they did…
There might be no going back.
Romance made his way back to the oversized armchair Mira had all but claimed for herself over the years—curled into it during storms, passed out in it post-mission, cried in it once when she thought no one was looking. Now, it cradled a half-folded throw blanket and the soft indent of her routine.
He sank into it with a quiet sigh, his long legs stretched out, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. From across the room, his eyes flicked to the bed—and nearly gave him whiplash.
Mira lay sprawled across the mattress, hair cascading like a silk curtain down her back, spreading across the sheets in soft, electric waves of pink. Her long legs were tangled loosely beneath her, and her underwear left very, very little to the imagination—though her hair managed to veil just enough, draping artfully over her bum cheeks like some wickedly crafted tease.
Romance blinked slowly, his mouth going dry.
She could be a succubus, he thought.
A fiery, knife-wielding, spear-throwing, demon-slaying succubus with eyes that could freeze hellfire and a mouth that could end wars—or start them.
“I heard from Rumi,” Mira said casually, breaking the silence as she stretched her arms out above her, her voice relaxed but her eyes sharp on him. “She told me and Zoey all about Jinu. How he became what he was.”
Romance stiffened, just a little. His expression shifted, but only for a moment—long enough for Mira to notice. He stayed silent.
“So,” she continued, rolling onto her side now, propped on one elbow, “what’s your tale?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “And why should I tell you?”
Mira didn’t miss a beat. “Because I’m asking. And because you’re in my bedroom. In my apartment. And I’m letting you sleep here instead of, you know—impaling you, sending you to the demon realm, or throwing you off my balcony.”
She smiled, slow and lethal.
“So either talk, or take a very long fall.”
Romance laughed under his breath, raising his hands in mock surrender.
“Alright, alright. You’ve made your point, Hunter Queen.”
She rolled her eyes. “Damn right.”
He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment before he spoke again—voice quieter this time. Stripped of the usual flirt.
“Obviously I wasn’t born a demon. I was born human. A very long time ago.”
He exhaled slowly. “I already had a good voice. Broke. Unloved, I didn’t know who my parents were and I was on the streets since I could remember. Let’s just say the only reason people paid me any attention was because of the way I looked. And not in a good way.
Your Average Poor person story. Wanted things I didn’t deserve, wanted things I couldn’t get or maybe just didn’t want to wait for.”
He turned his gaze away from her, toward the window now, watching his reflection shimmer faintly against the city lights.
“I made a deal. Gwi-ma promised me beauty. Charm. Love. I thought… why not? I’d have it all. Be desired. Be adored.”
He gave a hollow chuckle. “And I got it. For a while.”
Mira watched him, her expression unreadable now.
“But the thing about Gwi-ma is… as you probably know from Jinu is every wish comes with rot. I used people. Broke them. Took their love and tossed it aside, again and again. Treated people like how I had been treated. Day by day that feeling of love and desire and want started to fade until one day, I stopped feeling anything at all.”
He ran a hand down his face, slowly. “That’s when the marks started. Like they were crawling out of me. When the last piece of my soul finally burned out, I fell. It’s funny all Jinu wanted was not to feel but all I wanted was to feel anything, even shame.”
There was silence for a moment. A shared understanding in the space between them. Something heavy, unspoken.
“Do you know what it’s like to have done the thing that I have done and not care. It made me more than a demon. It made me evil”. His eyes burned into his reflection. He was glad he could feel hate again. Because he did hate the reflection looking back. It made him feel human.
Romance glanced at her, his smirk returning—tired, but still cocky.
“Your turn.”
Mira raised an eyebrow. “You serious?”
“You said it yourself. Fair trade.”
She hesitated, then laid fully on her back again, hair fanning out, eyes on the ceiling.
“I was the black sheep,” she said. “My family—strict, proper. They Wanted a daughter who smiled right, talked politely, and followed rules. I... did none of that.”
Romance chuckled.
“I got into fights. Ran with the wrong crowd. Dates the wrong guys. Stole a car once—well, I borrowed it. Didn’t crash it.” A beat. “Barely.”
He smiled.
“And then one night, I was 15 walking home from some club I shouldn’t have been in, I saw a man’s soul get ripped out of him by something not human.” Her voice dropped. “That was my first demon. It saw me. I should’ve died. But something in me snapped into place. Like I was meant to see it.”
She looked over at him now. “Celine found me the next week, still don’t know how. Took me in. Trained me. Rumi, Zoey... they’re my family now.”
Romance stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time.
“So you chose this,” he said. “You weren’t cursed into it. You ran toward the darkness.”
Mira shrugged, her voice soft. “Better to fight the monsters than become one.”
Their eyes locked again, and this time the silence between them was different. Not charged. Not dangerous.
Just… full.
Romance shifted in the chair, his voice lower now.
“You know,” he said, “if you weren’t so terrifying, you’d almost be my type.”
She snorted. “You wish you were my type.”
He grinned. “True. But a demon can dream.”
Mira snorted again, rolling onto her stomach and folding her arms beneath her chin. Her hair slid across her back and bared thighs like a living veil, catching glints of moonlight from the window.
“I don’t know, can a demon dream,” she questioned under her breath, eyes half-lidded.
Romance stayed quiet, watching her.
There was something dangerous about this moment—not because of power or threat—but because of how easy it felt. Quiet. Safe. And for someone like him, that kind of peace was the most foreign thing in the world.
“Are you ever scared?” he asked suddenly.
Mira blinked. “Of what?”
“I don’t know,” he said, voice almost hesitant. “Losing. Failing. The world forgetting you. Waking up one day and realizing you’ve built a life around killing and lies and it’s not enough to hold you together anymore.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Her sharp features softened slightly.
“You just described being a woman in the music industry and a demon hunter in one sentence,” she muttered, dry as dust. “So… yeah. Of course I’m scared.”
He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and an apology at the same time.
“But I fight anyway,” she added. “Because the second I stop, it wins.”
Romance leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze never leaving her. “You ever wonder what it would be like to just… stop fighting?”
Mira shifted her head on her arms and looked at him directly.
“Sure. But then I look around and see everything I’d lose. Rumi. Zoey. This city. And . . .” Her voice faltered for half a second. “other people I care about.”
Romance tilted his head. “Other people, am I other people?”
“You showing up in my dance studio at 3am, like some brooding vampire in a YA novel,” she deadpanned. “It’s weird and I am not going to pretend otherwise.”
He grinned. “I prefer mysterious bad boy with a tragic past.”
Mira smirked. “You forgot dumb enough to knock over a plant because he saw me in my underwear.”
“To my defense,” Romance said, lifting one brow with exaggerated innocence, “women dressed very differently the last time I was in the human world.”
Mira raised her head, eyes narrowing. “I hope you’re not trying to insult me.”
He gave a lazy shrug, his voice smooth but a touch more sincere. “By all means, I love the view. But…”
She caught the subtle shift in his tone before he even said it.
“…I might like it less if you let everyone see you like this,” he added.
Mira’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard. That wasn’t the kind of line she was expecting from him. Not possessive. Not even flirtatious.
Just honest.
And suddenly, that was worse.
Because she didn’t let people see her like this. Rumi and Zoey yes, but no one else has ever seen her this exposed—not just skin, but comfort. Vulnerability. That wild looseness she usually kept locked behind walls.
So why was a demon—the enemy not that long ago—here? Seeing her like this?
Getting to her like this?
She glared at him, jaw tight. She wanted to punch that smug, pretty face. Or kiss it.
Maybe both.
“So,” she said, deflecting, pointing at him with her chin. “You wished to look this way?”
Her gaze dipped—more than it should have. Over the toned lines of his chest and stomach, the lazy sprawl of his thighs, the not subtle at all outline of what his tight briefs did very little to hide.
He caught her ogling. Of course he did.
That damn smirk was back.
“Yes,” he said, voice low. “This is what I wished for.”
Mira sat up quickly, yanking the blanket over her lap like it could shield her from the heat crawling up her neck. Her midriff and tight black crop top were still on full display, but somehow the blanket made her feel like she had the upper hand again.
“And what did you look like before?” she asked.
He leaned his head back against the armchair, considering. Honestly when he was born he had been deformed. The only attention he had gotten was to be mocked or laughed at. No one wanted to hear him sing, his gifted voice lost in a hideous package. The only jobs he had was as a mocked jester. He cleared his throat. The memories hurt but he liked that he could feel it.
“Let’s just say… if I looked like I did back then?” His eyes met hers. “I wouldn’t be in your bedroom right now.”
She frowned. “You don’t know that. You think I’m so shallow?”
Romance gave her a look. A look that said really?
“Says the woman who kept drooling over Abby.”
Her glare was instant.
“He had abs like a god. It was unnatural. It was evil.”
She huffed, crossing her arms under her chest. “That’s why I slayed him.”
Romance laughed—low and teasing. “Okay. You stick to that.”
“I’m not sticking to it,” she snapped. “It’s the truth.”
She gestured vaguely in his direction. “You have gorgeous abs and you don’t see me drooling.”
The moment the words left her mouth, she froze.
Romance didn’t. He smiled like a wolf who just found his prey gift-wrapped.
He slowly looked down at his stomach. Then back up at her. The smirk on his face was sinful.
Mira pointed a finger at him, eyes wide. “Wipe that smug smirk off your face before I smack it off.”
He tilted his head. “So... just to clarify. Are you threatening me? Or flirting?”
Mira blinked.
“Why would I flirt with you?” Mira snapped, rising swiftly from her bed. “You’re a demon.”
She threw the blanket aside without thinking, fully revealing herself again—bare legs, black underwear, crop top clinging to every tense line of her body. Her long hair spilled over her shoulder in a wild wave, and for half a second, Romance genuinely thought he might combust on the spot.
His eyes widened. Just for a beat. Then, cool and smooth as smoke, he masked it—standing to meet her, his smirk sliding effortlessly back into place.
She stepped up to him, closing the distance with her usual sharp confidence, though her pulse betrayed her. He was just a few inches taller, and as she looked up at him, her glare tried to kill what her traitorous body refused to deny.
Romance looked down at her, that maddening smile curving on his lips like he was enjoying every inch of this dangerous dance.
It boiled her blood.
“Stop being so smug,” she hissed.
He only shrugged, voice low and smooth. “But it’s so fun… watching you lose control.”
Her jaw tightened. “I am not losing control.”
“You sure?”
He took a small step forward. Not enough to close the gap—but enough to make her feel it. The heat of him. The intensity. The presence he carried like a storm in his bones.
“I don’t lose control,” she snapped, refusing to back down. She took her own step forward, now toe-to-toe, her eyes locked on his.
“Bet it’s fun when you do,” he whispered.
That was when she felt it—barely there. Just the ghost of contact. His fingertips brushed the sensitive skin where her upper thigh met her hip, just under the curve of her top. Light. Testing. Electric.
A soft tingle shot through her, making her breath catch in the back of her throat.
It was such a small touch.
But it felt like he’d dropped a match onto gasoline.
Her whole body tensed. Not from fear. Not from anger.
From fire.
From want.
And he knew it. The way his eyes darkened—still playful, but something deeper beginning to stir. Something hungrier.
But Mira wasn’t done.
She grabbed his wrist—not hard, but firm—and shoved his hand away.
“Touch me again without permission and I’ll break your fingers,” she warned.
Romance grinned, voice like velvet.
“So... that wasn’t a no.”
Her eyes burned into his, full of fury and heat and something far more dangerous than hate.
“It was a warning.”
They stood there for a long moment, the air between them buzzing, heavy with tension so thick it might as well have been physical.
And then—
A sound outside her bedroom door.
A knock
Followed by a sleepy, muffled voice:
“Mira...? You up? I heard talking—”
Zoey.
Mira leapt back from Romance like she’d been scalded, turning toward the door with wild eyes.
Romance bit down a laugh and dropped into her chair again like nothing had happened, draping the too-small throw blanket back over his lap with perfect composure.
Mira cleared her throat. Loudly. and ran to the door. She opened it a bit to see her small band sister in her pjs.
“Uh—yeah! I’m up. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
Zoey said from the hallway. “Okay. Just checking you hadn’t gone crazy. .” Her bubbly friend giggled.
Mira stared at her “are you ok Zoey, you seem extra bubbly”
“Oh no …. No not me. Just my usual bubbly self” Zoey shot back her eyes being shifty. She is definitely hiding something Mira though.
“Well ok I am going to go try to get some sleep and will see you in the morning”. Mira stated smiling.
“Yes yes see you tomorrow, in the morning.” Zoey did a little wave before turning to head to her room. This is when Mira noticed the bunch and bunch of snacks Zoey had been carrying. Oh she will definitely be getting grilled in the morning Mira thought.
Mira waited until the footsteps padded away. A loud bang was heard coming from Rumi’s room before Rumi’s voice shouted out. “I’m fine”.
“What is going on tonight” Mira spoke to herself. she then shut the door and turned slowly toward Romance.
He was grinning again.
“Fun,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re lucky she didn’t open that door and see you in your little heart boxers, you absolute nightmare.”
He leaned his head back with a content sigh. “A nightmare you invited in.”
She grabbed a pillow and launched it straight at his face.
He caught it midair.
“See? Control.”
Romance tossed the pillow aside like it was a feather and stretched back into the armchair, watching her with that same maddening, infuriating calm.
Mira walked back over to stand near the bed, arms crossed tight under her chest, breathing still not fully steady. Her skin still buzzed from where he touched her—barely, briefly—but it was there. Echoing. Burning.
This is insane.
A demon. In her room. In his underwear. Getting under her skin in ways no one—no one—ever had.
She turned away, trying to gain some kind of composure. Her hand lifted to swipe her hair over one shoulder, trying to play it cool, like that last thirty seconds hadn’t scrambled her brain.
“I should make you sleep on the balcony,” she muttered.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I slept somewhere inappropriate,” he replied smoothly.
She looked back over her shoulder, shooting him a glare—but he wasn’t smirking this time. He was just… looking at her. Like she was something worth staring at. Like he didn’t care how much attitude she threw at him—he saw her, all of her, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
That? That was new.
And it scared the hell out of her.
“What is this?” she asked, voice softer now. More real. “What are we doing?”
Romance sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees again, hands clasped loosely, his voice low and deliberate.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I don’t want it to leave.”
Mira’s chest tightened.
He wasn’t saying just her room. She could feel it, he could feel.
“I don’t know what this is either,” she admitted. “I just know you annoy me.”
A beat. “And make me want to throw things.”
“And kiss me?” he offered.
She shot him a warning look.
He grinned. “Just checking the list.”
Mira exhaled sharply, shaking her head—but she wasn’t walking away. Her feet moved slowly toward him instead. Her arms uncrossed. Her eyes didn’t leave his.
She stood in front of him again. Bare legs. Bare honesty.
“You’re dangerous,” she said.
“So are you,” he replied.
A moment passed.
Then her fingers reached out and gently touched the marks on his chest—those purple demon lines that curled up over his skin like stories only he could read. He tensed under her touch—not in fear, but in awareness. Reverence.
“Do they hurt?” she asked quietly.
“No,” he said.
Mira stood there for a long second, breathing hard, her heart hammering in her chest like she'd just come back from a fight. Only this wasn’t the kind of fight she could win with a blade.
She took a step toward him.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
He was just basking in it. To let the feelings wash over him.
“You think you’re so clever,” she muttered.
“I think I’m right,” he said. “About you. About this.”
“There is no this,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
He tilted his head, eyes dark and amused. “No?”
“No.”
“So what was that, then?” His tone dipped low. Intimate. “When I touched you.”
She crossed her arms, not to challenge—but to hold herself together.
“You’re playing a game,” she said. “You want to get under my skin.”
Romance took a step toward her, then another, until they were back where they had been—close enough that her breath hitched and his scent wrapped around her like smoke and heat and something otherworldly.
“Maybe,” he said. “But you are letting me.”
That made her snap her head up to meet his gaze—fire flashing in her eyes. “You think I’m letting you?”
His hand came up, not touching her, but hovering just close enough to her bare arm that she could feel the warmth radiating off of him.
“You didn’t stop me,” he said softly. “Not right away.”
Mira swallowed hard. She hated how close he was. Hated how her body leaned in instead of pulling back. Hated how much her lips wanted to move even though her brain was screaming at her to shove him out the damn window.
She hated—
His hand finally touched her.
Just a soft graze of his fingertips down her arm.
She shivered.
“You’re a demon,” she whispered, more like trying to remind herself.
Romance leaned in, his lips nearly brushing her ear. “And you a hunter.”
She turned her head, and suddenly their faces were inches apart. Her breath mingled with his—warm, fast, unsteady. Her gaze flicked to his lips.
And lingered.
Neither of them moved.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out everything else. She should shove him away. She knew that. But her body didn’t listen—because for once, it wasn’t about logic. It was about heat. About the storm sitting in her chest with nowhere to go but toward him.
Her hand, almost without thought, found his wrist—fingers curling around the pulse point there. His skin was hot. Alive. She hated how steady he felt. Like he wasn’t spinning the same way she was.
But then, she saw it.
In his eyes.
That same breathless pause. The same restraint.
She wasn’t the only one holding back.
So she stopped.
Holding back.
Her hand slid up his arm slowly, testing, grounding herself on the shape of him—and then, with one final, maddening heartbeat—
She kissed him.
Not gentle. Not soft.
It was heat and fire and every sharp word they’d ever exchanged turned into something far more dangerous. Her lips found his like they were always meant to—fast, hot, fierce. His hand caught her waist instantly, grounding her, pulling her just a breath closer.
He kissed her back.
God, did he kiss her back.
Mouth parting against hers, deepening it, answering the challenge in her touch with one of his own. His free hand came to the small of her back, fingertips grazing bare skin just above her waistband. She gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed it whole.
But then—
She pulled away.
Not far.
Just enough.
Eyes wide. Lips parted. Breath ragged.
Her hand was still on his chest, but now it felt too real. Too intimate.
Too much.
Romance didn’t say anything at first. He stood there, watching her, his own chest rising and falling like he’d just walked through fire.
“Mira—”
“Don’t,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Don’t say anything.”
He opened his mouth anyway. He couldn’t help it.
“You kissed me.”
“It was an accident,” she said. Defensive. Weak.
His smirk made a slow, triumphant return. “I’ve been alive two hundred years. That didn’t feel like an accident.”
She shoved him in the chest—hard—but it was half-hearted at best. He didn’t even stumble.
“I hate you,” she glared.
“I hate you,” she muttered, even as her palm remained against his chest, fingers curled slightly against warm skin and muscle.
Romance looked down at her hand. Then back at her.
“You keep saying that,” he said, voice low and amused, “but you’ve got a real funny way of showing it.”
Mira yanked her hand back like he’d burned her. She took two steps back, arms folding tightly over her chest again, her face flushed—part rage, part something else.
“I’m tired,” she said flatly. “And you’re still in my room.”
“Where you kissed me,” he added, always unrelenting.
“That never happened,” she snapped.
He lifted a brow. “So we’re gaslighting now?”
“Go to sleep, Romance.”
That finally got a small chuckle out of him. He raised his hands in surrender and backed away toward the chair again.
“You’re the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.”
“get used to it,” she said, already climbing back into bed, dragging the blanket up to her chin like it might guard her from his words. “Because I’m not changing.”
He settled into the chair again, this time with less smugness and more thought behind his eyes. The room was darker now, quieter, the adrenaline and banter giving way to something heavier… something more real.
After a minute, Mira’s voice broke the silence again.
Soft.
Uncertain.
“…Why’d you let me do it?”
Romance blinked, lifting his head slightly. “Let you kiss me?”
She didn’t look at him. Just stared at the ceiling like it held the answers she didn’t want to say out loud.
“Yeah.”
He paused. And when he spoke, the teasing was gone.
“Because it didn’t feel like a game.”
That made her eyes flick toward him, surprised.
His gaze was steady now. Bare. “I’ve played with a lot of people, Mira. I’ve lied. Manipulated. Used them. But with you… I wouldn’t dare.”
The way he said it—quietly, like it almost cost him something—made her throat tighten.
She didn’t respond. Not right away.
Then—
“I meant what I said before,” she whispered. “I’ll tell Rumi and Zoey in the morning.”
Romance nodded. “Good.”
“Doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
Another pause.
“But I kissed you,” she admitted again, voice lower now. “And I don’t know what that means.”
Romance leaned his head back, closing his eyes.
“Maybe it doesn’t have to mean anything. Not tonight.”
And that, more than anything, settled the air between them. Not with peace, but with a fragile kind of honesty. A moment they could both pretend didn’t change anything. Even though it did.
A few minutes passed.
Her breathing slowed. Her body finally began to relax beneath the weight of exhaustion.
And Romance?
He stayed awake a little longer.
Thinking about the fire in her eyes.
And the way her lips tasted like midnight and danger.
Romance lounged in the big armchair, head tilted back, the faint glow of the city skyline casting shadows across his sharp features. Mira lay on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it held the answers—or maybe just something to keep her from looking at him again.
But she felt it.
The heat between them hadn’t faded.
Not even close.
She could still taste him. Still feel the press of his mouth against hers, the way his hands had found her like a reflex. Like they belonged there.
God, she wanted more.
So did he.
He shifted beneath the small throw blanket, adjusting himself, the friction too much, not enough, everything in between.
And then—
“Do you want to come sleep on the bed?”
The words escaped her before she could stop them.
Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. The kind of silence that made her question whether she’d actually spoken aloud or just thought it with too much longing.
But then—
“We both know, Mira,” Romance said, his voice dark and quiet, sliding through the air like smoke, “if I come into that bed with you… we won’t be sleeping.”
His words ghosted over her skin. Her body reacted before she could scold it—her thighs shifting, the soft graze of her fingers playing near the edge of her waistband.
Damn him.
She swallowed.
“Yes, we would,” she snapped, voice a little too breathless. “Because unlike you, apparently, I can be an adult and go to sleep.”
It sounded confident. Mostly. She hoped.
Romance laughed, low and knowing. Not mocking—just aware. Like he could see through her, through the layers of fire and bravado she threw up between them.
“You asked for it,” he said simply.
And then he rose.
Mira’s stomach flipped as he crossed the room in slow, deliberate strides. Her breath caught when he reached the edge of the bed and didn’t hesitate.
She shifted to one side—whether in invitation or retreat, she wasn’t sure—and he slid in behind her like he’d been there a thousand times before.
The bed dipped under his weight, the air between them charged and dangerously close to breaking. He didn’t touch her.
But he didn’t need to.
His warmth was right there. The scent of him. The awareness.
Mira stayed on her side, eyes wide in the dark, heart pounding.
“Still think we’re sleeping?” he murmured near her ear, voice low and thick.
She clenched her jaw.
“Still think I won’t stab you?” she fired back, throat tight.
He chuckled, and the sound stirred her hair.
They both lay still.
Breathing.
Simmering.
His hand didn’t reach for her. Not yet. But she could feel it near her lower back, just hovering—close enough to make her skin ache for contact.
And for a long, dangerous moment, neither of them moved.
Because they both knew…
The second they did?
There would be no going back.
With her back to him, the dim city light traced every curve the blanket failed to hide. Her long hair spilled over her top and lower back, strands brushing the top of her thighs. Romance’s gaze followed the cascade, drawn like a moth to flame.
He reached out, careful—almost reverent—and let his fingers tangle lightly in a strand of her pink hair.
He felt her breath hitch.
No spear. No blade. No death threat.
He took that as permission.
Slowly, he followed the length of her hair down with his fingers—not her skin, just the silky strands—trailing it from the top of her back to the curve of her waist and down, just over the arch of her thigh.
She shifted again.
Then turned to face him.
Her expression wasn’t soft. It wasn’t teasing. It was fire and suspicion and raw, breathless emotion.
“Is this a game to you?” she asked, voice low and tight. “Do you get sick pleasure out of this?”
Romance didn’t smile.
He didn’t deflect.
His voice was steady, stripped bare of flirtation or charm.
“I haven’t felt this way in ages.”
Her eyes searched his, trying to read the truth.
“I lost the ability to want. To desire. Lust, love…Even hate, anger or sorrow. it was all numb. Like I’d been hollowed out and didn’t even care. I thought I’d accepted it.” His throat bobbed with a swallow. “But with you… since I first saw you... it’s like I’m feeling all of it again. Like my senses are waking up for the first time.”
He reached up, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear with uncharacteristic gentleness.
“And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be selfish and keep feeling it.”
Mira’s chest rose and fell quickly, like she was bracing for the truth to hurt.
Romance met her eyes, not flinching. “So no, Mira. This isn’t a joke. This isn’t some demonic flirt tactic. This is something I thought I’d lost forever. Something I never thought I’d get back.”
She stared at him, eyes narrowed and burning.
“I swear, Rom—if you’re playing some demon-sick joke on me… I will kill you. I won’t just banish you. I’ll make you wish you were back in Gwi-ma’s pocket, screaming for mercy.”
He nodded, solemn.
“I believe you.”
They just stared at each other.
The tension between them was thick and alive—an invisible pull snapping tighter and tighter until neither of them could bear it.
Then—finally—
“Come here,” he groaned.
He reached for her, his hand threading behind her head, and pulled her into him.
The kiss was hard. Desperate. The collision of mouths wasn’t pretty—it was molten. Fast. Raw. Teeth and tongue and hunger.
Mira let out a soft noise into his mouth, like she’d been holding her breath for hours and finally let it go. Her fingers fisted into his hair, tugging, pulling, pouring frustration and fire and want into every movement.
Romance groaned against her lips, he gripped her waist and turned them dragging her fully into his lap now, her legs straddling his thighs like it was the only way this could happen—close, tangled, locked in.
Her hands roamed his chest, feeling every line of the body she’d denied wanting. His hands ran down her back, palms memorizing every curve, every arch, the shape of her.
Neither of them said anything.
Because nothing needed to be said anymore.
Not when the truth was already on their tongues, in their touch, in the way they fit together like they’d been fighting this for far too long.
Mira’s fingers threaded deep into his pink hair, fisting tight as she yanked it free from the loose knot atop his head. The strands tumbled around his face in a cascade of silk, falling over his shoulders, brushing against her own wild hair. The sight of him like this—flushed, panting, eyes blown wide with want—set something loose inside her.
Something reckless. Something real.
She kissed him again—harder this time, messier—biting his bottom lip just enough to make him groan. She could feel the way his body tensed beneath her, how he held back, like he was still afraid of breaking the spell.
She didn’t want restraint.
She wanted him wild.
Her hips rocked against his lap, grinding into him slowly, purposefully, setting a rhythm that was all her own. She felt the shift in him—the way his breath hitched, the way his hands clenched at her waist like he needed grounding.
He tried to follow her lead, matching her rhythm, trying to keep up with the burn she’d set off between them.
And gods, he loved the way it felt.
Her legs, wrapped around him. Her breath, hot against his neck. Her hair tangled with his, cascading around them in a tangle of pink flame. Everything about her—the sharp tongue, the fire in her glare, the softness she fought to hide—he was addicted to it. To her.
“You’re gorgeous,” he breathed, the words slipping from his mouth before he could stop them. Honest. Unfiltered.
His hands trailing down her sides until they gripped the bare curves of her behind. He’d been thinking about it since she’d tossed off that blanket and revealed those long legs, that lace barely hiding anything at all.
He squeezed, pulling her flush against him.
She gasped against his lips, her teeth scraping his jaw as she ground down harder, making him curse beneath his breath.
“You’ve wanted this,” she whispered, dragging her lips across his cheek, to his ear, ”since the studio.”
He nodded, breathless. “Longer than that.”
Her nails scraped lightly down his back, and he shivered under her touch.
“Then don’t hold back,” she whispered.
His response wasn’t words—it was a growl.
He grabbed her again, kissed her like she was air and he’d gone centuries without breathing, pulling her tight to his chest. Their bodies fit together like matching weapons—sharp and dangerous, built for fire.
Every movement burned. Every sound was swallowed. Every inch of space between them vanished like smoke.
And somewhere in the haze of it all—between the hair and hands, the lips and low moans, the maddening tension and trembling restraint—Romance realized something terrifying:
This wasn’t just about lust.
He wanted her in his arms, yes—but he also wanted her when she was snarling at him over breakfast. Wanted her when she rolled her eyes at his stupid jokes. Wanted her when she sang into a microphone like her voice was a blade, holding the demon world at bay.
He didn’t want just this moment.
He wanted her.
Completely.
Romance couldn’t stop touching her.
Not when she was straddling him like that—hair wild, cheeks flushed, lips still swollen from their kiss. Her breath was fast, matching his. Her eyes, half-lidded, watched him with heat and challenge, daring him to go further.
He let his hands slide up—slowly, reverently—beneath the hem of her black crop top. His fingertips traced along the warm skin of her ribs, memorizing every inch as he pushed the fabric higher.
Mira didn’t stop him.
She held his gaze as he tugged the top up—inch by inch—until he pulled it clean over her head and tossed it aside.
His breath caught.
For a long second, he said nothing.
His jaw slackened, his eyes wide, drinking her in like she was art and fire made flesh. Like she’d carved herself into the shape of a goddess just to test his restraint.
Mira tilted her head, watching him.
And then—
She giggled.
An actual giggle, light and low, followed by a wicked smirk.
It made his heart do something he didn’t recognize. Not from lust. From something else. Something deeper.
He raised one brow, silent but amused.
They didn’t need to speak.
She knew how much he wanted her. She could feel it—hard, insistent between them, pressing into the cradle of her hips. It made her pulse skip, made her thighs squeeze tighter around his waist.
Romance slid his arms around her again, his palms spanning the curve of her back as he shifted forward—then down, bending her backward onto the bottom part of the bed in one smooth motion.
Mira let out a breathless sound as her back hit the mattress, her legs still wrapped tightly around his waist, ankles locking behind him. His body followed hers, covering her, surrounding her.
And then—
He ground down against her, hard and slow.
The groan he let out—it wasn’t just a sound. It was music.
Low. Rough. Honest.
It vibrated through both of them.
Mira’s head fell back, her fingers digging into his arms as her body arched to meet him. He moved against her again, and again, their bodies locked in a rhythm that was all friction, heat, and aching restraint.
She could feel every inch of him. Could tell how badly he was holding back. How close he was to breaking.
But so was she.
And the way he looked at her now—like she was the most dangerous thing he’d ever touched—made her feel powerful. Alive. Wanted.
"You have the power to ruin me," he whispered.
She smirked up at him, fire in her eyes.
“get them off,” Mira said, voice husky, eyes dark, chin tilted in challenge.
She nodded toward his heart-patterned briefs.
Romance didn’t hesitate. He reached for the waistband and slipped them off in one smooth motion, casting them aside.
Before he could even finish drinking in the moment, she reached for the thin strap of her underwear and slid it down her legs—slowly, without ceremony, without shame.
Now they were both bare.
Both exposed.
Not just skin. But soul. Hunger. And something neither of them dared name.
Romance sat back for a beat, just to look at her—truly look. Her flushed skin, her dark eyes, the rise and fall of her chest. Everything about her was alive and dangerous and breathtaking.
He didn’t know if this was a one-time thing.
But if it was?
He would feel everything. He would make sure she did too.
He reached for her ankles first, running his hands up the length of her legs, reverent and slow, like he was memorizing every inch. Over her calves, her knees, her thighs—up to the curve of her hips and the dip of her waist. His hands burned into her skin, leaving behind invisible trails of heat.
Then he lowered himself again, eyes locked with hers as he settled between her legs.
He moved slowly, carefully, positioning himself at the place where they were about to cross a line neither of them could uncross.
He opened his mouth—to ask, to be sure, to give her that final out.
But she didn’t wait.
Her hands shot up, grabbed his back, and pulled him into her.
Both of them let out something feral.
A shared growl of pleasure, pain, release. A sound that echoed through the room like thunder held in two bodies trying not to fall apart.
And then they moved.
Together.
Fast. Wild. Raw.
No games. No words. Just the music of skin and breath and want, the rhythm of two people who had danced around this moment for too long.
Mira gripped him tighter with every thrust, her nails dragging down his back, marking him. Claiming him. And he welcomed every scratch, every gasp, every whispered curse like a blessing.
They didn’t slow down.
They didn’t need to.
Because in this moment, it wasn’t about softness. It was about release. Rage turned to fire. Lust twisted with something deeper. Something terrifying.
Something real.
They were moving together in a rhythm that had no rules—fast, desperate, burning. Every breath was a plea, every thrust a battle between losing control and holding onto something real.
But then—just when Mira arched into him again, just when they were on the edge of something explosive—
Romance slowed.
His hands steadied at her hips, grounding them both, holding her still beneath him as his thrusts eased, softened, became something more deliberate.
Mira’s brows furrowed, breath catching. “What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice thick with surprise and heat.
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her.
Really looked at her.
His pink hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, his breath ragged, lips parted. But his eyes… his eyes held something different.
Not just lust.
Not just fire.
Something closer to fear.
Longing.
Hope.
“I want to remember this, remember how it feels,” he murmured, voice quiet. Hoarse. “I want it to last.”
She blinked.
The wildness in her chest stilled—not extinguished, but paused. Anchored.
He looked terrified.
Not of her. Not of what they were doing.
But that it might slip away.
That she might.
She brought a hand up, ran her fingers slowly down his cheek. “Rom…”
Her palm cradled his face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. He turned into her touch like it was instinct. Like it was the first kind hand he’d known in years.
She pushed his hair gently back, clearing his face, revealing more of him—more than he usually let anyone see.
“I like it like this,” she said softly. “Your face. I want to see it.”
She held his hair there with one hand, fingers curling just behind his ear, and he leaned into her without resistance.
The heat between them didn’t vanish. It shifted. Became molten instead of fire. Steady instead of reckless. Intimate instead of desperate.
“Come daylight,” Romance whispered, still above her, chest rising and falling with effort, “you’ll come to your senses.”
His lips twitched in something like sadness. “And you’ll build your walls back up.”
Mira stared at him.
At the honesty.
At the ache behind the smirk he usually wore like armor.
She shook her head slowly, thumb tracing his jaw.
“Let’s just play it day by day.”
He nodded.
And kissed her again—slower this time. Deeper. Like he was savoring the moment before it could be taken from him.
And this time, when their bodies moved again, it wasn’t a chase to the edge.
It was a promise not to let the fire go out.
Their bodies moved again—this time with purpose, not urgency. Mira’s hands stayed in his hair, holding it back from his face, her fingertips gentle against his scalp. She wanted to see him. All of him. Not the demon. Not the flirt. Not the shadow in the smoke.
Just Romance.
And he gave her that—completely.
His rhythm deepened, slower now, steady and full, each motion sending waves through both of them. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, and he pressed closer, lowering his body against hers like he was trying to become part of her—flesh and breath and heartbeat.
He whispered her name against her collarbone, his lips brushing her skin with every syllable. “Mira…”
She arched into him, hips meeting his, every nerve alive.
“Right there,” she breathed, her voice catching.
His hands moved up her back, spreading wide across her shoulder blades as if to hold her together—like she might break apart otherwise. Her fingernails scraped lightly down his spine, and he shivered from the contact, his breath faltering against her throat.
Their foreheads touched, sweat beading between them, eyes locked.
There was no space anymore. No teasing. No barriers.
Only rhythm. Connection. Fire.
The pace picked up again—not wild, but urgent now. Building. Their bodies sliding together, slick with heat and want, perfectly matched.
Her gasps came faster, shorter, her fingers curling tightly into the muscles of his back.
He groaned—deep, guttural—as her walls clenched around him, and his restraint frayed to the thinnest thread.
“Mira—”
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, the words trembling against his lips.
He didn’t.
The pressure built, fast and hot—between them, within them—until the wave hit.
Together.
She cried out first, her body locking against his, head thrown back, every muscle trembling from the force of it. And seconds later, his body followed—his hips stuttering, mouth falling open with a harsh, broken moan into the curve of her neck.
He held her through it, arms wrapped around her like she might vanish, like if he let go, it would all disappear again.
Their bodies stilled, trembling and tangled, chests heaving in unison.
Silence followed.
Breath. Touch. The sound of two people who had finally stopped running.
They lay there in silence, bodies side by side, chests still rising and falling with the echo of everything they’d just shared. The city lights painted quiet shapes across the ceiling, the only witness to the night’s unraveling.
Mira stared upward, her pink hair fanned over the mattress, skin still flushed and glowing in the low light.
Romance leaned up on one elbow for a moment, looking at her. Then, without a word, he reached for the edge of the bed and grabbed the nearest blanket. He pulled it up and over them, letting it settle softly over their tangled legs, their bare skin, the warmth that still lingered between them.
He lay back down beside her.
Neither spoke.
Mira continued staring at the ceiling, her eyes unfocused, her expression unreadable.
Normally—always—this was the part where she rolled away. Got up. Kicked them out. Made a joke. Shut it down.
No one stayed the night.
No one was allowed to.
But she didn’t move.
She didn’t push him away.
Instead, they both turned their heads at the same time—eyes meeting in the dark. The tension that had fueled them all night was gone now, replaced by something quieter. Something that felt like calm after a storm. Or maybe the eye of it.
No words passed between them.
Just a look.
And then Mira slowly shifted across the space between them and curled into his side, resting her head against his chest, her arm slipping around his waist.
Romance blinked once, stunned by the simplicity of it.
Then he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her close like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His voice was a whisper, so quiet it barely stirred the air.
“Day by day.”
Mira nodded once, against his skin. She didn’t know what this changes, if it changes anything. All she could feel right now was comfort and that is what she would hold onto until morning came. Morning would bring reality.
And then they both closed their eyes.
And let the world disappear.
The end.