But it came out cracked, because yeah, okay, maybe a tiny part of her did. Not a relationship. Not love. Not anything with expectations or hope or brunch dates.
Just someone who stayed.
Someone who didn’t vanish the second she startedgetting attached.
Ashar didn’t press her on it. Didn’t call her out again.
He just leaned forward, kissed her temple, and murmured, “You’re not cursed. And I’m not leaving. Not until you send me away.”
Her stomach fluttered in the worst possible way, because now she wasn’t sure she could.
Great, demon dick and feelings.
She really was doomed.
6
Trouble in Aisle Four
She hadn’t meant to take him to the store.
It was a survival decision, really. Her coffee stash had given up the ghost sometime around midnight, the toilet paper situation was dire, and she needed something grounding, something painfully normal, before she spiraled again into whatever post-demonic-afterglow existential crisis she was teetering on.
She shoved a hoodie over her tank top, yanked her hair into a bun that might’ve had sentience, and pointed at him with the sternness of someone who once babysat demon-possessed toddlers at a Halloween fair.
She could’ve ordered delivery. She could’ve stayed in the comfort of post-sex couch melt. But some small part of her craved the dull ache of the ordinary—fluorescent lights and cart wheels and people who didn’t rearrange her soul just by breathing.
“No weird shit,” she said firmly, keys already in hand. “No glowing. No teleporting. No letting your horns out. And absolutely no being hot at strangers.”
Ashar blinked at her, mid-sip of his coffee. “Being hot is not an action.”
“You know what I mean.”
He smirked, but followed her out the door, anyway.
The drive was quiet, except for the playlist of angry women with guitars she blasted to feel normal again. Ashar didn’t complain. Just sat there, long legs folded into the passenger seat like he’d ridden shotgun for years, his gaze flicking over the passing trees with curious detachment.
She glanced at him once at a stoplight. He caught her, and he smiled. She turned up the volume.
The grocery store was aggressively normal. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, carts squeaked like anxious mice, and everything smelled like over-chilled produce and quiet despair.
Ashar stuck close, pushing the cart without complaint. He didn’t even blink when she tossed in tampons, boxed wine, and a family-sized pack of lube.
“You never know,” she muttered.
“I don’t judge,” he said, voice low, maddeningly smooth.
They were halfway through the baking aisle when she noticed something strange.
He wasn’t looking at the women.
She hadn’t expected him to flirt, exactly, but a few smirks or raised brows wouldn’t have shocked her. He was a walking thirst trap. The local moms in yoga pants were definitely noticing.
But Ashar? He didn’t give them a second glance.
He was watching the men.
Every guy who looked her way, dads with carts, college bros, even a teenager comparing brownie mix boxes, got the same look: narrow-eyed, tilted-head scrutiny like a predator daring them to take one more step.
