She didn’t know what the rules were for demons, or whatever he technically was, but this part? This was new. This was human. The kind of quiet intimacy she never let herself hope for, let alone believe she could keep.
And still, he stayed.
Later, she found him in the kitchen.
Making pancakes.
No shirt. Just flannel pajama pants riding low on his hips, tattoos shimmering, and that ridiculous red leather jacket from the night before draped over a chair.
“You cooked pancakes. Is breakfast the only thing you can make?” she asked, voice still rough with sleep, her hair an apocalypse, and her hoodie slipping off one shoulder.
Ashar looked up, flipping a pancake with one hand like he’d done it a thousand times. “I was forged in the Before, not raised by wolves.”
She smirked. “Debatable.”
He pointed the spatula at her with mock sternness. “Careful. I’m in a very emotionally vulnerable post-possession state. I might start quotingNotting Hill.”
She walked toward him, slow, deliberate, like she was testing if the moment would break under the weight of real feeling. “You know you’re still glowing, right?”
“Magically or metaphorically?”
“Both.”
Ashar set the spatula down and stepped closer. His fingers traced her cheekbone, his lips brushing her forehead with a kiss that felt more honest than anything he’d said last night.
She melted against him without even meaning to.
“Hey,” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or next week. If you’re going to glitch again or need a recharge via orgasm or whatever.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “Is that your way of proposing more sex?”
“No,” she said, then paused, “Okay, maybe.”
He kissed her again, this time slower, deeper, not hungry, just sure.
And when he pulled back, he looked her dead in the eye and said, “For the record, I’m staying. Not because the spell lets me. Not because the need is unfinished, but because you chose me, and because I chose you.”
Blair’s throat tightened.
She stared at him, something old and hollow cracking quietly inside.
“I almost didn’t choose you,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said. “But you called, and I came back.”
They ate pancakes in bed.
Too much syrup, sticky fingers, and laughter were bubbling up between bites. She pretended not to notice when he added cinnamon to the batter without measuring. He pretended not to notice when she licked syrup off his chest like a test.
It wasn’t perfect, it was better than perfect, it was theirs.
* * *
Later that night, Blair adjusted the brim of her witch hat in the hallway mirror. The reflection stared back like a spell gone slightly slutty, purple lipstick, smoky eyes, spiderweb tights. Her skirt was short enough to be flirtatious, long enough not to show anything. Cute, not desperate.
