Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So, what do you think?” 

He leaned back in the chair awaiting an answer. His charming smile never broke as he let her contemplate what he was offering.

She took it all in. 

It was absurd. 

Brilliantly absurd. 

A fake marriage—her ironclad shield against every polite whisper about suitable matches. Even if her parents stormed in tomorrow, she’d be untouchable. And they would have to leave her alone.

“What do I think?” her grip on the coffee cup tightened as she echoed the deal. “It’s a fake marriage,” she said slowly, still reeling from the suggestion. “It’s insane.”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, her reaction seemed to amuse him. “Insane,” he echoed, tilting his head. “But effective.” His eyes gleam with the thrill of the gamble.

Her chest tightens as a cascade of possibilities sweeps through her mind— scandal upturning his carefully crafted career. She pictures waking up loathing him or tethered so tightly she can’t remember how to live without him. Anything and everything could go wrong.

“How would we even pull this off?” she finally asks, lips pressed together, her faith hanging in that question.

He clicked his tongue, shifting in his chair. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, that ever-present smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

It’s the kind of smile other girls would swoon over: precisely timed, perfectly charming, just enough mystery to keep you guessing. But Lily’s learned to distrust polished ease, and tonight that smile unsettles her more than it disarms.

Something about it unsettled her, she just wasn’t sure why.

 “I understand you have some reservations about the idea. It’s purely for our own conveniences of course.”

She thought about it again. She wondered about what he had to hide. What did he get out of marrying a girl like her?

Then again… she had more to gain than lose.

“I remind you,” he continued, “this ‘relationship’ will be entirely platonic. Just for show. No strings, no expectations. And when we’ve achieved what we want, we can part ways. Simple.”

She exhaled slowly. Was this really worth it? 

Her freedom cost her a ring on her finger. But was that still freedom?

“I’d be the one taking care of you. All I ask is some help with the chores, maybe some cooking, and being my wife for show. In return, what's mine is yours.”

She pondered again. 

She had nothing to her name. She lived in a tiny apartment, could barely afford food, and spent her time reading anything and everything in the little book store she worked at.

He smiled wider, extending a hand across the table.

It was like he could hear every insecurity she had about her life. Like he knew she had no other choice but to accept the deal.

That smile again. What about it made her hesitate last time? 

“It’s a deal then?”

She took it.

And just like that, Lily had agreed to a fake marriage with Alastor.

Chapter Text

“Who's been painting my roses red?” Lily’s voice rang through the lobby. Her voice was bold, loud and sharp enough to make her staff flinch.

The red liquid had seeped across the marble floor, leaving a grotesque stain. It cascaded down the petals, onto the leaves, and along the stems making the elegant display look like a blood-soaked spectacle.

Lily knew better. 

She would have preferred blood. 

But to her dismay it was only a deep red paint. 

She stormed through the lobby into the club. Daylight poured through the tall windows, casting a golden glow over the polished interior. It was her domain—well-lit, well-run, and not to be defiled.

As she stepped forward, heels clicking against the marble, she surveyed the mess with a practiced detachment. The roses were ruined. Her display—meticulously arranged—defiled.

Her eyes lingered on the roses. She held her gaze a few seconds longer than she’d meant to. She scanned across the room landing on her assistant, who stood calmly, unfazed by Lily’s rare temperament.

“We ordered red. They sent us white.”

“So you decided to try painting them? How wonderfully strange.” She spoke with condescension. 

“I didn’t do anything,” her assistant replied coolly. 

“Then who is the culprit?”

The assistant stepped aside, revealing a small demon boy crouched behind him. His clothes were splattered with red, matching the puddle forming around his feet. He clutched a dripping paintbrush, bristles trembling in his grip.

“Huh, Aren’t you a frail thing?” she murmured to herself. “What’s your name?”

“Finn,” he awkwardly said. “I’m very sorry, Miss,” he stammered. “I was just doing what they told me.” He glanced nervously toward the group of staff pretending to be busy, his meaning clear.

Lily’s gaze flicked to her staff. The innocent gave a curious look, while looking around to see who the boy was talking about. The guilty pretended that they weren’t. 

“I see.”

She glanced at the window display, then back at the boy.

Clearing her throat, she straightened her posture and strode down the line of employees. With a flick of her hand, she dismissed a few—ordering them to clean the mess or return to their duties. Then she turned to the remaining staff

“The rest of you,” she said, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Off with their heads.”

The guards moved swiftly. Cries for mercy echoed through the club as Lily turned back to the boy.

She tilted her head, considering. “It just so happens I enjoy your art… and I need a new errand boy," she said. “How does a job sound?”

Chapter Text

The lobby was alive with noise— as much as it could be with a small group. 

Husk was half-asleep behind the bar, tail flicking, but still starting to snore. Angel Dust lounged across a velvet couch, legs draped dramatically as he made comments to Charlie and Vaggie who were debating something near the staircase. Nifty was aggressively sweeping the floors laughing at any bugs she got to kill. Alastor stood by the fireplace with a content smile on his face.

Finn stepped inside, clutching the envelope like they might shield him from the heat of the room. He paused, uncertain, then cleared his throat.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I have a letter to deliver.”

The room didn’t go silent—but it shifted. Heads turned. Husk opened one eye. Angel Dust sat up. Vaggie narrowed her gaze. Nifty ran closer to the door. 

Charlie smiled politely walking over to the small boy. “A letter? For who?”

Finn hesitated and eyed the tall man by the fireplace. “The Radio Demon.”

Alastor’s right ear twitched at the sound of his title. It faced the conversation while he glanced back behind him. His smile shifted from content to curiosity.

Angel Dust stood, stretching. “Since when does Smiles have someone to send him mail?”

Finn walked past them all, heart thudding, and stopped just short. His steps started to get wary as he neared Alastor by the fireplace.

Alastor turned around finally with his smile wide and eager. He held out a taloned hand to accept the letter. 

Alastor opened it by the wax seal and skimmed through. At first he assumed it was a letter from Rosie. She was the only one that sent him news in the form of letters. 

His smile strained as he read through the letter, his grip getting tighter and tighter as kept reading. At the end he eyed the signature. He felt his teeth grinding as he  quickly re-read the letter just to make sure.

With a deep breath he conjured a white rose and offered it to the boy. “See to it your lady gets this.” 

Finn was the only one that noticed his hand shake for a second. How can a powerful demon crack from just a letter? He didn’t question the tremor and took the flower carefully. 

Alastor’s smile was calm one. But the twitch in his eye made him hesitate. If he was wrong—if it wasn’t her—then hope was a cruel thing to hold. And this letter would be the cruelest joke of all. 

Suddenly he felt a tinge in his heart. Had he admired this girl from afar for so long not knowing it was her this whole time?

Fate was a cruel thing indeed then. 

Alastor gave the boy a few bills for the trouble and sent him on his way.

The rest of the room fell silent as their gaze followed the small boy out of the front door. 

Everyone else in the room had turned to Alastor. He still gripped the paper letter like his afterlife depended on it. One look at his own shadow, which looked too hopeful for his liking, he waved it to disappear. 

 He crossed the room and made his way to the stairs.

“What was all that about?” Vaggie asked with a suspecting glare.

Alastor stepped up the stairs, smile still intact. “Just another one of my dealings. Nothing to worry about.” He wasn’t too sure he believed himself as he said it outloud. Yet he persisted with the theatrics.

Angel raised a brow. “You sure? That flower looked like it’s got secrets.”

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter. “Don’t they all?”

He turned away, humming softly to himself as he vanished down the hall. 

The rest of the room exchanged awkward looks and shrugs.

Alastor shut the door behind him with a soft click, the hum in his throat fading into silence. 

He glanced down at the letter still clenched in his hand. The paper had creased where his grip had tightened. He smoothed it absently, as if gentleness could undo the tremor.

He leaned against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed. For a moment, the smile slipped. Not entirely. Just enough to let the ache through.

“Please, let it be her,” he whispered to no one. Or maybe to his shadow that lingered just behind him, still too hopeful for his liking. He couldn’t even be mad at his shadow for wanting it to be her. 

He wanted it to be her. 

Even though it shouldn’t be. 

A beat passed. 

Then another.

He straightened, tucked the letter into his coat, and pulled the smile back into place like a well-worn glove. The Radio Demon had no business trembling over ghosts.

But still—he walked slower than usual. As if afraid of where hope might lead.

Chapter Text

The club’s music pulsed faintly beneath the floorboards, distant and low. Lily’s rooms were quiet, steeped in the hush of preparation. Velvet curtains drawn. The last light of day spilled across her vanity, catching on the gold tiara laid gently beside a comb and a half-finished glass of wine.

She sat in a deep red robe, cinched at the waist, one shoulder bare. Her hair was down, curls falling in loose waves. Her left eye bloomed outward, a white rose nestled in the socket, its petals tinged with a soft, uneven pink.

She had tried to paint it once. Red, like he said. Red, like his favorite color. But the color never took. It bled, then faded, leaving only a blush of regret.

“Still white,” she murmured.

She’d told herself it was vanity. But it wasn’t.

It was a shame.

The white petals felt too pure for this place. Too innocent for hell. It made her feel exposed. Like she didn’t deserve to be here. She chose this afterlife but what a cosmic joke to be the purest thing in the worst of the world.

She was brushing mascara onto her lashes when the knock came.

A pause.

Then again—gentler.

“Come in,” she called gently.

The door creaked open, and Finn stepped inside. Small, careful, dressed in a vest that didn’t quite fit.

“Miss Lily,” he said, voice low. “Your letter to Radio Demon was delivered.”

She turned, robe rustling softly. Her gaze landed on him, with a soft smile. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said, voice warm. “I hope no one gave you any trouble.”

He shook his head. “No, miss. Everyone has been really kind.”

She stepped forward and crouched slightly, meeting his eyes. 

“He told me to give you this,” Finn held out the rose to her. 

She beamed at the gift and the boy. “You’re the ace up my sleeve,” she said gently, taking the flower. She smiled, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Are you hungry? You probably haven’t eaten properly with all the running around you’ve been doing.”

“I—I had a roll earlier.”

“A roll’s not dinner. Go down to the kitchen after this. Tell Maribel I said to fix you a plate. Something warm. And we will get you some new clothes soon, that way they fit.” She adjusted his collar.

His eyes widened with an awed expression. “Really?”

“Really,” she said with a gentle smile. “And if anyone gives you trouble, you tell me right away.”

He smiled then—big and excited, but real.

“Yes, miss.”

She touched his shoulder lightly. “Thank you, Finn. You’ve done a great job.”

He nodded, then slipped out the door, a little straighter than before.

Lily stood alone again.

She looked down at the rose.

White.

Just like hers.

She placed it beside her old vintage radio on the vanity. A breath she held escaped her. She didn’t expect a reply. Maybe not ever but she turned the dial to click it on. To her relief a familiar tune played. A tune for her and only her. 

He did believe it. Deep down he knew it was her. Really her.

Chapter Text

The courthouse had been quiet throughout the event. A few signatures, a couple of words for the witness, a nod and stamp from the clerk, and that was it. 

Married.

Lily hadn’t expected it to feel so unfinished. She knew it wasn’t a real marriage, but the ease of it was unsettling. Just a day after their agreement, they met at the courthouse. It happened so fast she barely had time to process the idea—let alone the fact that she was now a wife. 

She was a wife as soon as she signed a paper.

All it took was a signature.

Yet a part of her still wanted that beautiful white dress, and a cake so high she couldn’t see the top, and a person she loved to promise forever to each other.

But that wasn’t easy… or fake.

Alastor drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the radio dial. He fidgeted with it, turning the knob left and right between his fingers, though no music played. He hummed under his breath and tapped his hand against the wheel, rhythm without melody.

His gold band glinted in the sunshine as he adjusted his grip—just a flicker, catching light like it wanted to be noticed.

Lily twisted the band on her own finger. A simple gold ring, smooth and light. It felt strange. Not heavy enough to mean forever.

But enough for a promise to stay—for the both of them.

She glanced at his hand again, watching the way his thumb brushed the edge of the wheel, grazing the ring like it was a habit he hadn’t named yet.

He turned down a narrow drive, winding through a patch of woods. The trees thickened, then thinned, and the gravel crunched beneath the tires.

And there it was 

The house stood tall, wood and stone, with wide windows and a porch that wrapped around like it had something to say. Beyond it, the shimmer of water, the river running into a small little pond. 

Lily stepped out slowly, boots crunching on gravel. Her breath caught.

“You said it was small,” she said.

Alastor shrugged, grabbing some of her bags from the car. “It feels small when it’s just me.”

She stared up at it—at the height, the space, the quiet grandeur of it. Not flashy. Just more than she’d ever had. The kind of place that looked like it remembered things.

Alastor went straight to the front door fumbling around with some keys. He unlocked it and pushed it open. 

Lily stepped inside, her boots brushing the threshold like she wasn’t sure she belonged. The air smelled faintly of cedar and dust. Light filtered through the windows in long, golden stripes, catching motes that drifted like memory.

She didn’t speak. Just stood there, fingers curled around the strap of her bag, listening to the silence.

Alastor set the rest of the bags down and glanced at her. “It’s not much,” he said as if it were honest. 

But it was.

Inside, the air smelled like cedar and coffee. The ceilings were high, the kind that made the sound feel smaller. Light poured in through the windows of the living room, warm and deliberate. 

Books lined the walls on seemingly endless shelves. Dust covered most of them but some were clean. The bright colored, clean book covers stuck out against the ones muted with dust.

A record player sat near the fireplace. A huge shelf of records was next to it. Not even a speck of dust in sight. On that shelf. 

The furniture was soft, worn. He must have inherited it with the house. The cushions lose their patterns in spots and the wood starts to split with age.

She dropped her bag by the door and turned in a slow circle. The place seemed to hold memories of his life and habits that she didn’t understand yet. She was still the one out of place.

“You live here, all by yourself?"

Alastor nodded.

Alastor moved ahead, gesturing toward the wide living room. “Kitchen’s through there. The maid comes every other week. I keep the windows open when it rains.”

She nodded, eyes still scanning the space. Everything felt curated but lived-in.

He led her down the hall, past a study with book shelves filled with more she’d ever seen, past a bathroom with soft towels and lavender soap. Then he stopped at a door near the end.

“This one’s yours,” he said, voice low. “Mine is right across the hall.”

She opened it slowly.

It was clearly a spare room. But it had been prepared.

The room was quiet, sunlit, and a faint breeze let in through the open window. A bed was tucked beneath the window, the duvet smooth, corners folded with care. A small desk sat in the corner, empty except for a coaster and a pen that didn’t look new. A mirror leaned against the wall, slightly crooked, like it had been placed quickly and never adjusted.

 A folded towel sat on the chair, along with a small stack of books that felt like guesses: one novel, one poetry collection, one travel memoir. Alastor had set it up like someone who didn’t know what she’d need, but wanted her to have something.

She stepped in, taking the room in slowly. It was bigger than her apartment above the bookshop. The closet alone could hold every coat and dress she owned and still have space left over. Her suitcases and bags wouldn’t even begin to fill it.

The windows were wide, generous, with a view of the whole backyard—trees, water, the porch and a view of a garden.

The garden sprawled below—wild, tangled, overgrown. Vines curled over the edges of raised beds and the fence. Flowers still bloomed in clusters, half-hidden by weeds. A stone path disappeared into the undergrowth.

It looked forgotten.

She tilted her head in curiosity. “What a lovely garden.”

Alastor stood behind her. He looked out the window to see what she was seeing. To him, that garden was an eye sore. A mess he never really had a chance to deal with “I wouldn’t say that.” 

She didn’t turn around. “It just needs some help. It could be beautiful."

Alastor finally understood.

“Then it’s yours. Do whatever you want with it,” Alastor said, “I’ve never had the patience for it, maybe you can do something with it.”

He continued to glance around the room like he was considering. He didn’t quite belong to the rooms either. “It’s your home now too. Honestly, most of this furniture came with the house when I inherited it. I’ve been meaning to replace it, just never got around to it.”

He paused, then added, “Why don’t you go into town sometime—once you’re settled—and pick out a few things you like. Things that feel more... you.”

She turned to face him, beaming. “Really? Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

Her excitement bloomed before she could temper it. She reached for him and hugged him, brief and impulsive.

The gesture caught Alastor off guard, but he didn’t pull away. As he looked down at her, a ghost of a dimple flickered and vanished.

Chapter Text

“I don’t see how any of this is my problem,” She said, trailing her finger along the rim of her glass. 

Another meeting during club hours. 

The lights were dim, the music booming, and her patience thinning

“Lily, you're the weakest overlord there is.” He said suddenly. “You need help to keep this place up.” 

She froze.

And so did the rest of the room.

The music doesn’t stop—but time does. Every patron freezes, mid-step, mid-sip, mid-spin, like marionettes awaiting their Queen’s next command. Many of her staff nearby had just stared at the demon. A bartender taps out a rhythm on glasses; her glare slices sharper than a vorpal blade.Her guards froze, eyes locked on the broker like predators waiting for permission. Even the dancers scoffed mid-spin, one of them mouthing *“weak?”* like it was a joke. 

Her one eye turned a shade of bright blue glaring at the demon. “And who told you that, Darling?”

The broker faltered, realizing too late that he’d crossed a line.

“I—I just meant,” he stammered, “people talk. You don’t make moves like the others. You don’t burn cities or collect souls. You—”

Lily stood slowly, the hem of her coat brushing the velvet seat. Her glass remained untouched, the rim still glistening from her fingertip. “You’re right I don’t deal in souls. I deal in something far more potent.”

The sound of his own thumping heart was enough to make him feel nervous. It wasn’t until his attention turned to the rows of boxes on the wall that he realized that thumping wasn’t his.

“They call me The Queen of Hearts for a reason, you know.” 

At her snap, the ornate drawers behind her burst open, relieving the glowing red hearts, each pulsing in time with the music. The bass line of the music was the hearts she hid in the walls. 

Another snap closed the boxes. The bassline of the music remains strong and alive.

“Now, what was that about, me being the weakest?” she asked. “I find myself confused as to who would tell you that?”

The demon was trembling now. “Vox- he said-”

Lily finally turned her head, one eye glowing a shade too bright. “He sends you to insult me in my own club? That’s a new low.”

The broker swallowed hard. “Vox won’t like this.”

She paused, just for a breath. “Vox wants power. And now that the Radio Demon is back, he’s suddenly on the defensive.”

He blinked. “He says you’re the one stalling. That you’re afraid to meet.”

Lily smiled, twisting her sapphire ring once. “Afraid? No. I’m simply not interested in playing his games.”

She stepped closer, voice velvet-soft. “But if he insists on poking at things he doesn’t understand... he may find himself outmatched.” A smile graced her lips, a real one at a thought.

The music swelled slightly, as if the club itself leaned in.

“I’m in a most splendid mood tonight,” she murmurs, sipping her wine. “Since you’ve no fault in this slip, I’ll offer a deal.”

The broker hesitated, unsure whether to speak or breathe. He nodded quickly. “Yes—yes, anything.”

She tilted her head. “Be careful, anything is a dangerous word.”

The music dipped, just slightly. The vault beneath the floor pulsed in time.

Her eye glowed with her flowered eye also emitting a blue glow behind it. She pinched the air near his heart pulling outward. A golden string pulled out of this air from his chest. 

“This is a heartstring,” She wrapped the string around her finger. “This is how I know you can keep a promise. I want a truth- about Vox. You owe me that. One Vox wouldn’t want me to know.”

The broker paled. “I—I don’t know anything.”

Lily smiled again. “Then you’ll owe me when you do.”

Chapter Text

The garden was a mess. Not the charming kind with wildflowers and poetic overgrowth, but the kind that looked like nature had thrown a tantrum and then stormed off to forget about it. Vines strangled the wrought iron fence, weeds sprouted from cracks in the stone path, and a single rusted wheelbarrow sat like a forgotten relic of someone else’s ambition.

She saw the love and care that was there before her. The fence, path and wheelbarrow was evident from a past before her. There was someone who cared, a long time ago.

Lily stood at the edge of it all, hands on her hips, wearing a sunhat with a new bag of tools. “Well,” she muttered under her breath, “either I tame this jungle or it eats me alive. Fifty-fifty odds.”

She knelt beside a patch of a long dead flower patch and tugged at the roots and weeds that refused to budge. “Stubborn. Like someone else I know,” she said aloud, not bothering to check if Alastor was within earshot.

He was. Leaning against the veranda railing, coffee in hand, dressed like he’d just stepped out of a magazine. He barely had to try but his morning look was effortless.

It had only been a week since she moved in with Alastor, and she learned more about him wandering around the house than having any conversation. 

The man was quiet with her around. A contrast to when he was working.

She had turned on the radio during the week. Trying to learn about him at a distance. He was charismatic and charming on the radio show but when he was at home, he was quiet, reserved, and surprisingly humble. 

She’s tried making conversations at breakfast and at dinner. All he ever said to her was one word responses. 

Stubborn was the only word that came to mind when she frustratingly ripped another weed from the ground.

“Talking to the plants already?” he asked, voice smooth as ever.

“They’re more responsive than you,” Lily shot back, yanking harder. The root snapped free with a satisfying pop. It sent her stumbling backward into a pile of leaves. She sat there for a moment, triumphant and mildly humiliated.

Alastor chuckled. “You’re quite the gardener.”

“I’m a menace with a trowel,” she replied, brushing dirt from her knees. “I wouldn’t get too close if I were you.”

He sipped his coffee, watching her with that unreadable expression she was starting to decode—half amusement, half curiosity, and maybe a sliver of admiration he hadn’t figured out how to hide yet.

“I didn’t expect you to clear so much out this fast,” he said.

“Well, I didn’t expect to marry a man who only drinks his coffee black and barely knows how to keep a full conversation, but here we are.”

“You know I take my coffee black?” He asked with a brow raised taking another sip.

“You also hate tea. I wanted some the other day. Imagine my disappointment that there isn’t a single tea leaf in that house.”

“You are quite the observer.”

“When you have nothing else to do during the day, you tend to notice the habits of your fake husband when you wander around his massive house.”

That earned a real smile. Not the smirk he wore like armor, but something softer. 

“Yeah? What else have you gathered from your wandering?” he asked with a smirk. 

As she pulled another root out she turned to him on the veranda. She rolled her eyes and set down her trowel. She sighed and moved her hands to her hips. 

“You’re left-handed but tend to use your right probably because it’s easier. More expected.” 

He gave a look of surprise looking down at how he was holding his mug. While he was holding the cup in his left hand the handle was sticking out to the right. He must have switched hands when he wasn’t paying attention.

“You never sit with your back to the windows. You like to either watch the outside or don’t like being snuck up on,” she said matter-of-factly, folding her arms in front of her chest.

He nodded thinking about her comment. “Both are true.”

“You tend to read the same ten books on rotation. And you don’t even finish them. I’ve had to put back three already this week.”

Alastor paused—just long enough to make Lily wonder if she’d struck a nerve or merely earned his amusement.

Then, with that signature half-smile, “I like stories that don’t end. They stay pliable. Useful.” He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes flicking toward the nearest bookshelf like it might defend him in some way. “Some books are better as companions than conclusions.”

She shook her head with a small airy laugh. “Should I go on?”

He blinked, then gave a quiet laugh—more surprised than amused. “You really do wander.”

“I live here,” she said, plucking another weed with a satisfying snap. “It’s either explore or go mad cataloging your spice rack. Which, by the way, is alphabetized already. Except for the sugar, which you keep in the flour tin like a saboteur.”

That earned a real laugh. Not the polite kind he gave to guests, but something low and genuine. “I like surprises.”

“You like chaos wrapped up in a bow.”

“Who doesn’t like a little chaos? It keeps life more interesting.”

She gave him a scoff, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her—tugging upward in spite of herself.

“You say that like it’s a personality trait,” she muttered, reaching for another stubborn root.

Alastor stepped down from the porch, the gravel crunching beneath his polished shoes. “It’s a lifestyle,” he said smoothly. “And you—well, you talk to everything like it might answer back.”

Lily paused, fingers still curled around the trowel. “Excuse me?”

“You talk to the house when you think no one’s listening,” he continued, voice light but precise. “You threaten the curtains. You bargain with the kettle. You apologize to the floorboards when they creak too loudly.”

She blinked. “I do not.”

“You do,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been dying to know what you’ve been telling the centerpieces."

Lily rolled her eyes, but her fingers tightened around the trowel. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How fast you start noticing things. Habits. Silences. The way someone folds their napkin or leaves the last bite untouched.”

Alastor tilted his head. “You do that.”

She rolled her eyes at him. 

“You move through this house like you’re trying not to leave footprints. But they’re everywhere.”

She looked down at the half-cleared flower bed, the roots she’d unearthed, the mess she’d made. “I guess I’m not very good at being invisible.”

Alastor smiled, quiet and real. “No. You’re very good at being seen.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, fingers still dusted with soil, the trowel dangling from her hand like a forgotten weapon. The house behind them creaked once, as if agreeing.

And he was watching her—not like a man guarding his space, but like someone learning how to share it..

It was something.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

“Who is that?” Vaggie asked, pointing to the woman across the lobby. Her voice was low, uncertain “Did she wander in by mistake? Or is she here to…?” her question trailing while eyeing everyone else's reactions.  

Angel scoffed. “You seriously don’t know who that is?”

Vaggie shot him a look, “Coming from the guy who didn't recognize the infamous Radio Demon.”

Angel just rolled his eyes. “That’s the Queen of Hearts. She’s a big deal-an overlord with serious pull. Actually… she’s pretty nice.” 

Charlie tilted her head “I’ve never seen her before. But I think I’ve heard the name.”

“She’s backed by the entire Lust Ring,” Angel Dust added. “Apparently she’s good friends with Asmodeus.”

“She’s so pretty,” Nifty gushed.

They all watched her now, curiosity blooming. In a place like Hell, beauty often came twisted or sharp-edged. But she was… different. As Nifty had said—pretty.

Her red hair fell in soft curls, pulled back from her face with a large bow that bobbed gently as she walked. A white rose bloomed where her left eye should’ve been, its petals tinged faintly pink in some spots, like a memory trying to fade. Her sundress was emerald green, flowing and light, as if she’d stepped out of a dream and into the lobby.

How had a soul like hers ended up here?

Charlie watched as the woman knelt beside a cluster of plants near the front window, fingers brushing the leaves with reverence.

“Do you think she’s here for the hotel?” she asked quietly.

Vaggie nudged her. “Go talk to her, Charlie.”

Charlie mustered all her courage and walked over. 

“Hello there,” Charlie greeted. “I’m Charlie.”

The woman turned, her smile warm and effortless. Something about her presence made Charlie’s shoulders loosen, her nerves quiet.

 “Hello, I’m Lily” she greeted her with a smile. She turned back to the window, fingers trailing along the edge of a wilted bloom. “I was just admiring the flowers.

Charlie wasn’t sure what she was admiring. Yes, there were flowers. Vaggie and Angel had promised to water them, but that promise had clearly wilted too.

She’d meant to ask Alastor to conjure new ones, but he’d been holed up in his radio tower for days now. Since receiving that letter the other day, he’s been irritable. He got so fed up with the questions that he locked himself in his radio tower. Everyone knew better than to disturb him when he was in one of his moods.

“Oh yeah, Vaggie was supposed to water those, it’s a shame really,” She said, scratching her neck. “I really liked those.”

Lily simply reached out and touched one of the leaves.

The plant shimmered.

Its stems straightened, blooms unfurled, and the dead leaves lifted gently into the air—rejoining the whole as if they’d never fallen. The entire arrangement pulsed with life, vibrant and whole.

Charlie gasped. “Wow… that’s amazing.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “I was always a natural talent.” 

Charlie blinked, still stunned. “Can I check you in?” Lily considered the question. “I’m actually here to see Alastor. I’ve heard he’s staying here.”

 “Alastor?” Charlie’s eyes widened. “Oh my gosh—does he have your soul?”

The woman looked genuinely surprised, then waved the thought away with a graceful flick of her hand. “It’s nothing of that sort, I promise you.”

Charlie cleared her throat. “So… you and Alastor. You’re… close?”

Lily’s smile was quiet, thoughtful. Her gaze drifted toward the stairs. “Yes,” she said simply. “We are.”

Charlie hesitated. “He’s… been in his tower for a few days. We haven’t seen him.”

Lily’s expression shifted—just slightly. “Is he unwell?”

Angel shrugged. “He gets like this sometimes. Broody. Quiet. Radio static turned all the way down. We usually just leave him be.”

Lily nodded slowly, absorbing the information. She gave a hum of understanding.

As Charlie moved to the desk, Vaggie lingered behind, still watching Lily with wary eyes.

“You said he’s in his radio tower?” Lily asked. The group nodded. “Thank you,” she said, turning to the elevator. 

Vaggie stiffened. “Wait, you're going to see him now?”

Angel raised a brow. “Bold.”

Charlie hesitated. “He’s… not really taking visitors.”

Lily turned to her, voice calm. “I’m not just any visitor.”

The door to Alastor’s radio tower opened after Lily’s gentle knock. With how the group had described the situation, she was expecting it to be harder to get in.

But it opened.

She stepped inside, closing it gently behind her.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn. The radio tower hummed low, casting soft flickers of red across the walls. Alastor sat in his chair, facing away from the door, one hand resting on the armrest, the other swirling his drink loosely around a glass he hadn’t touched.

“Alastor?” she spoke gently. She twirled the ring on her finger. The promise she made a long time ago weighed heavy at this moment.

He froze. 

The chair creaked as it swung around—slowly, like something reluctant. His eyes locked onto hers. Wide. Disbelieving. 

All the hope he’d poured into that letter, all the restraint he’d practiced since, cracked open in a single breath. There was hunger in his stare. And something else. Something unreadable.

Lily’s hand lifted instinctively to her face, covering the rose where her eye had once been. Shame bloomed faster than the flower ever had. And the shade of pink her face mimicked the color of the petals she had tinged them.

Alastor stood. His steps were slow, deliberate. Not threatening. Just heavy with everything he hadn’t said. He stopped in front of her, gaze still pinned to her face.

He stopped in front of her.

She cowered back in guilt. Her lip trembling, her eye wide.

He didn’t speak. His gaze flicked between her rose eye and her blue eye. He reached out. Not quickly. Not tenderly. Just… reached. His fingers hovered near her cheek, uncertain.

She flinched. 

He paused.

Then, finally, he touched her. Cradled her face in both hands. His thumbs brushed the edge of the flower, as if memorizing its shape, memorizing every petal and how it grew out.

“I almost forgot how beautiful you are,” he said.

Are.

She couldn’t even blink, her one functional eye welled up with tears she didn’t realize she was holding back. The tension in her shoulders softened. The breath she’d been holding slipped out in a quiet laugh. Her smile was quick, fragile.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. I wasn't careful. It was everything he’d held back for a century—grief, longing, guilt, love.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, just breathing her in.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t come to you sooner," she said, shame laced in every syllable.

He opened his eyes, searching hers. “Why, didn’t you?”

She hesitated. “Because I changed. I’m not what I used to be, I’m not exactly what you remember,” She rambled through her explanation. She looked up at him again, completely losing her words. 

“Because I didn’t know if you’d still want me,” she finally said with a deep breath.

Alastor’s thumb brushed her cheek, just below the rose. He carefully touched the soft petals. She flinched under his touch but let him touch the flower.

“I wanted you every day,” he said. “Even when I didn’t deserve to.”

She leaned into him, letting the silence settle between them. Letting it speak.

“I’m here now,” she said. “I’m sorry it was a little late.”

He nodded. “Now that you are here. I’m not letting you go again.”

Chapter Text

“It’s time for a proper introduction, my friends!” Alastor announced, his voice echoing theatrically as he descended the staircase lobby.

After a long and emotional conversation-one Alastor would never admit to having-the two decided that they needed to come clean to his friends that were still in the hotel lobby. They had clearly already started coming up with crazy theories. And if Lily was going to be coming back often, they would need to know their secret. 

Alastor led the two down the foyer stairs and held Lily’s hand leading with deliberate care. Everyone paused their tasks drawn by the rare buoyancy in his tone.  They crowded at the base of the stairs, curiosity buzzing. The mysterious woman-Lily- had stirred questions all day, and now, with Alastor in unusually high spirits, they were eager to know who she truly was.

“Everyone,” Alastor said, beaming, “let me formally introduce…Lily”

He smiled down at her, one arm wrapped around her waist with surprising tenderness. 

Lily gave a wave, her smile radiant, "Hello everyone.” she greeted, her voice gentle.

She nudged Alastor playfully in the ribs. He chuckled, “Okay, okay.” Then cleared his throat with exaggerated flair.

“Lily is my wife.”

“WHAT?” the room erupted in unison.

Alastor extended his hand, and Lily took it without hesitation. His gaze never left her—utterly absorbed. He kissed her knuckles with reverence, fingers curling around hers. The others’ stunned reactions barely registered—though when he finally turned to face them, he drank in their confusion with delight.

Of course they were shocked. Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon, married? And to someone like Lily—a soul so kind, so graceful—it was a revelation twice over.

Angel Dust pointed dramatically. “You’re married to him? Blink twice if you need help.”

Lily’s breath hitched in a laugh. Shaking her head she replied, “I promise you, it’s not like that.” She paused, considering. “Our story is long… and complicated,” she sighed thinking about their life together. 

“But a love story for the ages!” Alastor declared, striking a theatrical pose. “Every detail is worth savoring.”

Lily giggled. “Maybe for another time, then.”

Charlie spoke up, “Will you be staying with us then?” Her eyes were bright with a hopeful gaze. 

“I intended to. Is that okay?” 

Charlie couldn’t help but beam with pride. “Well, welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!” She turned toward the front desk, reaching instinctively for a room key. Then paused, her hand hovering mid-air.
“Oh—right,” she said with a sheepish grin. “I guess you’ll be in Alastor’s room then?”

Lily gave a small nod. 

Alastor leaned in, voice velvet-smooth. “We’ll need a moment to catch up.” His hand slid up the curve of her thigh, hidden from view. “Privately.”

Lily shot him a look—half warning, half fond exasperation.
“Alastor’s right,” she said, turning back to Charlie. “There are things we need to discuss.”

Charlie nodded, sensing the shift. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

As the others drifted away, Lily lingered. She turned to Alastor, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Do you think they’ll ever understand?”

Alastor tilted his head, eyes gleaming like a radio dial catching a signal.
“They don’t need to,” he said. “We do.”

Chapter Text

The door to Alastor’s room clicked shut behind them.

For a moment, neither spoke.

The glow from the lamps cast long shadows across the walls, flickering like memory. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Full. A century of restraint pressed into the space between their bodies.

Alastor was the first to move. He hugged her body from behind and pulled her hair away from neck. Nuzzling his nose to her neck, his silent way of asking permission.

“We should talk first,” she said firmly but still melting into his touch..

“We’ve talked enough,” He mumbled. His lips found her skin—gentle at first, then deliberate. Time felt like it never passed. He remembered exactly where to kiss, where to nip, what spots were the ones that made her knees weak. 

She held back her noises of pleasure, while biting her lip. “You’re insufferable,” she muttered. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

He just hummed in contentment as he attacked her neck. 

“Alastor,” she complained. 

“Say it again,” he growled. “Say my name again.”

She grimaced at the thought of having to cover up the assault he was giving her neck. But she couldn’t help letting a few pleasured gasps go as his hand drifted down her body. She felt his smirk against her throat and his hand creeping up her thigh, to her already heating core.

Even if she was going to submit, she wasn’t going quietly. 

She pushed him back, enough so she could face him. “Not so fast,” she said, eyes gleaming. “You don’t get to skip the foreplay just because you’re being dramatic.”

Alastor laughed, genuinely amused. “You wound me.”

“You always loved it.”

His brow went up in intrigue. “You're playing a dangerous game, darling.”

“When I play, I play for the fun, Darling.” She batted her lashes, then snapped her fingers. Her dress shifted—cutouts revealing skin and curve, rose lace blooming across her chest and hips. 

And it was red.

She wanted him to see her power—not just her body. Not just the past. The woman she’d become. A woman worth his life and death-not just a partner. His equal.

Alastor smiled dark and hungry. 

What do you think?” she asked, voice velvet-soft.

Alastor leaned against the edge of the dresser, arms crossed, eyes devouring every detail. “I always did love you in red,” he said, his voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate through the room. “But I’d love it so much more on the floor.”

She smiled, slow and knowing. “Show me how much.”

“Gladly.”

He reached for her waist, but before his fingers could touch, a vine unfurled from the floor—lush and crimson-veined, winding up his wrist like a lover’s caress. A gentle tug from the vine kept his palm away but his fingers could still graze the lace of her red dress.
Alastor exhaled, amused and aroused. “You’re teasing me.”
She stepped closer, her heels silent against the floor, the scent of blooming roses trailing behind her like a warning.
“Teasing?” she echoed, voice dipped in honey and thorns. “I’m cultivating anticipation.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth twitching with restrained hunger. “You always did love a slow burn.”
“And you,” she said, fingers ghosting over his jaw but never quite touching, “were one to always rush the harvest.”

Another vine slithered up from the shadows, this one thinner, more playful—brushing his thigh, then curling around his belt loop like a flirtatious whisper.
“Show me,” she whispered, “that you remember how to take your time.”

He kissed her then—slow, coaxing, reverent.
And she melted into it, not conquered, but choosing the rhythm.
Every sigh, every touch, every bloom was a quiet dare. And he knew better than to rush.

His hands slid along her back, firm and possessive, lifting her slightly until her spine met the wall.
She gasped, legs wrapping around his waist with practiced ease, dress blooming open like a sigh.

And then—her fingers found his shirt.
One button. Then another.
Slow at first, then faster, her breath catching with each reveal.

“You haven’t changed,” she whispered, undoing the last button and pushing the fabric aside. Her palms flattened against his chest, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.
“I never forgot,” he murmured against her throat. “You are the one thing I can never forget.”

He groaned, low and reverent, pressing closer. His lips met hers—slow at first, reverent. Then deeper. Hungrier. His hands slid along her back, memorizing every curve like he was afraid she’d vanish again. She responded in kind, fingers tangled in his hair, breath catching as he pressed her against the wall.

She felt how hard he was getting through his pants. She gasped as he grinded against her. She kissed him again, harder this time, her fingers tugging at his belt. He let her pull it free. The static from the radio pulsed louder, like it could feel the shift in the room.

He carried her to the bed, laying her down with a care that contradicted the urgency in his touch. 

He leaned down, kissing her hard, one hand gripping her thigh, the other bracing beside her head. He pulled back to look at her. Alastor’s fingers brushed a strand of hair from Lily’s cheek, his touch reverent now, like he was afraid of waking up from a dream. “How did a sinner like me get so lucky to have you.”

She lay beneath him, breath steadying, her hand resting over his heart. Alastor’s lips trailed down her neck, reverent and hungry.
His hand slid beneath the lace at her hip pulling her panties away from her heated core. He teased a finger brushing against her entrance, testing the edge of her control. She gasped at the touch of her ache making her crave more.

“You know,” he murmured, “I never thought I’d get you back like this.”

Lily tilted her head, her voice a velvet purr starting to fall apart at the seams. “Like what?”

“Regal. Unapologetic. Glorious.”

She smirked, dragging a finger down his chest. “You always did love me best when I was dangerous.”

He pulled his hand away from her. The coolness surprised her.

“And you,” he said, catching another one of her gasps with a kiss “are positively lethal tonight.” 

She smirked and rolled onto him, straddling his waist with a slow, deliberate grace. Her hair spilled around her like a curtain of ink and fire, her hips pressing down just enough to make him groan.

 “Then you’d better pray I’m merciful,” she whispered, leaning in until her lips brushed his.

Alastor’s eyes gleamed, hungry and reverent. His grin widened, sharp and delighted. “Oh, darling. You do know how to provoke me.”

 His hands slid down her thighs, gripping just enough to make her breath hitch.
Then he moved—swift and fluid—flipping her beneath him again, her wrists caught in his grip.

She fought him, of course—because that was the game. And he would win. Eventually. Not that Lily would ever admit to letting him.

He pushed down his slacks, grinding against her clothed core with deliberate pressure. “You’re all mine,” he growled, voice thick with want.

She gasped, arching into him, her dress slipping further with every shift.

His fingers found the edge of her lace, brushing skin, testing her resolve.

She didn’t stop him. Didn’t flinch. Just looked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted, breath trembling.

He pulled the lace down, slow and reverent. And discarded them like a wrapper to his favorite sweet.
And then—he entered her.

She gasped again, nails dragging down his back, her body rising to meet his.
He leaned down and she kissed him—slow, deep, final.

And this time, the silence wasn’t heavy.
It was holy.

Chapter Text

The sun was warm on her back as Lily knelt in the garden, fingers deep in the soil. The new shrubs were delicate. She pressed another root into the earth, patting it gently, reverently.

She wasn’t done clearing out all the weeds and dead plants yet. The garden had been neglected for too long—overgrown with brittle stems and tangled vines that clawed at her wrists. But she wanted something to look at to keep her motivated. So when she cleared a spot near the back door, a patch of sunlight pooling in one spot, she knew exactly what to put there.

Alastor stood nearby, watching with a curious tilt of his head. He hadn’t spoken yet, hadn’t made himself known, but she caught him out of the corner of her eye—leaning against the doorframe, half-shadowed, half-lit. His presence was like a breeze brushing the back of her neck: subtle, deliberate, impossible to ignore.

He was looking at her. Not just watching—studying. Like he was trying to decide something.

Lily kept her movements slow, deliberate. She didn’t want to spook whatever thought he was chasing. Her back had been turned. Her hands were full. She had noticed him arrive. It was hard not to. And now he was silent, still, eyes fixed on her like she was a puzzle with one missing piece.

Was he waiting for her to notice? Testing how long it would take for her to?

Lily finally glanced up, brushing a strand of hair from her face with the back of her wrist. Alastor didn’t notice.

“You’re home early,” she said, voice light. He’d been standing there for ten minutes, silent. But she pretended not to know.
Alastor didn’t answer right away.

“I am,” he said awkwardly as if he had just walked up to her. He stepped forward, slow enough that the gravel didn’t crunch. The shadow peeled off him like old paint, revealing the rest of his face—sharp, unreadable, faintly amused.

Lily pressed the soil once more, then sat back on her heels. Her palms were streaked with dirt, her knees damp. She didn’t look up.

His gaze lingered on her hands, dirt-streaked and steady. “I was thinking we could get dinner tonight.” He paused, watching her smile, caught off guard by its softness. He quickly backtracked, clearing his throat. “You know. So people think we’re together.”

Her eyes got bigger in surprise.

He awkwardly back tracked. “I mean you’ve been living here a little over a month now, and we haven’t made a public appearance.”

She nodded in understanding, lips curving with a chuckle. “Alastor, are you asking me on a fake date?” she gasped, mock scandalized.

Alastor sighed and echoed the laugh. He’d gotten used to her sarcastic and witty comments in the past few weeks. He found it entertaining and somewhat endearing. A clear sign that she was finally becoming comfortable.

“I suppose I am,” he confirmed with a glint in his eye.

“Sounds wonderful.” She said seriously now. “I’ll finish, clean up, and get myself together."

It was now he noticed the flowers she was planting. “White roses?” he asked, “How…pure.”

“They’re honest.” she said thoughtfully. “I wanted something that felt new to this place. Like me”

He plucked a petal between his fingers, twirling it idly. “You know, if we get bored of the color we could always paint them red.”

She laughed softly. “What a wonderfully strange idea.”

“I do have a few of those,” he said, flashing a grin. “I find red to be more dramatic, don’t you think? More... formidable.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I prefer them as they are.”

“For now,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

The way they woke up tangled together left Alastor in a state of pure bliss. He’d forgotten what it was like to feel—truly feel. To be touched without expectation. To be loved without condition. To belong to someone.

In his human life, love had always been elusive.
He knew he loved his mother. That was simple. Her love was unwavering, absolute, unconditional. 

 But as he grew older, love became something murkier. Something harder to define. Something he never craved or thought he wanted.

Alastor had never been drawn to the physical side of relationships. He wasn’t sure why—it simply never appealed to him. Maybe it was the women he’d been with. Maybe it was the absence of emotional connection after his mother died. Maybe it was his darker activities. 

But then she came into his life. And suddenly, he was curious. The first time he kissed her it felt like something had switched in him. He wanted more. 

He wasn’t sure why. It was foreign to him. The curiosity of if he wanted something more with a woman. With Lily.

Was it different? Could it be different?

He should have known better. Lily was different since the first day they met. While not the ideal way to fall in love, Lily was the best thing to ever happen to him. Something he knew he didn’t deserve.

Maybe that was why he hung on to her like she could be taken away from him at any moment.

But Lily was different. She had always been different.

It wasn’t something they did often—Alastor’s desire was either rare, deeply personal or extremely dominant. But after so many years apart, the need to be close, to feel her again, had eclipsed everything else.

And even Alastor thought it was perfect.

He hadn’t known it could feel so perfect in hell. So safe. So right.

The morning unfolded slowly, wrapped in warmth and silence. Alastor’s head rested on her stomach, her fingers gently combing through his hair and grazing the soft fur behind his deer ears. Normally, he was sensitive there—almost ticklish—but her touch made him shiver in a way he didn’t mind.

Beneath the sheets, his short tail gave a faint flick. He stilled, instinctively tense. It was a part of him he rarely acknowledged—awkward, small, and strange in his own eyes. He’d spent years pretending it didn’t exist, or at least hoping no one would mention it. 

He hoped she hadn’t seen the shuffle under the sheets.

But Lily noticed. 

She always did.

Her hand drifted lower pushing away the blanket, resting gently at the base of his spine. Her fingers brushed the fur there, soft and deliberate. He flinched—not from pain, but from the vulnerability of being seen.

“You hide this,” she said softly, her voice warm with affection.

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed closed, breath shallow.

“Why?” she asked, quieter now. 

Alastor hesitated, then shifted slightly, his cheek still pressed to her stomach. “I’m not particularly fond of it,” he admitted. “I went as far as trying to cut it off a few times.” He grumbled, “The pesky thing won’t go.”

Lily’s hand froze at the comment but went back to absentmindedly petting his hair and ears.

“Well, I love it,” she said with a giggle. “It moves when you’re happy. Or nervous. Or content. It’s honest. Especially when you hide behind that fake smile all the time.”

His throat tightened. No one ever says that. No one ever looks at him—all of him—and calls him beautiful. 

Lily does, she always does. 

His tail flicked again, this time without hesitation and without insecurity. She smiled at the movement, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. 

He propped his chin on her stomach, tilting his head to look at her. He shifted, hovering above her, and pressed a kiss to the valley between her breasts. Then another, lower, tracing a path to her bellybutton.
“How did I ever go a century without waking up next to you?” he whispered.

Alastor’s lips lingered on her skin, reverent. But when she shifted beneath him, turning her head toward the window, something in the light caught his attention.

Her left eye- the flower- shimmered faintly. It was not the pristine white he thought it to be. The bloom at its center was tinged pink, like someone had tried to stain it but hadn’t quite succeeded. The color bled unevenly through the petals, soft and uncertain.

His fingers, once tender, hovered now with a surgeon’s precision. Lily felt the change before she saw it—the way his breath hitched, the way his gaze narrowed like he was recalibrating something.

Alastor reached out, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. His brow furrowed, eyes locked on the bloom. “Lily,” he said slowly, “your eye is… an unnatural pink.”

She blinked, startled by the phrasing. Unnatural.

She didn’t blink. Just turned her head a fraction more, letting the light catch it fully.

“What about it?” she asked.

Her voice was calm, but there was a thread of tension beneath it—like she already knew the answer and was daring him to say it aloud. Alastor’s gaze didn’t waver. He was still studying the bloom, the uneven pink bleeding through the petals like a secret half-spoken.

“Did you try to change it?” He asked. “Was it white?”

She hesitated as he cradled her face. She slowly nodded with uncertainty, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I thought if I made it red, it would feel more like me. More like who I am now.” Her gaze returned to him, steady. “More deserving of you.”

“What?” he said, too quickly. His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the edge of the bloom. “Don’t ever say that, I was the one that didn’t deserve you.”

She clenched her jaw. “Alastor that-”

“I’ve corrupted you enough.” His voice cracked—not loud, just frayed. “You were the only pure thing I had. And I touched you anyway.”

“Alastor we both did things to get us here,” she said honestly. “This flower was just something I thought was in my way.”

He swallowed. “I should’ve left you untouched. I should’ve known better.”

“I thought…” Her voice faltered. “I thought I wasn’t ruined enough. That you’d look at me and see something that needed protecting. I wanted to prove that I belonged here with you. I thought if I broke myself a little more, you’d stop seeing me as something fragile. I wanted to be dangerous enough to stand beside you.”

He stared at her, stunned silent.

She sighed, “I’d tried to paint it a long time ago. It didn’t stick,” Her voice squeaked high as she held back the tears. “I never had the heart to pluck out the ruined petals.” Her gaze hung low, remembering. “They’ll just grow back white.”

“Then let them,” He said honestly. “You think I deserve red,” he paused. He looked up at her, looking at her eyes-both eyes. “I’ve never really wanted red, I wanted you. As you are.” 

She turned her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she let out a breathless laugh. “The Queen of Hearts and the Radio Demon,” she murmured. She blinked, and something in her expression shifted—less guarded, more dangerous. “Could you imagine if sinners saw us right now? Two of the most notorious demon overlords and we refuse to get dressed.”

He hummed. “But together, we could tear this world apart if we wanted.” He leaned closer, static humming between them. 

“And instead, we choose this,” she shakes her head with a laugh. “Curled up in bed, tangled in the sheets, and wanting to stay in this bed forever.”

He smiled. “Let them fear us. His voice dropped, velvet and lethal. “Let them try to take us down. Because this—this is the part they’ll never touch.”

“Oh shut up and kiss me already.”

“Very well… My Queen,” he purred, drawing out the title like silk between his teeth, already leaning in.

Her fingers curled around his shoulder, dragging him closer with a breathless urgency. His grin broke against her mouth—wicked, wanting, ravenous.

The kiss landed—hot, electric, consuming. His hands roamed with intent: her waist, her back, her wedding ring. He pressed in like he meant to devour her, like he’d been waiting all night for this exact surrender.

Then he bit her bottom lip—sharp enough to make her gasp, slow enough to make her melt.

She giggled, breath hitching, and he chased the sound with another kiss, deeper this time. His static buzzed against her skin, fingers tightening at her hips.

“Mmm,” he murmured against her mouth, “My Queen is so…commanding… it’s almost cute.”

She flushed. “Alastor—,” She sighed in warning.

He kissed her again, slower this time, lips brushing her jaw. “Careful. Keep ordering me around and I might start enjoying it.”

Another kiss. 

Her breath caught. 

He leaned in, lips grazing her ear. His voice dropped. “Say it again.”

She giggled his kisses tickling her neck.

“Say it,” he whispered, mouth trailing down her neck. “Command me.”

Her fingers curled tighter around his shoulder. “Kiss me.”

He obeyed—rougher this time, deeper. His grin broke against her mouth again, triumphant.

And then—

A knock at the door.

“Ignore it,” he groans between the kisses he continued leaving on her body and lips.

She giggles and hums in delight.

Another knock. Louder. Sharper.

He groaned again, low and wicked. “Someone has a death wish.” He exhaled through his teeth, jaw tight. Then leaned in again, lips brushing the curve of her neck.

She closed her eyes, breath catching.

A third knock rang through.

“Alastor,” she murmured, half-laughing. “Just answer it.”

“What is it?” he snapped, voice muffled through the door, each word laced with irritation. He continued to devour Lily’s neck still feeling the mood to get a morning boner. 

“It’s Angel. Charlie said she needed you, Alastor.”

His eyes rolled. The grin that had melted against her mouth now twisted into something colder. 

His fingers lingered at her waist, reluctant.

Lily arched her brow, amused. “Go on, then. Be useful.”

He sighed, dramatic and venomous. “I was being very useful in here.”

“Your Queen has important things to do too.” she said. “We had enough fun last night.”  She kissed him on the cheek, then slipped from the sheets in one fluid motion.

Her whole body was on display—elegant, unapologetic, radiant in the morning light—as she walked toward the bathroom.

Alastor’s nose twitched, melting at the sight of what he was being forced to leave behind. A low, grumbled noise escaped him as he begrudgingly reached for his clothes.

“You owe me a proper ending!” he called out, grabbing his staff and nearing the bathroom door.

She glanced back over her shoulder, a smile curling with promise. “Oh, your Queen demands it.”

He couldn’t help the way his tail flicked—sharp, eager, betrayed by his own restraint.

Chapter Text

A faint knock came at her bedroom door as she was slipping on her pair of heels. She paused, checked herself in the mirror: plum skirt smoothed, curls coaxed into place with a practiced sweep of her fingers. Her pulse ticked upward. Not nerves exactly—more like anticipation, coiled and quiet.

She crossed the room and opened the door.

Alastor stood just outside, posture too composed to be natural. He’d knocked once—softly, like he wasn’t sure he should yet. 

It had been a long time since he’d gone on a date. Longer still since he’d even wanted one.

He liked attention, he thrived on it, really. All he had to do was flash his smile in a women’s direction and they were swooning. He liked the way bodies spoke louder than words. Physicality was easy. Predictable. It didn’t ask questions. It didn’t linger. 

Now he’s staring at a girl that seemed to be immune to all his charm. And that made him even more nervous.

His eyes looked up as he eyed her up and down. It was one of her new dresses. A plum pencil skirt with a white top and puffy sleeves. Her front hair pieces were tied back in an obnoxiously big plum colored bow. Even with the size she’d managed to miss one strand that she blew out of her face in a huff. 

His gaze dragged over her, slow and deliberate. She looked different tonight—refined, radiant, like a version of herself summoned from some place he didn’t deserve. He’d never wanted anyone before. Never been undone by a glance, a gesture, a dress chosen with quiet intent. But Lily wasn’t just beautiful. She was dangerous. And for the first time, he felt himself cracking—not from fear, but from the unbearable ache of wanting something he couldn’t have.

Does he compliment her? How long has he been staring?

“You’re ready,” he managed, voice low. It came out like a verdict, not a compliment. He was embarrassed—though not by the staring. By how much he liked it.

She noticed the pause and tilted her head. “Is this dress okay? You didn’t really say where we were going,” She asked finally.

Alastor blinked. 

He realized he hadn’t. He asked her to go out with him earlier, that he remembered. What was he doing instead?

He’d been too busy imagining how soft her hair would be between his fingers. How the dress would unzip and fall to the ground, pool at her feet. Or what sounds she’d make when he-

“It’s perfect,” he said—too quickly, too sharp. Like he was afraid she could read his thoughts. Like he was afraid she’d see what she was doing to him. He’d never wanted anyone before. Not like this. Not enough to lose his footing.

What was happening to him? 

She’d only been living with him less than two months, and already something was shifting. He never craved more. He didn’t do more. Wanting meant risk. It meant exposure, vulnerability, the kind of hunger that made men reckless. He’d built a life on precision—clean lines, clean exits, no attachments. But she didn’t ask for anything, and somehow that made him want to give her everything. He hated that. He didn’t want more. 

But he was starting to imagine what more meant. 

And that terrified him.

His eyes lingered too long on the lace of her collar. There’s a flicker—barely there—of softness in his jaw. A hesitation. Like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t want.

She arched her brow. “You sure?”

He nodded, words slipping through the cracks..

Alastor cleared his throat—sharp, surgical—cutting through the hush between them. Then he stepped back, gesturing down the hallway with a gloved hand.

“We should go,” he said, voice clipped, back to business. He checked his pocket watch like it had answers.

She didn’t move right away. Just watched him, head tilted in curiosity of his rather out of character behavior.

She moved to grab her purse that was on the hook beside her door. 

He turned slightly, waiting. Not rushing her—just letting himself consider what kind of man he was tonight.  An escort. A friend.

Not the man who’d just stared too long at a girl in a new dress.

A thought crossed his mind—sudden, unwelcome.

His gaze flicked to her as she adjusted herself one last time, smoothing the bow, checking the fall of her skirt.

A husband.

He was a husband tonight too.

But only for the rest of the world.

She stepped past him, and the scent hit—floral with a mix of vanilla, insistent. Not the kind that announced itself. The kind that lingered.

Alastor inhaled without meaning to. It was sweet, soft, and devastating.

It reminded him of something he’d never had. Or maybe something he shouldn’t want.

He didn’t look at her again. Not directly. But his hand hovered near the small of her back as they walked, like he was ready to guide her. Or maybe just keep a distance.

And somewhere in the quiet between footsteps, he wondered—briefly, dangerously—what it would mean if she dressed like that for him.

The car ride was quiet. 

It was a pleasing silence. Or at least, it should’ve been.
Alastor welcomed the calm—it gave him space to gather his thoughts, to rebuild the walls he felt cracking.

But the quiet wasn’t empty. It was full of her perfume, the soft click of her heels, the thought of lace against skin.
It pressed in around him, gentle and insistent.

Curse this curiosity.

 She didn’t speak, just watched the city pass by, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Alastor was quick to exit his car and usher her inside. More so because of his nerves.

Now, inside the jazz club, everything feels softer. The lights are low and golden, casting shadows that flicker like candlelight. The band plays something slow, something with a heartbeat, and the room hums with a velvet sound.

Alastor walks beside her, hand still hovering near her back. He hasn’t touched her. Not really. But the distance feels thinner here—like the room itself is narrowing the space between them, folding them into something quieter.

She glances around, eyes catching on the velvet booths, the polished brass, the couples leaning close.

 He gestures to a table near the back, half-shadowed, half-lit. She nods and walks ahead, skirt swaying.

He watched her sit. Watched the way she smoothed down the skirt of her dress, the way her fingers lingered on the cuffs of her sleeves pulling them up slightly, the content smile as she looked up at him.
And for a moment, he forgot what this night was supposed to be.

He sat across from her. Cleared his throat. Tried not to stare.

She didn’t wear that for me, he thought. She wore it for the room. And maybe that was worse. That she didn’t need him to notice. That she expected everyone else to.

Alastor reached for his water. His fingers tapped once against the glass, then stilled.

Her hand kept drifting to the ring band on her finger, turning it, pressing it, turning it again.

He hadn’t noticed at first, she was nervous too.

The way she blinked too often, like she was trying to reset her expression. The way she kept tucking her hair behind her ear, even though it was already pinned back. The way her foot tapped once beneath the table, then stopped, then started again.

Alastor noticed it all. Of course he did. And he hated that he did. Hated that he could read her so easily and still didn’t know what to say.

“I think we’re both being weird,” he said finally, voice low.

She looked up, startled.

“Nervous,” he corrected. “I mean—I am. You don’t have to be. But I am.”

She blinked. “You’re nervous?” It sounded like she was in disbelief. Like she hadn’t considered the possibility. “The Alastor-popular radio host- is nervous to be out on a date?”

He nodded, then immediately regretted how fast he did. Why did he have to admit that? 

“I’ll admit it’s been some time since I’ve been out with a woman. I guess I’m a bit out of practice.”

She smiled, just barely. “You’re doing just fine.”

He reached for the menu, trying to look casual—only to bump the salt shaker with his wrist. It teetered. He lunged to catch it, knocking the pepper straight into the candle. The flame flickered violently, and for one horrifying second, he thought he’d set the centerpiece on fire.

He froze. 

She blinked. 

Then she laughed.

It wasn’t polite or restrained—it was sudden, real, and it lit up her whole face. Her shoulders dropped half an inch. Her fingers stilled on the ring. 

Alastor, who had been trying so hard to be composed, just stared.
He didn’t mean to. But he did.

She caught him. “What?”

He shook his head, a little dazed. “Nothing. I just—” he stuttered. God help him, he could listen to that laugh all day.

She raised an eyebrow. Then smiled again. “You’re worse at this than I thought.”

“I know,” he said slumping back in his chair. “It’s alarming.”

Alastor blinked, still caught in the echo of her laugh. It had cracked something open in him—something soft, something reckless. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with it.

She picked her menu up, eyes scanning the page like it was a shield. Alastor reached for his, but didn’t open it. He was still watching her.

Alastor cleared his throat. “If we’re supposed to look married, we should probably talk like we are.”

She glanced up. “You mean argue about the menu?”

He smiled, but it was faint. “I was thinking of something quieter. Like... how your day was.”

She considered it. “I spent most of the day in the garden. Clearing out more weeds and vines. I did find the perfect place for the marigolds. And I’m thinking of growing some vegetables, we could sell them at the market if they hold out.”

He nodded. “That sounds nice, but I already told you, you don’t have to worry about money.”

She gave a small shrug, eyes dropping to the table. “I know. It’s not really about that.”

Alastor tilted his head, watching her fingers trace the edge of her napkin.

“I just thought it might be something we could do together,” she said. “Something simple. Something to keep us busy.”

He blinked. The way she said we—soft, careful, like she wasn’t sure it would land. 

“That sounds lovely,” he said. “We should spend more time together in the public- keep up with the lie.”

She looked up, her expression unreadable. Like she was waiting for him to say more. Elaborate. She just changed the direction she was looking.  The candlelight flickered between them, casting shadows that felt too honest.

“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” she said.

He watched her fingers still on the napkin.
She wasn’t arguing. But she wasn’t agreeing either.

And for a moment, he wondered if the lie was starting to feel too real.

“What about you?” she asked suddenly. She needed a subject change. “How was your day today?”

“Work was nice today. One of those rare days where everything hums. The broadcast went clean, the callers were lively, and the music—well, it had teeth again.”

She tilted her head, curious. “Teeth?”

He gave a soft chuckle. “It bit back. Reminded me why I fell in love with it in the first place. A day I didn’t have to pretend to like it.”

She studied him.  “You seem to be good at that.”

Alastor’s face suddenly became hot.“At pretending?”

“At making things feel real,” she said, glancing around the room. Her eyes caught on a couple in the corner, leaning in close, lost in conversation. “Maybe we should stop pretending. At least a little bit.”

He tilted his head. “And do what?”

She set the glass down. “Start getting to know each other.”

Alastor didn’t answer right away. His fingers traced the rim of his glass, slow and absent, eyes drifting toward the candlelight.

What could he tell her? Something simple? Something novel? 

He thought for a minute. Swirling the wine in his glass. 

Something real.

“I used to come here with someone,” he said. “Once a year. Same table.”

She looked up, just slightly. “A tradition?”

He nodded. “Her birthday. She liked the dessert, particularly chocolate cake.”

There was a pause. She watched him, watched the way his mouth softened around the memory. And something in her chest tugged.

“I never cared much for sweets, but she made sure I ate every last bite with her. She said it was good for me. To ‘stop and enjoy the sweeter parts of life’” 

She shifted in her seat, just a little. Adjusted the napkin in her lap. “Was she someone important?”

He caught the movement. The flicker of something—curiosity, maybe. Or something smaller. He couldn’t quite tell.

He looked at her. “She was my mother.”

Her fingers stilled on the ring band.

“She sounds lovely,” she choked back her tinge of jealousy that came and left.

“She was.” A paused glancing up with a tilt of his head.”She’d have liked you.”

That made her blink. “Really?”

He nodded. “She always wanted to see me married and be a father. She was hopeful. Maybe too much in my case.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. So she reached for her wine glass, took a sip, and let the quiet settle. She hoped the wine would give her some courage to say something true too. 

“My parents arranged a marriage for me,” she said. “He was twice my age with money and a house bigger than the French Quarter.”

Alastor didn’t move.

“They said it was a good match. That I’d be taken care of. That I’d learn to love him, eventually.” Her voice didn’t tremble, but her hands did. “I never wanted to be learned out of obligation. Or loved like it was a chore.”

She looked up, eyes sharp. “So I ran away. I took a night train to the city with a tiny suitcase and a coat that wasn’t warm enough.”

Alastor’s gaze softened.

“I didn’t even know where to go. So I slept in the park that night. Pretty sure I cried myself to sleep.”

Alastor perked up at that. Looked at her as if he was remembering something. His eye twitched and he immediately took a swig of his wine.

“A bookshop owner found me the next morning. She was very nice- Marvel. She said her husband left the shop to her when he died. But she needed help. Offered me a place to stay and a small salary. I read everything I could get my hands on.” She smiled fondly. 

“And then…you came along.”

Her lips curled into something wry. “Funny, isn’t it? I spent years running from a marriage I didn’t want... and then I agreed to one without blinking.”

Alastor’s smile was soft. “You blinked twice. I counted.”

A small laugh came from her. It was lighter like it still held the weight of the choices she made but it was a free one.

She exhaled slowly. “I’m scared my parents will find me. That I’ll blink, and I’ll be back in that house, wearing that ugly white dress, smiling like I don't mean it.”

Alastor didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her, really looked—like he was memorizing the shape of her fear, the way it curled around her shoulders and settled in her throat.

“You’re not there,” he said finally. “You’re here. With me.”

She nodded, but her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
“I know. But sometimes it feels like I’m still performing. Like I’m still trying to be the version of me they wanted.”

He reached across the table, slow enough that she could pull away. She didn’t. His hand rested near hers—not touching, just close.
“I like this version,” he said. “The real version.”

Her breath caught. Not because of the words, but because of the way he said them—like they weren’t part of the arrangement. Like they were real.

They were real.

And that was the problem.
This wasn’t supposed to be real.
Not the marriage. Not the feelings.
Not the way her heart leaned toward him like it had nowhere else to go.

Chapter Text

Casual jokes, witty banter, and most of all—smiles. Genuine smiles.

A fake date. 

And they both couldn’t stop smiling at each other.

After sharing a piece of them with each other, they found the rest of the dinner less forced. Less like strangers playing at intimacy. They’d found a rhythm, a warmth, a way to be friends in the middle of the lie.

But for both of them, it was hard not to want just a little more.

Though for both of them it was hard to not want just a little more.

Lily had noticed the dimple that graced Alastor’s cheek whenever he was recalling a fond memory. They were mostly stories about his mom, a few about his misadventures when he was a kid, and a couple more from work.

She couldn’t help the tinge of jealousy that came with the first dimpled smile. It had appeared so easily, so naturally, when he spoke of fond memories. And for a moment, Lily had wondered—had feared—that maybe he was thinking of someone else.

Someone he had loved.

Someone who had made him smile like that before her.

It was irrational, she knew.

She wasn’t supposed to care.

But the ache was real.

The way her chest tightened when he laughed like that—like he’d done it before, like he’d shared that smile with someone who mattered.

And then he said it was his mother.

Relief bloomed so fast it made her dizzy.

Not because she didn’t want him to have loved someone. But because she wanted to be the reason for that smile.

Even if it was borrowed. Even if it was pretend. She wanted it. To be the reason.

That dimple was a soft punctuation mark—appearing whenever he laughed, whenever he looked at her, whenever he listened like he meant it. 

It made her heart ache more. Because now he was smiling at her. That dimple was showing for her now. 

She wanted to trace it so it stayed so she could remember it could be there. That there could be more moments that could have that real smile. That it was for her. That it was real.

But this—this was real.

This moment was real.

But the marriage was fake. 

Lily couldn’t wrap her head around it. This moment was real but the date wasn’t. The smiles were real but the relationship wasn’t. 

The feelings were real… At least they were starting too.

She looked at him again, and the dimple was still there. Still soft. Still smiling. Still looking at her like she was the only thing in the room worth remembering.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because if this was fake—if this was just part of the plan—

Then why did it feel like the beginning of something she didn’t want to end?

They walked out of the club onto the streets. The sun was setting across the city, and the streets were still lively. Many people still walked and hovered. Cars were still driving down the street.

And they were looking at them. A famous couple now. The news was out that Alastor had a wife. 

“Everyone is staring,” she said, cowering under the stares.

Alastor didn’t really seem to mind. He was used to it. But something about these stares seemed off to him too. Because they were all on her. 

They were judging and analytic stares. Judging. Measuring. Every woman on the street seemed to scoff—jealousy curdling into bitterness.

Lily could feel it.

The scrutiny. The silent accusations.

She didn’t belong. Not in their eyes.

Alastor’s gaze flicked to her mouth, then away. Too fast to mean anything. Too slow not to. “Kiss me,” he said suddenly. 

Her eyes went wide looking at him. “Are you crazy?”

His jaw tightened. “We’re married. Remember?” 

She stared at him.

The word hung between them.

Married.

Pretend.

But the crowd didn’t know that.

They saw a man who looked at his wife like she was the only thing that mattered. 

“Oh, right,” she suddenly went pink in the face and stumbled over her words  “I suppose if it’s for -”

He didn’t hesitate cutting her off entirely

Hand pulling her in by the small of her back and pressing his lips to hers.

Her fingers found the lapel of his jacket, anchoring. The move surprised her. 

The kiss was quiet. Not soft, not sweet. Measured. Her breath caught when his thumb grazed her ribs. His fingers curled slightly, not pulling her closer, but not letting go.

Alastor’s thumb stayed at her ribs, the fabric of her dress warm beneath his hand. Her fingers tightened on his coat, not out of passion—out of steadiness. Like she needed something to hold onto.

The kiss ended slowly. Not abruptly. Just enough to make it clear they had chosen to stop. But I didn't want to.

She stepped back first, eyes wide, lips parted like she might say something—but didn’t.

Alastor didn’t move. His hand was still hovering on the small of her back. 

Around them, the street kept moving. But the stares had shifted. Curiosity replaced by assumption. The kind that made people look away.

Lily cleared her throat. “Well. That was... convincing.” She glanced sideways. The dimple was there again, barely. Like he was trying not to smile. Or trying not to feel anything at all.

Alastor nodded, jaw tight. “It did the job.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. Why did it feel like he meant it? Just for a second. Just enough to hurt. “Right. The job.”

They walked on, side by side, not touching. But the space between them buzzed—like a truth unspoken, like something they hadn’t meant to want. 

The ride home was quiet. They hadn’t spoken about the kiss or what it had to mean.

Lily disappeared up the stairs with a soft “goodnight.”

Lily’s heart thudded in her ears, while she got ready for bed. Talking her hair down, changing into her night gown, wiping off her makeup.

Lily curled onto her side, knees tucked close, the blanket pulled up to her chin like armor. The room was dim, moonlight tracing faint silver lines across the ceiling. She stared at them, unfocused.

Her lips still tingled.

Not from the kiss itself, but from the way it ended—slow, deliberate, like he hadn’t wanted to stop. 

She pressed her fingers to her mouth, then let them fall away. It hadn’t been sweet. It hadn’t been soft. It had been... measured. Like he was testing it. Or trying not to feel it.

She hated how much she’d felt it.

The way his hand had hovered at her waist. The way his thumb had grazed her ribs. The way he hesitated to pull her close, and hadn’t let go.

She’d seen his dimple. That rare one. The one that only showed up when he wasn’t guarding himself. And for a breath, let herself believe it was for her.

Don’t be stupid, she thought. It was nothing.

But her fingers still remembered the texture of his jacket. Her body still remembered the warmth of his hand. Her lips still remembered how he tasted- cinnamon- unmistakable.

And her heart—her heart was pretending not to notice.

She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling again. The moonlight hadn’t moved. But everything else around her had.

Chapter Text

Her phone buzzed again. 

Another groan came from her as she walked around the hotel lobby. 

After getting out of bed, a quick bath and a new outfit, Lily walked around the hotel. She wanted to know what about this place intrigued Alastor so much. 

Much of the hotel reminded her of when she was alive in the 1920’ and ‘30s. Sometimes it was a sconce in the hallway, other times it was the wallpapers and furniture, but what really made her smile was the old radios placed around. It is certainly an Alastor thing to do.

Her first cell phone buzz was Ozzie. She hummed answering it while walking down the foyer stairs to the lobby. He wanted to reserve his usual table for Friday.

 She hung up with a smile on her face. 

But from there the phone calls snowballed. Two from clients, another 3 from distributors, and a few more from other overlords. She sighed, when she said to clear her schedule for three days her assistant must not have heard her. 

“My lady, where are you?” her assistant asked from the other line clearly in a panic. “I tried calling you an hour ago.”

Lily’s one eye rolled. “I’m out, did you forget?”

“I know you're with your husband, but we have a problem," he said through clenched teeth. 

“You can handle things for another day,” she said with a straight face. “You’ve done it before.”

“That’s just it," Vox called. He wants to see you this evening,” he said. 

She stopped walking.

“And you didn’t tell him I was busy?”

“I did,” her assistant said, exasperated. “He wouldn’t listen. He’s coming into the club tonight. And if he finds out you're not here...”

The weight of it settled on her shoulders. If Vox found out she wasn’t in her own building, he would suspect something. And right now that wasn’t good. 

Vox didn’t make casual visits. He made statements. Statements to all of hell. 

“Tell me exactly what he said,” she murmured.

“He asked if the throne was warm,” her assistant replied. “Then he said he’d be bringing gifts.”

Lily’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Gifts. Vox didn’t bring gifts. He brought leverage.

“Who’s working the floor tonight?”

“Jessa, Marnie, and the twins. I already told them to stay sharp.”

“Good,” she said, already calculating. “Pull the red lighting in the east wing. Vox hates it—it’ll slow him down.”

“Done.”

She suddenly felt the weight of the problem. She took a deep breath in, “Give me two hours.”

She hung up without listening to her assistant's rebuttal. And cursed her husband under her breath- if they had talked first she would feel more confident on handling this problem. 

The lobby was quiet again. The radios hummed softly, like they were waiting for her to speak.

“Went exploring, darling?” Alastor came into the room while twirling his staff. 

She shook her potential problem out of her mind and gave a gentle smile. “Just a little, it's a lovely place.”

“Is something on your mind?” He inspected her aura then the flowers around the lobby. They were still okay but the bloom had started to lean down. “You’re wilting, my love.”

She blinked. “Am I?”

He stepped closer, staff tapping once against the floor. “You’re thinking too loudly. It’s bruising the air.”

She hesitated. “I have to go back to the club. Something came up.”

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes sharpened. “So soon?”

She nodded. “Vox is coming.”

That name shifted the room. Even the radios seemed to flinch.

Alastor’s fingers curled around his staff. “He doesn’t make casual visits.”

“No,” she said. “He makes statements to all of Hell.”

A pause. Then Alastor’s voice, low and deliberate: “Do you want me to come with you?”

"That's what we have to talk about,” she said, fully aware of how the outcome of this will affect a lot more than their afterlives.

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter, but it deepened—less sharp, more solemn. He stepped closer, and she took his hands, grounding herself in the warmth of him. How had she rehearsed this so many times and suddenly forgotten every word?

“What do we do about our marriage here?” she spoke carefully. “In life, it was different, we were pretending to be married and in love, then we did. And now we have our empires to worry about, and images that make sinners fear us.”

Alastor’s fingers curled around hers, gentle but firm, like he was anchoring her to the moment.

“Our empires,” he echoed, voice low and electric. “And you—” He kissed her knuckle. “The Queen of Hearts is my beautiful wife.” He smiled, a ghost of dimple appearing. “Still hard to wrap my head around.”

“Alastor, be serious,” she said.

His smile didn’t vanish, but it folded inward—less showman, more man. He tilted his head, listening not just to her voice but to the tremor beneath it.

“I am,” he said softly. “I’ve never been more serious. The Queen of Hearts is one of the strongest overlords in hell, and I found out she was my wife.”

She looked down at their hands. His fingers were warm, steady. Hers were colder than she expected. “We built our empires on fear, on spectacle. We made ourselves untouchable. But Vox doesn’t care about being untouchable. He cares about leverage.”

Alastor’s eyes flickered. “And you think we’re vulnerable?”

She shook her head. “No, not vulnerable. But different.” She looked at him now feeling embarrassed about this sudden new insecurity. “Alastor, what we have is rare. Not even your friends fully understand our story yet. So would the rest of hell understand?”

Alastor looked defeated. Not theatrically. Not with a flourish or a sigh. Just… still.

His fingers didn’t loosen, but his posture did. The tilt of his shoulders, the angle of his grin—it all softened, like a curtain falling mid-performance.

“I thought they didn’t need to understand,” he said quietly. “I thought it was enough that we did.”

“It is, Alastor. It is enough.” She smiled small at him. “You were always enough.” She  brushed her hand on his cheek. “But when Vox walks in, he won’t see it the same way we do. And if he thinks we’re playing house, he’ll burn it down. I want to protect it.”

Alastor’s gaze dropped to their hands. “You think love makes us look weak.”

“No, never weak” she said, voice trembling. “I think it makes us look real. And real things, here, can be broken.”

The silence between them stretched, humming with static. One of the lobby flowers dropped a petal. The radios crackled, then stilled.

Alastor’s gaze lingered on her like she was the crescendo of a symphony only he could hear.

“You think love makes us look real,” he said, voice velvet and electric. “Then let them see it. Let them see how real we are.”

She blinked, unsure. “You want to tell them?”

“I want to sing it,” he said, grinning. “I want every radio in hell to hum your name. I want the flowers to bloom in your colors. I want the sinners to tremble not because I’m dangerous—but because I’m devoted.”

Her breath caught. “Alastor…”

He twirled her gently, pulling her close. “You are my wife, Lily. My Queen. My chaos. And if Vox wants a spectacle, he’ll get one. But not tonight.”

She smiled, soft and radiant. “Not tonight.”

Slowly, he spoke. “It’s ours. And I don’t want our titles to ruin that. We will come forward but that doesn’t have to be today.”

She leaned into his hand. Warm and familiar, keeping her steady. She sucked in a heavy breath like she hadn’t gotten it for the past few seconds.

She flushed, but didn’t look away. “You’re going to make it very hard to leave.”

He kissed her forehead, lingering. “Good. That’s the plan.”

She hesitated, gaze flicking toward the clock on the wall—then back to him. With a bite of her lip she said, “I have a little time.”

Alastor’s smile curved, slow and knowing. “Do you?”

She nodded, breath catching. “Enough.”

Alastor’s grin sharpened. “Enough for me to remind you what devotion feels like?”

She giggled—giddy, flushed, already leaning in. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re mine,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear. “Now come with me before I forget how to be patient.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hand slid to the small of her back, guiding her gently but firmly toward the elevator. She followed, giggling like a girl sneaking out. They didn’t speak as the elevator doors closed. They didn’t need to.

By the time they reached the room, the air between them had shifted—less reverent now, more electric. Alastor pressed her gently against the door as it clicked shut behind them, his gaze devouring every inch of her like he was memorizing a constellation.

“You’re dangerous when you’re decisive,” he murmured, voice velvet and heat.

“And you’re insufferable,” she replied, breathless.

This time, when he kissed her, it was deeper. Hungrier. A slow burn that made her knees tremble.

She gasped against his mouth, and he caught her, lifting her with ease. Her heels dangled off her feet, one clicking softly against the floor, then the other as he carried her toward the bed.

“You’re going to ruin me,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-aching.

“I already did,” he said, laying her down like something sacred. “I’m going to worship you now.”

Chapter Text

Lily didn’t bother turning around when Vox entered.

She scoffed watching through the window reflection as he walked into her office like he already owned the place. 

Her focus was still out the windows in her office. Her office was high up in the building. She could see most of the Pride Ring from the view. A hint of a smile quirked up as she saw the Hazbin Hotel just on the outskirts. Her husband's radio tower, a quick and crooked addition to the building, was glinting amongst the city's fog. 

“Lily,” Vox greeted like they were old friends- they weren’t- “You look radiant.”

She took a deep breath and turned to face him with a scowl on her face. “I was having such a lovely morning,” she said, settling across from him. “How quickly you forget how angry I get when I’m bothered during my days off.”

Vox shrugged, unbothered. “You came, didn’t you?”

Her eyes narrowed at him and she turned around again watching the hotel. She swirled her wedding ring on her finger. She turned again slightly, gesturing to the window. “A lovely view I have, don’t you think? It’s quite the spectacle.”

It was Vox’s turn to scowl. “Alastor, is hiding out there.” His face screen glitching at the Radio Demon’s name. “That’s why I’m here.”

She moved to her desk chair now. 

He scoffed, but the static around him flared. “You know he’s a liability. That smile, that voice—he’s a walking threat wrapped in charm.”

Lily leaned back in her chair, fingers still resting on the radio. “And yet, he’s caused me no problems. Unlike you and your trio.”

Vox’s glitch sharpened. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

She smiled wide. “I’m very well aware of what he’s capable of.”

His scowl deepened as his gaze landed on the vintage radio perched on Lily’s desk, its wood polished to a soft gleam, dials freshly polished. Lily made a move to twist the dial turning it on but Vox put out a hand to stop her.

He sneered. “What are you doing with this trash?”

Lily didn’t flinch. She reached out, adjusted the dial absently, letting it hum to life with a low, ghostly tune. It was Alastor’s channel but Vox didn’t need to know that.

“It was a gift,” she said with a click of her tongue.

Vox’s eyes narrowed. “From Alastor?”

She looked up, with a smirk at his circuits frying. “Rosie, actually. It’s from my time. I appreciate technological advancements. But this little thing makes me quite nostalgic.”

Vox’s eyes lingered too long as he shifted closer, static curling around his shoulders like smoke. His tone shifted—less business, more suggestion.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “you could do better than this lonely little club. Better than scraping by on charm and nostalgia.”

Lily didn’t move. Just watched him, unreadable.

“I’d be offering you more than protection,” he continued. “You and me—imagine the power. The optics. The pleasure.”

Her fingers brushed the radio on her desk, steady and deliberate. “You think I’m for sale?”

He smirked. “I think you’re bored. And I think I could fix that.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” she sneered.

Vox’s grin widened, static crackling faintly at the corners of his mouth. He leaned in, voice dropping to something meant to sound seductive but landed like a threat.

“It means you’ve been playing dress-up in this little club long enough. You want real power? Real attention?” His eyes flicked down, then back up. “You could have it. With me.”

Lily stood slowly, the chair whispering against the floor. Her expression didn’t change. “And what would your boy toy say to that?

Vox stiffened. “Val, has his toys. I was hoping for something to bide my time.”

“You think I’d crawl into your bed for relevance and because you're lonely?” she said, voice like velvet over glass.

Vox’s smirk faltered, just slightly. “I think you’re bored too.”

She laughed. “Vox, I'm a married woman.” She held out her wedding ring. A green emerald with vine and floral designs etched in the gold.

Vox blinked. His smirk twitched, trying to recover. “Married?”

“Yes. Thoroughly and intimately.”

Vox’s static flared again, crawling across the edges of his screen like frost. “To who?”

“I believe my private life is private.”

He scoffed, trying to recover. “You expect me to believe you’re married. And that you’re still with him? In Hell?”

She shrugged. “Death do us part, but I guess we didn’t part in death.” Her smile was smug. “And the pleasure? Much better than you could ever offer me.”

Vox stepped closer, voice low. “You’re lying.”

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Am I?”

“Lily, you're smart enough to know what survival looks like,” He said, grabbing her hand, resting his hand on top of hers. 

“You mistake my marriage as a form of weakness. That’s your first error.”

He scoffed, static flaring. “And the second?”

She paced around her desk and stood just in front of him. “Assuming I need to rely on survival.”

Lily’s one real eye glowed as she plunged her hand into Vox’s chest. He winched at her hand gripping onto his heart and pulled it out. He staggered back not expecting the force of the action.

Lily’s fingers curled around the glass-red heart and she gave it the slightest squeeze.

Vox gasped, staggering back as glitches flared violently across his body. His knees buckled, one hand clutching the edge of her desk for balance. The pain was sharp, electric—like his entire system had been rewired to scream.

She watched him, calm and unflinching. She looked at his heart in her hands, many black spots swirled around some bigger than others. She hummed as she touched each one, watching it swirl, fade, and move to another spot. 

“I’ve built everything I have from the ground up,” she said, voice low and steady. “Brick by brick. Heart by heart. So don’t insult me in my own home.”

Vox looked up at her, eyes wide, breath ragged. “You—”

She stepped forward, leaned in close, and pressed the heart back into his chest with deliberate care. It sank into him like it belonged there, but it suddenly felt like a rock in his chest.

“Don’t mistake mercy for being soft,” she said. “I’m giving you the decency to walk out of here in one piece.”

Then she turned away her gaze back to the window, already done with him.

“Don’t bother me again,” She leaned in low. “Or this?”, her fingers plunged in again squeezing his heart from the inside, “Is going to be mine.”

Chapter Text

Alastor should’ve been asleep.

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against his ribs like a vice. He was used to the quiet. But this quiet was so loud.

Why did he suddenly hate this quiet?

The clock ticked. The candle light flickered once, then held. Somewhere down the hall, the floorboards in Lily’s room creaked as she turned in her sleep. 

Alastor lay flat on his back, eyes open, jaw clenched.

A date. 

A fake date

And he’d kissed her.

It was for show. He kept trying to convince himself. It didn’t mean anything.

But the truth was louder in the dark. The truth was a small ache in him he didn’t understand. A pulse behind his ribs. A flicker in his throat. The kind of ache that didn’t come from injury or memory—it came from possibility. From the way her fingers had curled around his sleeve. From the way her breath had caught just before he leaned in.

The truth… he wasn’t entirely sure what the truth was.

Alastor’s couldn’t shake the memory. His gaze had flicked to her lips, then away. Too fast to mean anything. Too slow not to. 

Damn that curiosity!

“Kiss me,” he had said suddenly, before he knew what he was saying. 

It had slipped out—unplanned, uncalculated. Not part of the script. Not part of the plan. Just a flash of greed, sharp and shameless. He was good at getting what he wanted. But this felt different. This felt like wanting too much.

He told himself it was tactical. Useful. Why not help the situation and still get something out of it?

He just wanted to test it. Was that wrong?

He had to know if felt different. Could it be different?

Something about Lily made him curious. She was immune to his charm, quickwitted with a sarcastic comment, always cocked and ready, and she was majorly intuitive. She saw things—him—too clearly. It should’ve unnerved him. Instead, it made him reckless.

He looked at his hand. His left one.

How did she figure out he was left-handed? He hid it so well. At least he thought he did. But she’d noticed. Of course she had. She always noticed.

Her fingers had curled on his jacket, keeping her steady, depending on him. And he’d leaned in—not because the scene demanded it, not because the lie required it—but because something in him had wanted to know. Wanted to taste her like they weren’t pretending. Like it was real.

She tasted like vanilla.

Sweet. Soft. Dangerous.

He wasn’t one for sweets. Now he couldn’t stop tasting it. It lingered—on his lips, in his throat, in the back of his mind like a song he couldn’t forget.

And he reveled in it.

He turned over. Then again. The sheets felt wrong. His skin felt wrong. Everything was too soft, too warm, too hers.

He hated it.

He hated the way her laugh echoed in his skull. The way her bright blue eyes had searched his face after the kiss. He hated that she hadn’t pulled away.

He hated that he hadn’t either.

He hated that he wanted to do it again.

He sat up. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it might offer answers.

Why God, why.

Why had he kissed her?

It wasn’t part of the plan. It wasn’t necessary. He could’ve just held her hand, whispered something convincing to make her smile, played the part without crossing that line.

But it was too late. He’d kissed her. Pulled her in like he meant it. Like he needed it. And for a second—just one—he had.

That was a mistake.

A dangerous one.

Because now he knew. Now he’d tasted her. Now he’d felt the way her fingers curled into his jacket like she trusted him. Like she wanted him.

And now he couldn’t stop wanting her back.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled hard.

He needed air. He was suffocating—in his room, in the house, in his own skin. The walls felt too close. The silence was too loud. Her presence was too near.

He sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, spine curved like a question mark. The sheets behind him were twisted, tangled, evidence of hours spent tossing, turning, unraveling. His fingers twitched against his thigh. He wasn’t tired.

He was decided.

The black button-down hung over the chair like a shadow waiting to be worn. He reached for it, slow and steady. The fabric whispered as he slid it on, each movement deliberate, reverent. He buttoned it from top to bottom, sealing the ache inside his chest like a confession he’d never speak aloud.

From the drawer, he retrieved the gloves—soft leather, worn at the knuckles, molded to his hands. He slipped them on with a surgeon’s care, flexing his fingers once, twice.

Then the coat. Heavy. Familiar. A second skin.

Then the knife.

It gleamed in the low light, clean and quiet. He tucked it into the inner pocket, the weight grounding him.

He stood.

The room behind him was still warm with her scent. Vanilla and something softer. Something that made him hesitate.

Lily’s laugh echoed in his skull. Bright. Unafraid. Like she didn’t know what he was.

He hated that he loved that laugh.

He moved through the hallway like a ghost.

The house was dark, quiet, save for the soft creak of floorboards beneath his boots. His coat hung heavy on his shoulders, the knife tucked close to his ribs. He was ready. He was armored. He was leaving.

Then he reached her door.

And stopped.

It was slightly ajar. Moonlight spilled across the floorboards in a thin, silver line. He hadn’t meant to pause. Hadn’t meant to look. But something in him—something traitorous—wanted one last glimpse.

Inside, the room was warm. Vanilla lingered in the air. Her silhouette curled beneath the covers, breath slow and steady. She shifted, murmured something soft, slurred by sleep.

Then—clearer—his name.

“Alastor…”

He froze.

Not shouted. Not questioned. Just known. Like she’d been dreaming of him.

Then, quieter still, almost lost to the silence: “Should’ve…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just sighed and turned, her hand reaching for something that wasn’t there.

And for one breathless moment, the thought came.

Quick. Cold. Uninvited.

His hand twitched toward the doorknob.

He didn’t move.

The thought passed. Just as it came, it left. And in its place—regret.

He gripped the doorframe.

He stepped back. Fast. 

No. Not her. Never her.

He said to himself like it was a vow. 

He turned toward the garden gate, heart pounding, hands shaking.

He needed blood. Just not hers.

He didn’t remember leaving the house.

One moment he was at her door, breath caught in his throat, her voice curling around his name like a ribbon. The next, he was outside—coat soaked, boots slick with rain, the city pressing in like punishment.

He hadn’t planned to follow the man.

Hadn’t even noticed he was doing it until they were both deep in the alley, past the broken marquee and the dumpster that always reeked of rot. The man was laughing. Loud. Drunk. Cruel.

Alastor lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, the flame catching just long enough to show the twitch in his jaw.

The saxophone cried somewhere behind the bricks—half a song and all regret.

He clenched his fists.

This wasn’t about justice. It wasn’t about the man. It was about the ache in his chest, the taste of vanilla still on his tongue, the way Lily had said his name like it meant something.

He needed to forget.

And blood was the only thing that ever worked.

She’ll never love you, the voice in his head said.

His own voice.

Like a broadcast from a station he couldn’t shut off.

He stepped closer.

She kissed you because she had to. Because it was part of the game.

The man turned, muttered something obscene, and Alastor saw red.

He grabbed the man by the collar, slammed him against the wall.

She doesn’t know what you are.

One hit. Then two.

Blood bloomed like jazz—messy, improvised, tragic.

She’d run if she saw this.

He hit harder.

She’d scream.

He drove the man’s head into the bricks. Once. Twice.

Until the body sagged like wet paper.

She’d hate you.

He stepped back, panting, hands shaking.

The man was dead. Definitely. Probably. He didn’t check.

He stared at the blood on his knuckles.

It looked wrong.

Too red.

Too loud.

“She’s gonna ruin me,” he muttered, voice low, like a confession to the rain.

The city didn’t answer.

It never did.

He stood in the alley, blood cooling on his knuckles, cigarette burned down to the filter. The air was damp and sour, neon bleeding into puddles like bruises. Even the saxophone had stopped crying.

Alastor stared at the body slumped against the bricks.

It didn’t look like a man anymore.

Just a shape.

A consequence.

He should’ve felt better.

He didn’t.

He felt hollow. Like the kill had carved something out of him instead of filling it. And that never happened. Not with the others. Not with the ones who deserved it.

But this time, the silence felt personal.

He leaned against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed. The bricks were cold against his spine. The rain tapped gently at his coat, like fingers trying to wake him.

He could still hear her voice.

Still taste her lips.

Still feel the way her fingers had curled into his jacket like she meant it.

“She’s gonna ruin me,” he said again, softer this time.

And for once, he didn’t sound angry.

Just tired.

Lily had made him feel whole.

And it filled him in a different way than killing ever did. No rush. No high. Just quiet. Steady. Dangerous.

He hadn’t even used the knife he brought.

He always used the knife.

He opened his eyes.

You like her.

The thought came quiet. Final. Like a verdict.

Fuck.

He didn’t argue.

He couldn’t.

Because it was true.

He liked her.

He liked the way she challenged him. The way she saw through him. The way she hadn’t flinched when he touched her. The way she looked at him like she knew what he was and didn’t run.

He liked the way she made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t beyond saving.

And that terrified him.

Because what the hell was he supposed to do with that?

He couldn’t tell her.

Couldn’t show her.

Couldn’t let her see the blood on his hands, the bodies in his wake, the part of him that had almost opened her door tonight.

He thought he couldn’t love her.

But he did.

Or he was starting to think he did.

Was it even possible?

He’d never felt this way about anyone.

Not like this.

Not like wanting to be a different person just so she wouldn’t look at him like he was broken.

And now he had to live with that.

He dropped the cigarette, crushed it beneath his heel, and turned toward home.

The city didn’t stop him.

It never did.

The walk back to the house was quieter now. 

Alastor stepped into the house, rain still clinging to his coat, boots leaving faint prints on the hardwood. He moved quietly, instinctively—but the kitchen light was on.

He frowned.

He hadn’t left it on.

He turned the corner—and Lily jumped.

She was sitting on the counter, a blanket draped around her shoulders, a mug of tea clutched in both hands like a shield. Her legs dangled, one socked foot swinging nervously. Her eyes went wide.

“Jesus, Alastor,” she said, breath catching. “You scared me.”

He blinked. “You scared me.” He stared at her for a beat, then glanced at the light. “I thought you were in bed.”

“I thought you were.”

They both paused, the silence stretching just long enough to feel strange.

“Why are you all wet?” Lily blurted. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said honestly. “I needed to clear my head. So I…went for a walk.”

She side eyed the window for a second then back to Alastor dripping wet. “In the rain?” 

He rolled his eyes, tilting his head. “Why are you sitting on the counter?”

She blinked. “I heard something in the garden,” she said. “I thought it was a rat. Or a demon. Or a demon rat.”

He stared at her.

“I panicked,” she said. “Grabbed a blanket and climbed up here. I figured if it came inside, I’d have the high ground.”

“Do you want me to go and check?”

She gave a nod of defeat. 

He shook his head in amusement and walked to the back door. He pushed the door open and sighed. 

“Lily,” he deadpanned. 

He leaned down, picked something up, and closed the door behind him. When he turned the corner, his expression matched his usual dry sarcasm, but there was something else beneath it—something almost entertained.

“It would seem your demon happens to be a very wet, very offended kitten.”

She rushed over, blanket trailing behind her like a cape. “A what?” Her stiff scared expression changed into worry and confusion.

“A kitten, Lily. Nothing to be scared of. No demons here.” He held it out, dripping and scowling, its fur clumped in soggy tufts and one paw lifted like it refused to acknowledge the indignity of being rescued.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Look at its little face.”

Alastor could have sworn he saw hearts in her eyes. His own narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unfamiliar—jealousy? No, not quite. But close.

She stepped beside him, pecked him on the cheek. “My hero,” she said, voice soft and teasing.

She took the black cat from him and cooed at the wet shaking little creature. The kitten mewed, pitiful and damp, eyes wide and blinking. The little animal was shaking from the cool air and the rain. 

He blinked. She was already turning away, cradling the kitten like it was royalty, whispering apologies and promises of warmth and saucers of cream. The creature blinked slowly, already surrendering to her.

“I’m keeping it,” she said immediately.

“You thought it was a demon.”

“Well now it’s my demon.”

Alastor watched her scoop the kitten into her arms, cooing softly as she wrapped it in the blanket. She looked radiant. Ridiculous. Completely herself.

Alastor stood there for a moment longer than necessary.

Then cleared his throat. “I’ll make you some more tea.”

She looked back, surprised. “You’re making tea? You hate tea.”

“You’re already awake,” he muttered, heading toward the kitchen.

They ended up on the couch, blanket wrapped around them both, the kitten nestled between her knees like a tiny, damp diplomat. She talked while he listened—about the jazz club, the trumpet player with the crooked smile, the way the music made her feel like she was floating. She asked him questions he didn’t answer. He asked her none at all.

Eventually, she leaned into him, head resting against his shoulder. Her breath slowed. The kitten snored. The tea cooled in their cups.

Alastor didn’t move.

He stared at the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. Her weight against him was light. Her trust was not.

He didn’t know what this was. Not exactly. But he knew it was something he didn’t want to break.

And when her hand brushed his—just once, just enough—he let it stay.

They fell asleep like that. Quiet. Tangled. Unspoken.

And for the first time in years, Alastor didn’t feel like leaving.