The old demon lady’s claws snapped shut around Luka’s wrists with startling speed.

  “Stop,” she hissed.

  Not loud—but sharp, urgent, cutting clean through the marketplace noise. Her grip was firm despite her hunched frame, claws cool and unyielding against Luka’s skin. He gasped softly in surprise, turquoise eyes widening as he froze mid-motion, a charm bracelet dangling uselessly between his fingers.

  “I—I’m sorry,” he said immediately, words tumbling over one another. “Did I do it wrong? I was just trying to—”

  “Don’t,” she snapped, leaning closer, her breath hot and spiced. “Help. Not here.”

  Luka blinked at her, confused. His brows knit together in that earnest, helpless way that made him look younger than he was, softer than anything had a right to be in Hell. “Oh,” he said quietly. “I can stop if you want. I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”

  That, somehow, made her look worse.

  Her eyes flicked up and around them, scanning the market with sharp, practiced paranoia. The crowd had shifted—not dramatically, not openly—but the air had changed. Demons lingered longer than necessary. Conversations dipped just enough to listen. Too many eyes tracked Luka’s every small movement, every glint of gold, every soft line of his body that did not belong here.

  The old demon lady clicked her tongue under her breath.

  “Idiot child,” she muttered—not unkindly, but not gently either.

  Before Luka could ask what she meant, her grip tightened once, claws biting just enough to keep him still. “Hold on,” she said.

  “Hold on to what—?” Luka began.

  The world folded.

  There was no flash of light, no dramatic tearing of space—just a sudden, stomach-lurching sensation like stepping off a stair that wasn’t there. Luka yelped, instinctively clutching at the demon lady as the marketplace vanished around them.

  They reappeared in silence.

  Luka staggered slightly, silk swaying as he found himself standing on warped wooden floorboards that creaked ominously beneath his bare feet. The air here was cooler, tinged with dust and old smoke and something herbal he couldn’t place. He looked around slowly, curls bouncing as his gaze took in their surroundings.

  The house was… small. Crooked. Built from dark, weathered wood that leaned at angles suggesting it had given up on symmetry centuries ago. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with jars, bones, books missing spines, and trinkets Luka recognised vaguely from the market. There was a small kitchen filled with matte pink teacups that were faded with age, a simple living room with rickety chairs around a coffee table and a narrow corridor leading into what Luka assumed to be the bedrooms. A single window let in dull red light from the infernal sky, filtered through grime and cracked glass.

  “Wow,” Luka breathed, genuine awe colouring his voice. “You live here?”

  The old demon lady released his wrists and shut the door with a sharp kick, muttering to herself. “Unfortunately.”

  She turned to face him properly for the first time.

  Luka stood there, still clutching the last charm bracelet he’d picked up, silk clinging to his body in a way that made him look sculpted rather than dressed. Gold gleamed against his bronzed skin—anklets, bracelets, collar—catching the low light with every small movement. His curls framed his face in soft disarray, eyes bright and impossibly clear, like gemstones that had never known dirt.

  He looked like art that had wandered into a storage shed.

  The demon lady squinted at him.

  “…You don’t have a place to stay,” she said flatly.

  Luka hesitated. Just a fraction. “Not currently,” he admitted carefully.

  “Hmph.” She waved a clawed hand dismissively. “Figures.”

  She moved past him, bustling deeper into the house, already acting as though he were part of the furniture. “You can stay here. There’s a cot in the back room. Don’t touch my things. Don’t rearrange anything. Don’t invite anyone. And don’t—” she stopped, turned, and jabbed a claw toward his chest, “—do that helping nonsense again.”

  Luka stared at her.

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  “You’re… offering me a home?” he asked softly, disbelief threaded through his voice.

  She snorted. “I’m clearing a debt.”

  “Oh.” He paused, then smiled, radiant and relieved in a way that made the room feel suddenly too small. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

  She grimaced like she’d bitten into something sour.

  “Sit,” she ordered, pointing at a rickety chair.

  Luka obeyed immediately, folding himself into it with careful grace, hands resting neatly in his lap. The chair creaked ominously beneath him but held. Barely.

  The demon lady circled him slowly, eyes sharp, taking in every detail. She tugged his chin up without warning, forcing him to meet her gaze.

  “No horns,” she muttered. “No fangs. No rot. No stink of brimstone.”

  She tapped his gold collar. “This isn’t binding magic.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “You’re not from here.”

  "I... travelled. From a place very far away," Luka elaborated, silently berating his fingers for fidgeting.

  "Where?"

  "You wouldn't know it."

  "Obviously," the old lady sighed. "I don't suppose you'll tell me the truth?"

  Luka wanted to say yes, that he wasn't going to tell the truth, but then he'd be admitting to lying. And lying to a woman who had just given him a temporary home did not seem like a very good idea. Luka merely stayed silent, which he hoped was the right move.

  The old demon lady stared at Luka like he had personally offended the concept of survival.

  She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stood there, hunched and sharp-eyed, claws flexing slowly at her sides while Luka sat obediently on the creaking chair, ankles together, hands folded in his lap, silk and gold catching the low light like he’d wandered into the wrong genre entirely. The house was quiet except for the kettle beginning to scream in the corner, which neither of them acknowledged.

  “You’re staying,” she said at last, not kindly, not unkindly—simply stating a fact as if the universe had already decided and she was too tired to argue with it. “That clears the debt. Temporary. Don’t get ideas.”

  “Oh,” Luka said, visibly relieved. “Thank you.”

  She grimaced at his tone like gratitude physically pained her and turned away, snatching the kettle off the heat and pouring something dark and aggressively scented into two mismatched cups. One had a crack down the side. The other appeared to be held together by spite alone. She shoved one toward him without ceremony.

  “Drink,” she ordered. “If it kills you, that’s unfortunate but educational.”

  She sat opposite him, elbows on the table, and finally seemed to properly look at him. Not just the obvious—the silk clinging to him like it was in love, the gold adorning him like he’d been dipped in wealth, the soft glow of his skin that made the dim room feel underlit by comparison—but the way he sat so politely in a chair that had never known manners, smiling like he wasn’t in the home of someone who could turn him inside out for fun.

  “Ground rules,” she said.

  Luka straightened even more. It was unclear how that was physically possible. “Okay!”

  She squinted. “Do not say that word like that.”

  “Sorry,” Luka said, immediately chastened.

  “First question,” she continued. “Can you cook?”

  “Yes.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “That was too fast.”

  “I enjoy cooking,” Luka elaborated helpfully. “It helps me relax. I find repetitive tasks very soothing.”

  Her lips thinned. “Figures. Clean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Properly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without crying about it?”

  “I only cry when I’m overwhelmed or when something is very beautiful,” Luka said. Then, after a pause, “Sometimes soup.”

  She stared at him.

  “…Read and write?” she asked carefully, like she was bracing for disappointment.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you read.”

  Luka smiled, soft and fond, like she’d asked him about a beloved friend. “Shakespeare.”

  The cup froze halfway to her mouth.

  “The mortal playwright,” she said slowly.

  “Yes,” Luka confirmed. “He’s very good at emotions. I like the ones where everything goes wrong. They feel honest.”

  She put the cup down.

  “And you can write.”

  “Yes. My handwriting is very neat. Cassiel used to compliment it.”

  “Who in the name of Satan is—”

  “A colleague.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaled deeply, then exhaled like she was releasing several centuries of bad decisions.

  “So,” she said, looking him up and down again, lingering this time on the ridiculous perfection of his face, the curve of his mouth, the way even sitting still he looked like something carved for admiration. “You’re telling me you can cook, clean, read dead mortals, write beautifully, and you look like that.”

  Luka flushed faintly. “I didn’t choose the looking part.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” she muttered. “No one ever does.”

  She stood abruptly and began pacing the room, muttering to herself. “Unbelievable. Drop-dead gorgeous, painfully polite, competent, and wandering around Hell like a lost lamb dipped in honey—”

  “I can be less sweet,” Luka offered quietly. “If that helps.”

  She stopped dead and pointed at him. “Do not attempt to adjust your personality. That only makes things worse.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  She resumed pacing. “Fine. You stay. You help around the house. You do not go wandering. You do not assist strangers. You do not make eye contact with anyone who smiles too much.”

  Luka nodded seriously, committing every word to memory.

  “And,” she added, turning back to him, “you will call me by my name.”

  “Oh,” Luka said politely. “What is it?”

  She hesitated. Just a fraction.

  “…Jahima,” she said. “Retired sorceress. Former consultant. Still smarter than everyone I’ve ever worked with.”

  "Who did you work with?" Luka asked, his signature I-look-like-a-lost-and-curious-puppy-so-please-tell-me look fully activated.

  "I worked in the King's palace for a while. He needed a real demon to talk to, not those boot-licking idiots he kept in his court. Anyway. I retired. Then my useless nephew gambled away my savings, my backup savings, and my emergency cursed artefact fund, so now I live here. I do not wish to speak on the matter anymore, so act like I said nothing."

  Luka flashed her a small smile. “It’s very nice to meet you, Jahima.”

  She watched his smile land on her like an unexpected blessing and scowled immediately.

  “Don’t do that,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Look grateful.”

  “I am grateful.”

  “Stop it.”

  Luka nodded, then failed instantly by smiling again, softer this time, radiant in a way that made the crooked little house feel temporarily blessed.

  Jahima stared at him, long and hard.

  “…Gods help me,” she muttered. “I’ve taken in a beautiful idiot.”