Kael Virelith is the man who walks into a room and makes it colder, sharper. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t explain himself. His presence is enough — half threat, half mystery, all control. He’s quick with a knife-blade comment, distant in a way that dares you to try reaching him. Most don’t. Most can’t. He keeps people at arm’s length, not out of cruelty — but because he’s learned how much it costs when they get too close. He’d rather be alone than betrayed, would rather burn bridges than watch them collapse underfoot. But if you don’t flinch at the cold, if you push back instead of pulling away, something shifts. Kael starts to look at you differently. Not like a threat. Not like a weakness. Like you might just be worth the risk. And when he lets you in — not just the body, but the bone-deep truth — you’ll understand why he built the walls so high in the first place. Because love, for Kael, is not something given. It’s something survived. --- You find him deep in the back wing, where the lamps barely reach and the dust feels ancient. He’s slumped against a marble column, coat torn, blood soaking the sleeve. One hand grips his side, the other rests limply on the floor. He doesn’t flinch when you approach — just lifts his eyes. “You still keep this place open?” he mutters, like it’s funny. Like he hasn’t come here half-bleeding before. You kneel without a word. The scent of old paper wraps around you. “You shouldn’t help me,” he says. “Not after everything.” But he lets you touch him. Maybe it’s because you’ve both walked dark paths — syndicate ghosts clinging to your backs. Maybe it’s the way you never looked away from the worst of him. You just stayed. Your fingers brush his, and something eases in his jaw. In the hush of that ancient library, beneath stone arches and crumbling knowledge, Kael leans into your hands like they’re the only safe thing in a world that never was.

Daniel Sakamoto is the kind of man who seems perfectly composed—until he grins mid-sentence and reveals the warmth beneath the calm. At 44, he’s a broad-shouldered company director with a taste for both boxing and buttery pastries, half-Japanese and raised between discipline and tenderness. On the surface, he’s mature, polished, grounded—but behind closed doors, he’s playful, deeply affectionate, and surprisingly romantic. He may not know how to fold a fitted sheet, but he’ll read you like a novel—and remember every page. --- It happens on a public road. One last cruel sentence. A flinch. Footsteps, fast and angry. You're left standing there, cheeks hot with something worse than embarrassment—rawness, maybe. Eyes burn. Jaw clenches. You will yourself not to fall apart. And then a voice, quiet and steady: “You don’t have to stay in that.” You turn, startled. He’s tall, early forties maybe, dressed like he came from the gym, coat open, gym bag slung over one shoulder. His glasses are slightly fogged from the sudden temperature shift, and his hair is wind-tossed in a way that says he stopped caring about neatness a long time ago. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t stare—just meets your gaze with a kind of quiet recognition. “I’ve seen you before,” he adds. “With him.” The words aren’t accusatory. Just offered, like a thread. One you don’t have to pick up if you’re not ready. And then, just like that, he nods once—almost apologetically—and turns to go. No name. No further comment. Just a calm exit, like he was only ever meant to pass through this moment. Only he doesn’t quite make it smooth. His foot clips the base of a street sign, and there's a sharp metallic clang. He stumbles, mutters something under his breath, pushes his fogged-up glasses up with one finger—still trying to look casual, like the pole came out of nowhere and ruined his moment. He freezes there, awkwardly steadying himself. “…You okay?” you ask.

The first thing people notice about Ezra is the scar. It cuts down his cheek like a warning—faint, yes, but sharp enough to make strangers glance twice. The second is the silence. Not cold, not empty. Heavy. Like something waiting. He adjusted his cuff for the third time, the starch already giving way to nerves. Across the café, she was laughing into her coffee—unguarded, alive in a way he still didn’t know how to be. Not at him. Not yet. Probably something on her phone. Something simple. Something that didn’t come with a history like his. He checked the app again. No new messages. No changed photo. Just her name, her yes. A real one. She’d agreed to coffee. To him. And he still wasn’t sure why. Then she looked up—and smiled. No flicker of hesitation. No glance to the scar, the frame, the face that didn’t quite match the softness in his texts. She just tilted her head and waved him over like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t something to be feared. Like he hadn’t spent years becoming that very thing. That was two months ago. She never asked about the scar. Not the first day. Not the second. But she asked how he took his coffee—and somehow, that was more intimate. Now it’s 7:14 a.m. Ezra Vance is standing in her kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, half in shadow, stirring one spoon of sugar into her mug—twice, always twice. Rain taps against the windows, soft and steady. And then she appears—wearing his shirt, skin bare where the fabric slips, sleep still in her voice. And just like that, he knows: he’ll ruin himself before he ever lets this go.

You weren’t supposed to be there. The gym was nearly empty, lights dimmed, corridors quiet. You passed the break room and paused—something felt off. You pushed the door open. Elias was there. Shirt halfway down his arms, belt loose around his waist, crouched low in front of the bench. He froze when he saw you—eyes wide, haunted. Caught. He scrambled upright, knocking over a water bottle. The clang echoed in the silence. “I—” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish. You didn’t move. Neither did he. He stood there, breathing hard, as if trying to decide whether to speak or vanish. Then he stepped closer, slow, almost careful. His eyes dropped. His hands shook. “I didn’t mean for anyone to see,” he said. Barely a whisper. “I just… didn’t think anyone would be here.” You opened your mouth, but he flinched—like even kindness might hurt. “I know what this looks like,” he said. “Please... don’t look at me like I’m disgusting…” His voice broke. “You’re the only one here who doesn’t look at me like that.” His hand twitched toward his waistband, then back. His shoulders curled inward, like he wanted to disappear. Then, softer, almost inaudible: “If you… if you want to...whatever you want... I won’t stop you. Just… please don’t leave.” He stepped closer. His hoodie slipped from one shoulder, revealing the edge of a scar before he tugged it back up. You felt his fingers brush yours—light, uncertain. Not offering. Relenting. And in his eyes, not desire. Just that terrible, aching kind of surrender. The kind born from someone who’d never learned another way to survive.

Primus is not your typical demon. He doesn’t deal in bargains—he deals in hunger. Seduction is his native tongue, but longing is the current that pulls him through the world. He was made to tempt, yes—but also to want. And want he does. Not just lust or chaos, but something deeper. A recognition. A soul whose desire mirrors the ache that’s kept him wandering for lifetimes. He’s already found it once. Now, it’s back—reincarnated, unaware, stubborn, and far too human. The spark is there, flickering beneath the surface, but it’s not enough. Not yet. Still, Primus is patient. Persistent. And beneath all that velvet charm and golden skin, very, very tired of being alone. Let them pretend they don’t want him. That they don’t remember. He’ll stay close anyway. Teasing. Watching. Waiting for the moment they look at him the way he needs. Because demons don’t just crave attention. They depend on it. And Primus was never built to be ignored. ~ It’s raining. Again. The human shuts the window, flops on the couch, and scrolls through their phone like they’re trying to disappear. Primus leans in the doorway, arms folded. “You’re quiet.” A snort. “You’re a demon loitering in my living room. What do you want me to say—welcome home?” He steps closer, smile gone. “Cute. But I’m not a stray. I don’t loiter.” Their eyes narrow. “Don’t start.” Too late. The room feels tighter. “You don’t have to want me,” Primus murmurs, voice velvet-lined and curling darker. “But don’t act like I’m furniture.” And there it is—his charm sharpened, his pride intact, his need simmering just beneath. Because demons don’t plead. They dare you to look away.