"Do you think you will be okay for the rest of the night?" Alastor asked, lovingly tucking a bit of (H/C) hair behind your ear.

He was gazing deep into your eyes, his face at a very close proximity to yours. The two of you were standing now, still in the guest bedroom that Alastor had you staying in. You had stopped crying a while ago, but now your eyes were painfully dry and you felt even more tired than before. Yawning, you shook your head slightly, keeping your arms crossed over your chest.

"No?" he questioned.

"No," you clarified, returning his gaze. "Can I sleep with you tonight?"

"Of course you can," he said as if it was obvious, a goofy smile showing off his sharp teeth. "How could I ever say no to a beautiful face like yours?"

You giggled sleepily—the slap-happy feeling that comes with staying up late was making you drunk with laughter. "Shut your face hole, I'm not beautiful."

"Yes, you are."

"No," you insisted, pressing your pointer finger against his lips to stop his words from being said. "Shush. Stop lying. I don't like lies."

Alastor grabbed your wrist and pulled it away from his mouth, but not roughly. "I am not lying to you," he said, his voice unusually serious. "You are beautiful."

You snickered, rolling your eyes. "Stop."

"(Y/N)."

You waited.

"You are the most gorgeous person I have ever seen."

You bit the inside of your lip, but stayed silent.

"And it's not just your looks," he added. Both of his hands were on your hips now, pulling you closer ever-so-slightly. "It's your heart. The amount of willpower that you have in there is extraordinary."

Your palms found his chest, resting there lightly and not at all pushing him away. You would never want to push him away.

"Your voice is perfect, too. It is absolutely ravishing, like a chorus of angels singing," he told your eyes. Something desperate had taken over his face. "You don't belong in hell, (Y/N). You don't belong in my arms. You belong up there, with all the other angels." He pointed up at the ceiling with one finger before quickly returning it to the small of your back.

"Shut up. I don't want to be with the angels."

"Why not?"

You swallowed; a rock had formed in your throat. All of the laughter that had just shaken your chest was gone. His words were making you emotional again, even though you didn't want to cry anymore, because at that moment—as his hands continued to coil tighter and tighter around your figure, as your hands dipped lower and lower on his chest, as you stared up at his glistening red eyes—you realized something terrible.

You were falling in love with him.

"Because you wouldn't be there with me," you whispered.

He silenced, his glare not so much as daring to flicker. He was still smiling, but for a second, just a split second, something achingly sad passed over his face. The second was over in a heartbeat, and he was back to radiating his usual joy.

"Let's get you to bed, Cupcake," he said. Before you could insert anything else, he leaned down and scooped you up into his arms bridal-style. You yelped, shocked by the sudden movement, but were quickly overtaken with hysteria as he carried you into the hall, your tired, careless feeling returning.

He nudged his bedroom door agape with the tip of his foot (it hadn't been all the way closed in the first place, so he didn't need to turn the doorknob to get it open). Darkness engulfed your vision as Alastor carried you inside. He somehow found his bed through the lightless room and placed you on top. You kept your eyes open, even though you could see nothing, as he took a blanket from somewhere near your feet and pulled it over you.

Then he was gone, and all you could hear were his footsteps as he walked around to the other side of the bed and settled in beside you.

For a moment, nothing happened. You didn't touch him and he didn't touch you.

But then the blankets started to shift and suddenly his arms were around you, dragging you towards him. You were too tired to really realize what was happening, but somehow your legs intertwined with his, and at some point, his lips collided with yours. Every part of his body was pressed against yours, and his hands searched your skin as if they were trying to find something.

Sooner or later, you fell asleep, tangled in the blankets and Alastor's grasp.

☆

There was something entrancingly blissful about waking up in Alastor's bed.

Of course, the events of last night had not slipped past your conscious memory, but the bad details of your nightmare had mostly faded away after so much sleep. If you thought hard enough, you could still make out hazy images of the puddled blood and the cramped forest. Most importantly, you could still make out the smells. You've never experienced a dream where you could actually smell something. It really was a strange experience, to say the least.

Breathing in, you could nearly taste the dirt and moon-soaked grass—the fake cinnamon and the coppery blood as the scents remained in your mind.

What seemed slightly fresher in your memory included all of the good parts of the night, like when Alastor comforted you after you first woke up, the way his eyes stared into yours like he was actually seeing you, and when he lifted you off your feet and took you to his bed like you were a little girl.

Nate had never looked at you the way Alastor did. Nate had loved you, that was an unquestionable fact, but Alastor was just... different.

Detaching from your thoughts, you yawned and rolled over under the covers, rubbing your bare legs together like a cricket. Cozy warm air drifted restfully throughout the room, completely devoid of all sound. You turned your head to glance at the bed beside you, expecting to see Alastor, but instead saw nothing but empty space, a fluffy gray pillow in the place where his head should have been.

You sat up with a frown, gazing around the room for any sign of the demon. He was nowhere in sight.

Now that it wasn't pitch-black, you could see many details of the room that you hadn't noticed the night before. Murky red light soaked the homey bedroom with a subtle pinkish hue, but it was not overly bright. Dark brown curtains had been drawn over the two massive windows on either side of the bed—which was absurdly large, especially considering the fact that Alastor lived and probably slept alone. A caramel colored, double-stitched cotton quilt rested over the bed, and you kicked it aside before swinging your legs up and over the side of the bed.

Just as you were about to stand up, something to your right caught your eye—a glint of stark white in the sea of brown and pink.

Upon further examination, you saw the bunch of white silky cloth folded on top of the nightstand, seated beautifully beside a stout tan lamp. Atop the clothing was a folded note; it looked just like the one Alastor left you when you were showering, folded like a little yellow tent. You snatched up the bit of paper and opened it, a little spark of excitement bubbling up in your gut as you did so.

Cupcake,
I have left a dress here
for you. Feel free
to wear it. I think you
will look good in white.
Breakfast is downstairs

Love, Al

There was a little heart drawn in beside your name, and another next to his name. You noticed that he had signed it as Al instead of Alastor, which was something new.

You quickly took off your shirt and slipped into the dress. It ended right below your knees, which was a little longer than you were used to, but to compensate, it had a slit cut out of the dress from the waist down, exposing a slice of your leg. There was also a plunging v-neckline that tied up behind your head with two thin straps.

Imagine this:

Running your palms down the front of the dress, you grinned to yourself. Alastor was such a sweetheart, giving you all of these nice clothes and such. You hadn't even had a chance to really wear your jeans from yesterday and he was already gifting you with a new outfit.

Such a sweetheart.

Glancing in the mirror—it just so happened to be leaning against the wall right next to Alastor's dresser—you hastily raked your fingers though your hair in an effort to shake out your disaster of a bedhead. Once it looked decent, you smelled your breath—Oh God, you thought, cringing, I really need to brush my teeth—and touched your dress once more before leaving.

Feet bare, you walked downstairs and into the dinning room, where Alastor had set the table with bits of china and shining silverware. He was in the midst of arranging a plate of pancakes on the table when you approached him.

"Hi."

Alastor immediately stopped what he was doing to look up at you.

And you could swear, in that moment—the second his vibrant eyes fell upon your white-clad self—the most relieved expression melted over his face.

"Good morning!" he replied merrily. Instead of saying anything else, he walked right up to you, cupped your face in his hands, leaned down, and planted a kiss right on your lips. When he pulled away, his face looked even happier (which you didn't even think was possible). "You look stunning."

"Thank you, Al," you teased with a light-hearted laugh. "But, actually. Thank you for the dress. And the constant complements."

Alastor kissed you again, not lacking any of the previous emotion. "What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't shower you in complements and pretty clothes?"

"A normal one."

Alastor shook his head. "Well, you're out of luck there, sweetheart. I'm nowhere near normal."

"And that's exactly what I like about you most." That statement was true. You poked him gently in the center of his chest. He was wearing a long red coat, burgundy slacks, and a matching bowtie—an outfit that was similar to the one he wore the first time you met him.

Alastor shook his head as if he was dismissing your comment. He then gestured towards the array of food with one hand, keeping the other on your cheek. "Hungry?"

"Always."