Beel's Dessert

Drinks

magick hot cocoa — @leodrune

heal your heart tea — @dumbass-mothcraft

energy boost tea — @mercurys-daughter

energizing tea — @witchy-studies

headache relief — @themanicnami

cleansing potion — @themanicnami

calm and happy tea — @the-starlight-witches

quincy's golden milk tea — @this-possum-cries

new years manifestation tea blend — @infernalwitxhcraft

dandelion dreams tea — @little-witchys-garden

healing apple cider [upg] — @thatdruidgal

samhain cider — @starsofdarknebula

samhain tea — @starsofdarknebula

good night lavender tea — @thecactuswitch

yule spell in a mug — @fairy-magick

Foods

lughnasadh herb bread -- outside source

litha orange honey cake -- @gardenfoxywitch

rosemary-honey shortbread -- outside source

enchanting flower and herb spread -- outside source

lavender earl grey cookies -- @coinandcandle

cozy butternut squash winter soup -- @kitchenwitchtingss

homemade butter thins crackers -- outside source

fire cider chutney soup [upg] -- @thatdruidgal

Remedies

fire cider -- outside source

four thieves vinegar -- outside source

Infusions

herb-infused oil -- outside source

rose oil -- outside source

pine needle spray -- outside source

cleansing spray -- @tears-of-amber

florida water cologne -- outside source

Misc

incense -- @magnoliawitchcraft

autumn incense -- outside source

cleansing salt — @theaetherwitch

Original post here

Like what you see? Consider supporting me! ko-fi.com/thatdruidgal

after that, he wasn't too interested in those drunken debates anymore, laughing in earnest when asked – who is the most beautiful in mondstadt? sometimes he says rosaria just to tease her when she's around, other times, he says barbatos for the heck of it.

"fools, all of you!" varka slams his pint of dandelion wine down the table, brows furrowed in irritation, "my wife is the sweetest and most beautiful lady there is! how blind can you be to suggest anyone else?" his voice booms all throughout the tavern, making people turn their heads.

"u-uh but grandmaster, let's be realistic here, you—"

the poor guy is now being glared at by the grandmaster of mondstadt, a living legend, a knight recognized by the great wolf boreas and the anemo archon – a smitten, wife-loving, hunk of a man who's willing to forgo all dignity in order to defend his wife's honor.

varka clicks his tongue, and it quickly shuts the soldier up, knowing who he's against but it's too late to stop when varka suddenly speaks up again:

"realistic, you say? you sayin' my wife ain't gorgeous, that it?"

older, veteran soldiers are now looking at the new recruit with pity in their eyes. they've known their grandmaster for years, have fought alongside him, and are even willing to lay their lives for him, so if they know one thing about varka, it's that you never speak negatively about his wife. don't even dare imply it.

a loyal dog may bark but a smitten one will bite.

"that's not it, sir!" the young soldier quickly tries to make amends, stuttering in the process but the only response he got was a small huff from varka.

the other soldiers circle around their table, snickering to each other, "now, now, you know your wife is never included in these kinda' stuff. we wouldn't dare speak of the grandmaster's beloved that way."

"damn right, she's above these petty discussions! AHAHAHAHA!"

he's actually hopeless when it comes to you.

a truly unorthodox man, he is. hard to understand but terrifyingly easy to trust and admire. adored by many despite his ruffian-like demeanor. a slacker yet somehow the most reliable knight there is in the people's eyes. a person of contrasting qualities.

varka of mondstadt is said to be a 'man amongst men', chivalry comes to him like second nature and his list of admirers could fill the favonius library's record book, literally.

but they're in tough luck, the grandmaster only has eyes for you after all. it is no secret how smitten the oh-so-great knight of boreas, varka is for his wife.

no one even tries to approach him with romantic intentions anymore after he's made it very clear where he stands, which is forever next to you. many women, early on in both of your relationship, have tried to swoon and seduce him but they're met with very firm rejections. if there's anything he's strict about, it's this. and he expects the same treatment others give him with you, meaning if someone ever tried flirting or oh lord barbatos – make you leave him, they're getting the harshest talk ever, from varka and the people of mondstadt. 'cause the vendors are your biggest fans after all. though just him would probably be enough, do you know how scary varka is when he's serious? it's more than enough to make a grown man cry.

that's only if you can't handle it or the person is too persistent and you might actually hurt whoever this is. varka's there as a middle man, and hey if he pushes a little too hard while trying to create some distance between the two of you, who's to say it's not a complete accident? he's not exactly a saint of patience, particularly when your safety and comfort is compromised. he isn't the grandmaster of the knights of favonius for nothing.

he's like an obedient angel towards you though, if the angel was over six foot and had a frame huge enough to become an umbrella during hot days.

like a dog wagging it's tail, he beams immediately when he sees your figure from afar. suddenly, he's standing despite jean's protests and kaeya's exasperation, jumping out the window (even though he's on the third floor) and jogging over to you.

"hon! over here!"

you try to walk faster, hoping you heard wrong. because if you did, that means varka is slacking off again and you have to force him to go back to jean, lest she actually pops a blood vessel this time.

"hey don't ignore me!" he catches up to you in no time, barely even taking twelve steps before making it to your side.

you look up at his hulking figure, "go back to work. jean looks about ready to drop dead. or drop you dead." you can spot her angry expression from here, shouting a stern 'grandmaster varka!' but varka pretends to be deaf, focusing on you.

"puh-lease!" he scoffs, laughing boisterously with hands on his hips, "jean dropping dead, hah! you're hilarious. that girl's tough as nails! plus, those look heavy – ah, here let me.."

varka takes your shopping bags from you, carrying three bags in one hand while he interwines his other with yours.

"cookin' up a storm, huh?" varka glances at the ingredients in the bag: some vegetables, fruits, spices, and heavy cuts of meat. no doubt for him and his big carnivorous appetite.

he's smiling in that gooey, lovesick, way again. varka has always been a smiley person, but with you, it was more of a devoted sort of smile – one with less teeth and more wobbly, licked, lips where he gets an itch to scream ' i love you ' on the top of his lungs – letting it echo all throughout teyvat to make sure everyone knew.

eh, he does the same thing anyways with the way he chatters about you to every person he's met. talks and talks and talks until the people are listless, for hours if he could.

he escorts you home, hand in hand. cuts the vegetables as you get the stove started. sings a tune of windchimes and cliffs in that raspy tone of his while he helps with the peeling and heavy work, places chaste kisses on your cheek while you giggle.

jean can't get too mad at that, but she can at least nag varka until his ears fall off.

varka hates writing, hates paperwork all together. can't even stand the sight of paper in the office, always dreading the mountains of it stacked on his desk.

he'd rather be out fighting monsters, training recruits, or having a drink at angel's share. there are a million better things to do than boring ol' paperwork, like bothering people and smothering you with his love. he really, reeeally hates writing!

but he loves you.

he only likes writing when it's to his beloved. it's rare for the grandmaster to actually smile whenever he picks up a pen, usually he does so with a grimace. scowling like a petulant child while he twirls the pen in his hand, sighing every second while he stares at the documents on his desk. however. . .

it's different with you, it always is.

fredwinn is looking at the grandmaster with a suspicious and concerned gaze, it's really odd to see him so happy. . .

while writing.

he's getting weirded out, enough to ask others why such a massive and well-known loafer is actually writing with so much delight his smile looks about ready to split his face. he's met with small knowing grins and giggles from the other soldiers instead. he'll figure it out soon, they say.

he takes a peek over at what varka's writing, met with over two pages of words, small doodles of things they've fought in the margins of the paper – and how the hell is it colored? did he seriously buy crayons just for this? it's badly drawn though if he were to be honest, looks like a child made it. but the amount of words written baffle him, he's never seen the grandmaster write this much.

sure, it's starting to look a bit like chicken scratch because of how fast and how much he's writing but varka's never been one to be happy while writing something – he barely even wrote! like at all. even if he did, he usually made others do it in his stead. the man's great at fighting but he's not exactly a sit in a chair and write reports sort of guy.

perhaps long expeditions change people.

or, maybe he's an idiot who rambles too much in his letters – as long as they're addressed to you. fredwinn soon learns of this after a while, spotting the name of the recipitent in every letter, always followed by a heart. because varka's sappy like that.

varka loves you to the point of blatant favoritism, although he's never been strict with his soldiers, he does dish out punishments when needed. makes sure they learn their lesson too, 'cause what kinda grandmaster would he be if he doesn't?

you could never do wrong though, simply not a concept that exists in that empty head of his.

his wife made a mistake? ah, no biggie, he'll take care of it. you accidentally set the favonius headquarters on fire? oh no! don't worry, he'll handle it, just make sure to get to safety. you ripped his coat to shreds while washing? haha! so funny, anyways did you hear what razor learned today? that's right, its how to write yours and varka's name! isn't that so cool?

you can slack of more than him and he'd still call you the most hardworking person he's ever met. you could never ever do wrong in varka's eyes, it's like telling him the sky is brown or alcohol is bad.

. . .wait, you hid the alcohol? honey, dont be like that! he'll cry, seriously.

you're an exception to many things, and for a good reason, a simple yet profound reason, and also the main reason he fell in-love with you in the first place: it's you. beyond being his wife, his other-half, and varka's closest confidant – you are you, that in itself is already enough for varka, even without the prior accolades.

with both of your legs entwined with each other, your face in his chest as you rest on his bicep. it feels like a rock is under the side your head from how firm his muscles are, but you've gotten used to it, now it just reminds you of home.

because varka is home, and you'd never get homesick if he's around.

"does it not bother you?" he hums, chin propped on your head. you can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks, makes your head all woozy and sleepy. being surrounded by his scent relaxes your tired body, and you let your eyes clos in response.

"what do you mean?" you ask, nuzzling in his chest further, his clothes smell freshly laundered, with that familiar detergent that you use.

varka keeps quiet for a few seconds, wondering if he should even say anything, "the way they address you as 'grandmaster's wife' instead of your name."

you can only mumble an answer, something varka can't quite catch but he assumes the worst.

he sets a small kiss on your forehead, wrapping you in his arms, "i'll tell them to stop, don't worry."

finally, you jolt awake, "no, no! it's really okay, i don't mind it."

varka looks at you with a complicated expression, finding it hard to believe.

"i like it...being called your wife, being known as yours." you flush, hiding your face. honestly, whenever people greet you in the market as 'grandmaster's wife' or 'varka's lady', it makes you giddy, heart-racing like a girl being teased about her crush.

the people don't mean anything malicious, you know that much and he knows too but it makes you grateful that he's still asking how you feel about it. always so considerate, treating your heart like porcelain. varka's like that, you're pretty sure his worst nightmare is making you upset.

varka has been completely quiet for a few seconds now but you can hear the loud thump, thump, thump of his heart within embrace. you don't have to look at him to know he's just as, if not more, flustered than you.

"alright, if you say so." he buries his face in your neck, curling in himself to be much closer to you.

"i really like it too, when they call me your husband. gets me all happy, y'know?" he mumbles gruffly.

you already know that, because he goes beet red whenever the vendors tease him. it's really obvious. but he's always been obvious with his devotion, you love that about him.

varka loves you, he's loud and clumsy with it but who cares? that just comes with the package.

"So beautiful. So pretty." He mumbles into your skin, loud enough for you to hear. 

You let out a laugh, turning your body so you could embrace him back. "Thank you, love."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"I can't believe someone as beautiful as you is mine."

You laugh at his words, completely taken aback, yet still endeared by the affection in his words. "You're flattering me, baby."

"'M not." He protests, pulling away for a moment to gaze at you. "You truly are beautiful. So beautiful that I don't want to leave you every morning." 

Thoma holds you to him, leaving sweet kisses on your face as you giggle. "You are so beautiful, love, don't think I'm just flattering you." 

You sigh, a flustered and adoring smile on your lips as you nod. He proudly smiles, before nuzzling his face into the side of your neck again, his arms tightening around you as he pulls you closer. You just smile, and rest your head on his, basking in the complete love and adoration Thoma has for you.

ZHONGLI

He has always appreciated the  beauty of life and the beauty of the world around him. With so many years that he lived, Zhongli is not new to the concept of beauty.

But you? It was like his whole idea of beauty was made into human form. He loves you as you, in all your glory, your beauty, and he thanks Celestia for the honor of meeting who he calls the Goddess of Beauty.

You are not a stranger to his musings. His constant praise, and everytime you refuse those praisings, he simply listens to you, patient and gentle, before offering that soft smile of his.

Today is no different.

The evening sun paints Liyue Harbor gold as the two of you sit together over tea. Zhongli speaks calmly about the stories behind the buildings nearby, about old traditions and forgotten history, and you listen with fond amusement. You always loved hearing him talk.

But eventually, his amber eyes drift toward you once more, and his words come to a stop.

"...What?" you ask with a small laugh.

Zhongli blinks, almost as though he had forgotten he was staring. "Forgive me. I was merely admiring you again."

You feel heat rush to your face immediately. "Again?"

"Mm." He lifts his teacup gracefully. "No matter how many years I may live, I do not believe I shall tire of it."

"Zhongli—"

"You doubt me still?" His tone is amused, warm. "My dear, I have witnessed mountains carved by time and seas shaped by the heavens themselves. I know beauty when I see it."

You avert your gaze, flustered beyond belief while he chuckles softly at your reaction.

"It's unfair when you say things like that..." you mumble.

"And yet they are true."

His gloved hand reaches for yours carefully, thumb brushing over your knuckles with such tenderness it makes your chest ache.

"You are beautiful in ways that surpass appearance alone," he says quietly. "Your kindness, your patience, the way you continue to love others so openly... those are things I cherish most."

Your expression softens, heart swelling from the sincerity in his voice.

Zhongli brings your hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss against your skin.

"And selfishly," he murmurs, golden eyes half-lidded with affection, "I am grateful that such beauty chose to stay beside me."

You can only laugh softly through your embarrassment, squeezing his hand as he watches you with enough fondness to make even the oldest stone in Teyvat seem fragile.

KAVEH

He looks up from his plates and sketches, neck strained and his back hurting from how long he sat there, but it seemed to go away when he sees you, and the exhaustion fades almost instantly.

You're sitting across the room, quietly reading while the warm light from the windows spills over you. Your expression is relaxed, peaceful, completely unaware of the way Kaveh is staring.

His pencil slips from his fingers.

You glance up. "Hm? What's wrong?"

"...Nothing," he says absentmindedly, still looking at you.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. "You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The staring."

Kaveh scoffs dramatically, leaning back in his chair. "Can you blame me?" He gestures toward you as if presenting a masterpiece to an audience. "Look at you."

You blink. "What about me?"

"What about you?" he repeats incredulously. "You're beautiful. Distractingly beautiful, actually. I was trying to work."

A laugh escapes you as you set your book down. "And somehow that's my fault?"

"Absolutely." He points accusingly. "You sit there looking all pretty and then expect me to focus on architectural calculations?"

You snort, shaking your head while he rises from his desk with a groan, stretching his sore muscles before making his way toward you.

Despite his teasing, the moment he reaches you, his expression softens completely.

Kaveh kneels beside your chair, resting his chin on your lap as he looks up at you with tired but adoring eyes.

"I mean it, you know," he says quietly. "Sometimes I look at you and think maybe the gods spent too much time on one person."

Your face warms instantly. "Kaveh..."

"No, seriously." He smiles lazily. "It's unfair. You're beautiful when you wake up, beautiful when you're tired, beautiful when you're laughing at me—"

"I always laugh at you."

"And you always look beautiful doing it."

You roll your eyes fondly, fingers brushing through his hair. He melts immediately beneath your touch, sighing contentedly.

For someone so expressive and dramatic, Kaveh's affection never feels exaggerated.

Every word he says comes from somewhere painfully sincere.

He tilts his head into your hand and smiles softly.

"You know," he murmurs, "I think you're my favorite thing I've ever seen."

AYATO

Often, he wonders how he was able to be with someone such as yourself. Quite a partner he has, with a beauty unmatched in his eyes. All your flaws, he adores, and all your imperfections, he tells you are what makes you the beauty he loves.

Ayato has always been composed. Elegant. Refined. But around you, those carefully maintained walls become softer.

It happens during quiet moments most.

Like now, with the two of you sitting in the estate gardens beneath the evening sky. You speak absentmindedly about your day while Ayato listens, chin resting against his hand, a small smile on his lips.

You pause mid-sentence.

"...Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you've fallen in love with me all over again."

His smile widens ever so slightly. "Perhaps I have."

You stare at him for a moment before groaning softly, already flustered. "Ayato."

"What?" he asks innocently, though amusement glimmers clearly in his violet eyes. "Am I wrong for admiring my partner?"

"You say these things too casually."

"And you grow embarrassed too easily."

You huff while he chuckles quietly, reaching over to brush a stray strand of hair away from your face.

His touch is gentle. Careful. Reverent.

"You are beautiful," he says simply, as though it is the most obvious fact in the world. "Not because you are flawless, but because you are you."

The teasing in his voice disappears entirely, replaced with something softer.

"Sincerely, I think your imperfections are my favorite parts of you."

You blink at him in surprise.

"The way you frown when you're concentrating. The way you get irritated over small things. The moments you doubt yourself despite being wonderful..." Ayato's thumb brushes against your cheek. "Those are the parts that make you real. Human. Precious."

Your heart aches at the tenderness in his gaze.

He leans closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"I spend much of my life surrounded by masks," he murmurs. "So when I am with you, and I see every honest piece of who you are... I cannot help but think you are the most beautiful person I've ever met."

You laugh softly to hide your embarrassment, but Ayato only smiles knowingly, pulling you closer against him as if he intends to keep you there for the rest of the night.

ZHONGLI

Opening the door and being greeted by your co-worker is not what your sick and half-asleep brain managed to comprehend. One moment you’re opening the door, and the next you have Zhongli in your kitchen, heating up the soup he said he brought for you.

The thing is, Zhongli isn’t just a co-worker. 

You just happened to be co-workers after a few years of not meeting each other since college, and your friendship simply rekindled– but it’s still not something your sick ass can comprehend at the moment. 

Because for one, Zhongli has been your work crush. Hell, college crush before you went your separate ways and now he’s in your apartment. Two, he’s heating up soup for you. Three–

“Wait, shouldn't you be at work?” 

The man in question simply stirs the soup with an almost offended level of calm, as though appearing unannounced at a sick co-worker's apartment was the most natural thing in the world.

“I requested a half-day.”

You blink, your mouth parting slightly before you manage a “You what?”

“The workload today was manageable.” Zhongli glances over his shoulder, golden eyes briefly meeting yours before returning to the pot. “Besides, your condition seemed rather severe from the message you sent me this morning.”

Your condition. You snort. 

The message he was referring to was one you typed before passing out: Caught a cold. Ow. Dying. Can’t come in.

“That's what convinced you?”

“I found your choice of wording concerning.”

You stare. Zhongli continued stirring, like the actions of requesting a half-day out of concern for a friend/co-worker was normal. It’s a good thing that their workplace wasn’t as strict as usual companies. 

“Oh.” You mumble, eyes flickering from Zhongli, then to the soup. For some reason, your face is hot. You reason its from the fever. 

“You also seemed to have neglected to take medicine.” 

Your eyes widen. “What? How’d you…” 

“Your medicine cabinet is empty. You were supposed to go out after work for those, I remember you speaking out it yesterday.”

Your mouth opens, and shuts. Right. You did mean to go out today to fill up your medicine cabinet again, and your body also decided today was a good time to shut down just when you’re out. “Right. Well, my body apparently hates me.”

Zhongli laughs under his breath. “It would seem so” He looks away from the heating soup to the paper bag on the counter. “There’s medicine there. I’ll give it to you with the soup.” 

Following his gaze, you notice the familiar paper bag sitting neatly on your counter. Medicine. Soup. You spot a cap of bottled water peeking out, and Zhongli continues speaking, mentioning even throat lozenges.

You hadn't even asked. And the other thing was that he remembered what you were talking about the other day, too.

Something warm settles heavily in your chest. The problem with Zhongli has always been this.

He cared, in ways that weren't loud or needed attention, but just in the small, quiet little things. 

Like how early in your work days, he got you your coffee order, and surprised you by still remembering how you got your coffee even years later. In the middle of work, he would send you links to articles or videos that would pull you out of the bored haze of work. 

Once, he even replaced the dead batteries in your handfan when you complained about it. 

Zhongli cared in a way that slipped beneath your defenses before you realized what was happening– and made it impossible for you to not fall harder every time. 

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

He pauses, and for the first time since arriving, Zhongli turns fully toward you. His expression softens, “You are ill.”

The answer comes so simply that your heart nearly stumbles.

“Still…” You mumble. 

He sighs, quietly, and the next thing you know, he’s crossing the kitchen. Before you can react, a cool hand settles against your forehead.

Your entire brain short-circuits.

The gesture lasts only a few seconds, but  it feels longer than just a few seconds.  “You're still warm.”

You forget how words work, “Oh.”

“Your fever appears lower than this morning, however.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You should eat before taking medicine.”

“Right.”

Zhongli studies you for a moment. Then his lips curl up. A small, faint smile. Gentle– and it's really, seriously dangerous for your heart.

“You seem particularly compliant today.”

Your face burns.

And unfortunately, your fever can no longer be blamed for it.

THOMA

If Thoma was a light, he would have blinded you already with the large smile he gave you the moment you opened the door. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?”  You squint at him, tugging your blankets closer. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Yeah. Actually.” He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s my day off”

You blink. Oh. Right. “Right.” He lifts the bag in his hand, and you’re once again hit by that sweet smile that won you over years ago. 

“I heard you’re sick. So I got you soup.” 

And now he’s in your kitchen. Heating up soup for you. 

You're watching from your position on the couch, coughing and sniffing and you did offer to heat it up on your own, but when you stumbled the moment he handed you the bag,  Thoma insisted he do it instead. 

He’s always been like that. 

Thoma, your friend turned co-worker and in the past months has become something of a not-exactly co-workers and more of a crush on each other.

You’d think you weren’t obvious. 

But there’s a bet (that neither of you are aware of) going on in your office regarding when exactly the two of you will stop dancing around whatever this is. 

Apparently everyone is tired of waiting.

But you don’t know that, even if your fellow co-workers kept teasing you about it. You kept denying them. I mean, sure, maybe Thoma is the one who brings you your coffee everyday. Maybe he remembers your favorite snacks and would hand you one whenever he knew you were feeling hungry. And perhaps, he smiles differently when talking to you. But that doesn't mean—

“Careful.”

You nearly jump when a warm hand steadies your shoulder. Apparently you'd been staring. Again.

Thoma laughs softly.

The sound is embarrassingly nice.

“You looked like you were about to fall asleep sitting up.”

“I might.”

“Well don't.”

You purse your lips. “You’re so bossy.”

“Only because you're sick.”

You can’t even argue with him at this point. 

The smell of the soup fills your apartment, and moments later, Thoma places a bowl in front of you, before taking a seat on the smaller couch near you. “Eat.” He nods to the bowl. 

“Are you just going to keep staring at me?”

“Well, if it's to make sure you’re eating, then yes.”

“That’s weird.” 

He huffs a laugh, the soft smile on his face just making you stare at him just a bit longer. Because even in your sick daze, his smile is just pretty. “Just eat, will you?” He mutters with a fond smile, and you roll your eyes, but you still obey. 

“Good?” He asks you the moment you have your first spoonful, and Thoma watches you melt. “Mm.”

His shoulders visibly relax, like he was hoping you would like it. Something in your chest tightens at the relief in his face, and you pause, searching the smallest details before speaking. 

“You were worried for me.”

“Of course I was.” His response is immediate. The way he lifts a brow like it was expected he would be. “I mean, you sounded pretty miserable when you called.” 

“You were there?”

“Yep. Well, I just caught bits and pieces of it.” He repeats it again. “And you sounded miserable”

You cough, and let out a groan. “Well, I still am.” Another cough wracks your body, and before you could reach for the glass of water on the table, Thoma is already handing it over. 

“You know,” you mumble after drinking. He puts the glass back, and you continue eating the soup. “you're making a very strong case for keeping you around.”

His eyebrows rise. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” You lift the spoon to your mouth.

Thoma smiles, and he looks like he wasn’t even registering what he was saying. “Good. That’s kind of the point.” 

The answer comes far too quickly.

Both of you freeze, and you stare at Thoma, the spoon very much still in your mouth.

Silence– And you watch as pink creeps onto Thoma's ears.

Your own face feels suspiciously warm, and you put the spoon back in time for Thoma to abruptly stand up. “I think I should make tea.”

You laugh. Then cough. “You're running away.”

“No I'm not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Thoma points a finger at you. “You focus on recovering.”

“Thoma—”

“Nope.”

“Thoma.” You laugh despite the itchiness and pounding headache.

“Finish your soup.”

“Coward.”

“Soup.”

And despite his attempt to hide it, you don't miss the smile he wears all the way back to the kitchen.

VARKA

The knock that wakes you up is loud. Not really aggressive. Just loud. 

Three knocks that are both firm and somehow cheerful. You groan, planning to ignore it as you shift in bed. It’s more of a, you can’t find the will in you to move– then your phone buzzes near your bed.

> Big guy dude: Open upp

You squint at the screen, because your fever-addled brain takes several seconds to actually process what your reading. 

> You: why

The reply comes immediately, and you have to blink at the words that pop up. 

> Big guy dude: Because I’m outside.

Another squint, then you scoff in sruprised. 

Somehow, despite yourself, you find yourself opening the door, and the first thing you see is Varka’s grin, followed by the enormous bag hanging from one arm– then the too pleased look on his face. 

“Morning.” Surprisingly, Varka’s voice isn’t the usual boisterous one. It’s lowered, and more softer to keep your head from pounding. 

You blink at him. “Morning.”

Five minutes later, he’s in your apartment like he lives there. He ushered you to your couch, then placed the really big bag on the kitchen coutner, already rolling up his sleeves. From your spot on the couch, you squint at him then at the bag. 

“Did you just buy half the store?”

“No.”  

You give him a look, and he smiles at youi sheepishly. Then he starts bringing out the things inside. Soup ingredients, medicine, fruit, tea… “Are those crackers??” You gape as he brings out several containers of food. “Oh my god, Varka.” You glare at him, he avoids your gaze. 

“You did buy half the store!” 

“I was worried! And I was being, what people call as, prepared.”

“You brought enough food to survive a natural disaster!”

“Well, I mean,” Varka shrugs. “What if your cold gets ambitious?”

You groan, and he lets out a laugh when you attempt to throw the couch pillow. The sound of his laugh fills the apartment effortlessly, and its unfair how it immeidately makes you sink into the cushion, despite your glare. Becuase you always like his laugh. More or less, liked Varka himself.

And he’s about 90% of your problems. 

Because Varka isn’t just your co-worker. He’s your close friend. Your incredibly attractive friend that you insist doesn’t smile at you differently despite your other co-workers jests.

You refuse to look closely at the implications, because, you reasoned, Varka smiles at everyone. So you’re not exaclty an exception. 

Your thoughts are cut off when a cough has you curling up on the couch, and the next thing you know, just as your coughing fit ends, a large hand offers you water. 

When you look up, Varka is frowning as he lifts a hand to your forehead. Your heart stutters, and you force yourself to focus on the water. 

“You okay now?” He mutters– soft and gentle as he takes the glass. 

Wiping your mouth, you nod. “Yeah. I’m good” He eyes you carefully, before nodding back. 

“Have you eaten?” 

You make a face, and Varka narrows his eyes. “Not even breakfast?”

When you shake your head, he sighs, and moves to get up. “Okay, I’m fixing that immediately.” He gently nudges you to lie down. “Lie down first. If you fall asleep, the soup can wait till you wake up.”

You move to protest, mouth parting, but he quickly shuts you up with a look. Grumbling, you settle on the couch. “Bossy.” 

That makes him snort, the serious look in his eyes softening into amusement as he grins. 

Your chest warms. For some reason, Varka always seemed to make things feel a bit better in an effortless way. Even if your head still hurts and your body still aches real bad. 

He grabs the couch blanket, and drapes it over you. “Five minutes.” 

You didn’t fall asleep. 

So now you have soup on your lap, and Varka in the ktichen, getting your medicine ready. By the time you’ve gone through half the bowl, your body starts shutting down again, exhaustion settling heavily over you. 

You barely register Varka taking the bowl from your hands before you fall asleep on it. But you do register him adjusting the blanket over you again, tucking it gently– and you register his fingers brushing hair away from your face. 

“Get some sleep,” He murmurs softly. You catch the affection in his tone, but you’re too sleepy to even call it out. You do manage to crack an eye opne, mumbling a quiet, “Are you staying?” 

The question slips out, and you barely register it. 

For a moment, Varka freezes, his gaze set on you, eyes dangerously soft and close to affection. “Yeah.” He nods. “I’m staying.”

And maybe it's the fever or maybe it's the exhaustion. Or it’s just the way he says it.

But as sleep begins pulling you under, you can't stop the small smile that finds its way onto your face.

The last thing you hear is Varka's amused chuckle, and the quietest words he's spoken all day. “I’ll even stay longer if you wanted me to."

“When Pride Chose to Kneel” [Lucifer]

A king without a crown, baring devotion in the language only the fallen understand. For once, not duty — but desire.

Lucifer would never propose on a whim. Every moment of his confession would be deliberate — a blend of ancient tradition and personal meaning. He’s waited too long, lived too long, and finally loved too deeply to treat this lightly. The proposal would be steeped in Devildom lore and royal elegance, but its heartbeat would be entirely human: his vulnerability.

Lucifer doesn't announce his feelings with fireworks. Instead, he whispers them through detail — a rare midnight bloom that only opens when fed by truth, a ring forged from obsidian mined from the same cavern as Diavolo’s crown, and music composed over centuries that tells the story of his love in every note. He doesn’t propose as a demon or an avatar — he proposes as a man who has finally found a reason to let down his guard.

.

.

.

You’d known something was coming — Lucifer had been quiet lately, but not in his usual cold, aloof way. This was different. He looked at you longer. His touch lingered. And once, you’d caught him staring at the sky with a softness in his eyes that scared you. As if he’d made a decision he could never go back from. Tonight, he led you to the royal gardens at the top of the castle. Not the public one where nobles drank demon wine and whispered gossip — this one was sacred, tucked away beyond enchanted gates that only opened for blood and vow. You felt the magic curl around your skin as you entered, the air thick with ancient energy. The sky stretched wide above, dark and endless, and beneath it, the garden bloomed in silence. Midnight flowers — Nocturnis Lux, they were called — shimmered under the moonlight. Lucifer once told you they only bloomed when someone spoke their deepest truth. Now, they opened in waves around you. A string quartet played nearby, hidden behind a curtain of ivy and illusion. The music was haunting — slow, melancholic, composed in a minor key. You didn’t recognize it until halfway through the melody. It was his. You remembered the pages he'd once tucked away in his study, scribbled with passion and pain. He had turned your story into a symphony. Lucifer said nothing at first. He walked beside you, gloved hands clasped behind his back, face unreadable. When he finally stopped, it was beside an obsidian pedestal glowing faintly with enchanted fire — the kind used only for royal rites. He turned to face you, and his expression shifted. The mask cracked. “I had this ring forged from the same obsidian Diavolo’s crown was born from,” he said quietly, slipping the glove from his hand. “It’s imbued with an oath spell — not because I need it to mean something… but because I need you to know that it means everything.” He lowered himself to one knee — not in submission, not in performance, but in honor. His wings shimmered faintly behind him, half-unfurled, as if caught between instinct and emotion. “I once thought eternity was enough,” he said, voice raw. “That pride would sustain me. That duty would fulfill me. But then you came, and I realized… eternity means nothing without someone to make it feel like home.” He opened the ring box. It sparkled like starlight trapped in volcanic stone — elegant, dark, timeless. “I am Lucifer, First of the Fallen. I have rebelled, ruled, and been broken more times than I’ll ever admit. But tonight, I offer you the only part of myself I’ve never given away. My heart. My future. My eternity. Will you marry me, MC?” You didn’t speak at first — you couldn’t. Tears blurred your vision, but you nodded, stepping forward and taking his hand. It trembled. “Yes,” you whispered. The garden responded — flowers blooming wildly around your feet, music rising into crescendo. Lucifer stood, cradled your cheek with his bare hand, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your lips — reverent, slow, full of every vow he didn’t need words for. In that moment, pride ceased to be a sin. It became devotion.

“Worth More Than Gold” [Mammon]

The selfish devil who never believed he deserved love — until you showed him what treasure really means.

Mammon’s proposal is chaotic in theory, but pure heart in execution. He doesn't plan it like Lucifer, nor calculate it like Satan. For him, the idea takes root during a random moment — probably while watching you laugh at one of his dumb jokes or defend him when no one else does. That’s when he realizes: he could spend eternity proving he’s worthy of you. When Mammon proposes, it’s not about grandeur. It’s about truth. Raw, unfiltered, trembling truth. The ring may not be enchanted or royal, but it’s real. Bought with savings he never touched, chosen not for cost but for meaning. He’d risk everything — his pride, his fear of rejection, his future — just to ask the question. Because for once, he’s not gambling for riches. He’s betting everything on love.

.

.

.

It started like any other ridiculous Mammon plan. He told you to dress up — not fancy, just warm — and meet him outside Devildom’s old carnival grounds at sunset. You expected a half-baked scheme involving cursed games or rare demon snacks. What you didn’t expect was this: The lights of the long-abandoned fairground flickered to life the moment you stepped through the gate. Strings of golden lanterns lit the cobblestone paths. The once-broken Ferris wheel creaked to motion, restored by magic that felt distinctly Mammon-esque — patchy but passionate. “I… uh, borrowed some spell cards,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck when you turned to look at him. “Don’t worry, I returned ‘em. Mostly.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes. Just grabbed your hand like it was the last lifeline he had and pulled you toward the center of the grounds. There, he’d set up a table — crooked, with uneven legs, but decorated with your favorite snacks, old photos of you both, and a little plush version of Goldie wearing a bowtie. “I know it ain't perfect,” he said quickly. “It’s not like Luce’s royal garden or nothin’. But it’s mine. Every light you see? I fixed it. Every charm holding this place together? I cast it. And I did it all for this one thing.” You blinked, stunned. Mammon — who once panicked when you complimented his cooking — was shaking. “I ain’t good with words, okay? I mess stuff up. I run when I’m scared. But not this time. Not with you.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a tiny black box. It wasn’t velvet, but it had a tiny golden sticker of a crow on it. Inside was a ring — silver, engraved with a tiny star and your initials. “I ain’t proposin’ ‘cause I think I’m good enough for ya,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m proposin’ ‘cause I wanna try for the rest of my damn life to be.” He dropped to one knee, fumbling the box a little. You heard a whisper from the shadows — probably Beel and Levi, hiding badly. Mammon didn’t notice. His eyes were locked on yours, wild and terrified and beautiful. “MC… Will you marry me?” You knelt down too, cupping his face in your hands. He flinched like he didn’t deserve it, but you kissed him anyway — slow, sure, grounding. “Yes,” you said. “You already won the bet, Mammon. I’m yours.” And behind you, the Ferris wheel lights shimmered into a heart-shaped glow.

“In Pixels and Promises” [Leviathan]

The shut-in demon who found his greatest adventure in loving you — beyond screens, beyond worlds.

Leviathan doesn’t believe he’s the kind of person someone proposes to, let alone the one who gets to propose. Love, to him, was always behind a screen — safe in fiction, predictable in games. But falling for you was a glitch in his system, a patch he never wanted to fix.

He plans the proposal like he’s crafting the perfect final boss sequence — every line of code, every moment, balanced between awe and intimacy. His biggest fear isn’t rejection — it’s you not realizing how serious this is. That you might think this is just another one of his fantasies.

So he crafts a digital world for you — one only you two can enter. A realm coded with memories, quests reflecting your journey together, and at its center, the truth he’s never been able to say out loud without a screen between him and the world: you’ve changed him. You’ve made him believe he’s worthy of love, not as an avatar, but as Levi — awkward, obsessive, vulnerable.

.

.

.

He invited you to his room one night, sheepishly texting ahead: "come over pls. new game. v. limited release. u get to beta test lol." You expected a fun co-op adventure. Maybe a dungeon crawler or another otome parody. What you didn’t expect was the way the lights dimmed the second you entered, or how the screen pulsed with ethereal code in violet and gold — his colors. The title screen shimmered: "Player Two: The Game I Can’t Play Without You" "Okay, okay, I know it sounds cringe!" he said immediately, pacing like a trapped sea serpent. "But just — just try it! Please? I worked on this for, like… forever. I even stayed up three nights in a row and drank real coffee. Beel was worried." You took the controller, and the screen dissolved into pixels and stars. The game opened on a digital version of his aquarium, but more surreal — like you’d been submerged in a dream. 8-bit coral glowed. Fish with tiny anime faces swam by, and every level represented a piece of your time together: The first time he let you touch his figurines. That Deviltendo competition you both entered. The night he cried when you said you liked him just the way he was. And then… the final level. A throne room beneath the ocean, lit by moonlight through rippling water. At the center: a lone character — Levi’s avatar, cloak shimmering, holding something small in his pixelated hand. A text box appeared: “I never thought I’d get a second player.” “I always thought I’d be a background character.” “But then you came.” The avatar kneeled. “MC. Will you… stay in my party forever?” The game paused. Then Levi’s hand touched yours — real, trembling. He was holding something. Not a pixel sprite. A real box. Inside was a ring — ocean-blue gem, set in silver that looked like rippling waves. The design was unmistakably his — subtly anime, undeniably heartfelt. "I know I’m not a real hero," he said, barely above a whisper. "I’m not suave like Asmo or noble like Lucifer. But I’ll level up for you. Every day. I’ll protect you. I’ll— I’ll love you until my HP hits zero." Your voice caught in your throat. You pressed your forehead to his. "Yes," you breathed. "I want to be your Player Two. Forever." He blinked fast — once, twice — then let out a laugh that was half-sob, half-joy. And behind you, the screen exploded into golden fireworks and a new achievement badge: “♥ TRUE ENDING UNLOCKED ♥”

"A Quiet Flame for You" [Satan]

Behind his scholarly calm burns a fierce devotion — a love whispered between pages and shadows.

Satan’s proposal is a rebellion — not against rules or Lucifer this time, but against every lie he once believed about himself. That he was only anger. That love was too volatile, too human, too fragile. But loving you? It was the first time he didn’t feel like a vessel for wrath. He felt like a man.

He doesn’t stage his proposal like a dramatic scene — he curates it, like a rare book. Every element steeped in meaning. The location? A hidden sanctuary where ancient knowledge and rare magic converge. The ring? Forged from the metal of a fallen star once written about in a forbidden grimoire — beauty born of what once threatened to destroy.

Satan doesn’t declare love in loud ways. He proves it — in well-thumbed poetry, in books annotated just for you, in spells that keep nightmares away. When he proposes, it’s not the anger in him that trembles — it’s the part that hopes.

.

.

.

It wasn’t a place most people knew. Tucked behind a shifting wall of the oldest library in the Devildom, there was a room sealed by a spell written in forgotten tongues. You once asked if it was real. He only smiled. Tonight, he brought you there. Satan walked ahead of you, fingers tracing the ridges of the wall until the enchantment responded — books shifting, bricks rearranging, like the building itself bowed to his will. With a low rumble, the entrance appeared. “Only opens for truth,” he said softly, stepping aside for you to enter first. The room was unlike anything you’d seen. High ceilings arched above, lined with floating shelves and glowing glyphs. Books hovered like stars in low orbit, their pages whispering softly as if exhaling secrets. And in the center, a circle of warm light, enclosing two chairs and a table set with tea… and a single book, wrapped in velvet. “I wrote this,” he murmured, voice oddly fragile. “It’s not a grimoire or a spellbook. It’s… our story.” He handed it to you, and as you opened it, you realized — each chapter detailed your moments together. Your laughter, your arguments, your silences. Your impact. The final chapter was unwritten. Just a title: “The Beginning of Always.” When you looked up, he was already kneeling. His eyes, usually so sharp and controlled, were full of raw light. “I’ve studied love,” he said, fingers curled around a small box. “I’ve dissected it in literature, tracked it in history, even tried to summon it. But nothing — nothing — prepared me for you.” He opened the box. The ring inside pulsed with a soft, celestial glow. Not flashy. Timeless. “I am not perfect. I still burn. But you…” His voice broke, and he swallowed. “You make the fire something holy.” He lowered his head, golden hair falling forward. “Will you marry me, MC? Will you help me write a life worth living?” The tears in your eyes blurred everything — the books, the walls, even the stars. But his face was clear. Honest. Yours. “Yes,” you whispered. The glyphs around you flared to life — not in warning, but in celebration. Books rustled like applause. And as you embraced him, Satan exhaled against your neck. “For the first time,” he said quietly, “I’m glad I exist.”

“The Heart Beneath the Glitter” [Asmodeus]

When the world only sees a mask of charm, he dares to show the fragile truth beneath — and finds love that stays.

To the world, Asmodeus is temptation incarnate — the Avatar of Lust, always smiling, always admired, always wanted. But when it comes to you, he doesn’t want to be adored. He wants to be chosen — not for his beauty or his charm, but for who he is beneath the sparkle: the loneliness, the hunger, the soft, scared heart that learned to seduce before it could speak its own needs.

Asmo’s proposal is neither grand nor scandalous. It is sacred — a vow not of possession, but of devotion. He crafts a moment where all masks fall away. No performance. No glitter. Just him. And you. And the unbearable, beautiful truth that he has never loved like this before.

When he proposes, it’s not the Avatar of Lust asking for your hand. It’s the boy who once fell from heaven, craving love in every mirror. And for the first time, he sees his reflection in your eyes — and finds it worthy.

.

.

.

The invitation came in pink parchment, sealed with a kiss. Typical Asmo, you thought — until you opened it. “Meet me where we first danced. Midnight. Wear something that makes you feel like your favorite self.” The ballroom was abandoned, long since closed off for repairs. But when you arrived, the door opened for you as if pulled by invisible hands. Candlelight flickered within — soft, golden, warm. He was already there. Not in sequins. Not in silk. Just a simple black suit, his curls loose, his face untouched by glamour. No spell shimmered on his skin. No perfume clung to the air. He was radiant anyway. “You came,” he said, smiling gently. “Even after everything, you still choose me.” You reached for him, but he took your hand instead and pulled you toward the center of the floor. There was no music, yet your bodies swayed — a slow, silent dance in a world reduced to candlelight and breath. “I’ve had lovers,” he whispered into your ear. “Fans. Followers. But they all wanted the idea of me. The fantasy. You… you saw me. Even when I was ugly. Even when I cried. Even when I tried to push you away so you wouldn't see how much I needed you.” He spun you gently, then guided you to a tall, full-length mirror propped at the far end of the ballroom. You stared at your reflection — and gasped. It wasn’t enchanted. But somehow, it showed something more: every moment you’d shared with him flickered through its surface like memories — laughter, tears, kisses. The time he held your hand in silence. The time you stayed by his side after a breakdown no one else saw. “It’s not magic,” he said. “It’s just you. And me. And what we’ve built.” He stepped behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. Then slowly — reverently — he knelt, arms still wrapped around you, cheek pressed to your back. “I’m not asking you to love me forever,” he said. “I’m asking you to let me love you. Forever. Not because I’m perfect. But because with you… I want to be real.” He opened a small pink box. Inside was a ring shaped like a blooming rose, the petals formed from soft pink diamonds and warm gold — beautiful, but not overwhelming. Like him, stripped bare. “Will you marry me, MC?” You turned in his arms, kneeling to face him. Tears slipped from his lashes before yours could fall. “Yes,” you whispered. “You’ve always been real to me.” And in the mirror behind you, two reflections glowed softly — not idealized, not filtered. Just true.

“More Than an Appetite” [Beelzebub]

The gluttonous giant who hungered for something deeper — a soul to fill the emptiness inside.

Beelzebub’s love is simple, but never small. He feels things deeply, but speaks sparingly. To him, love isn’t about poetry or performance — it’s about being there. Carrying your weight when you’re tired. Sharing the last bite. Catching your hand when you trip — even if it means falling with you.

So when Beel decides to propose, it’s not because he’s worked up courage or found the perfect ring. It’s because he’s known, deep in his bones, for longer than he can remember. Loving you fills something he thought would always be hollow. A hunger that had nothing to do with food.

His proposal is quiet, but cosmic — a promise whispered in between breaths and bites, a vow baked into something homemade, something shared. Because to Beel, love is nourishment. And asking you to marry him is his way of saying: let me feed your soul for the rest of your life.

.

.

.

It started with the scent of cinnamon and honey. Not a typical Beel dish — you’d expected meat, maybe something savory — but instead, your kitchen had been transformed. Counters dusted with flour. Dough rising quietly in the warmth. Spices in delicate balance.

Beel stood at the center, apron dusted, hair tied back. He looked up as you entered, and smiled that slow, gentle smile that could undo the world.

“I made something,” he said, lifting a tray with careful hands. “It’s a dessert from the Celestial Realm. We used to make it when… when things felt too heavy. It reminded us we were still alive.”

He placed a slice on a plate, set it before you. It glowed faintly — like light had been baked into it. The first bite was warm, tender. It tasted like comfort, like childhood memories you didn’t know you had.

“It’s missing something,” he murmured. “One last thing.”

He stepped away, rummaging through a nearby container. When he returned, he wasn’t holding a garnish.

He held a ring.

Simple. Handmade. A braided band of gold and copper, inset with a single orange gemstone that looked like crystallized sunlight. It pulsed faintly — the magic in it not showy, but steady. Alive.

He didn’t kneel. He didn’t need to.

He sat across from you, elbows resting on the table, eyes softer than candlelight.

“I didn’t think I could ever feel full,” he said quietly. “Not just my stomach. My heart. But when I’m with you… it’s not hunger anymore. It’s something else. Peace. Joy. Hope.”

He reached across the table and took your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I want to share every meal with you. Every quiet moment. Every sunrise and every ache. I want to protect you — not just from danger, but from loneliness. From emptiness. Will you marry me?”

You couldn’t speak. Not right away. You squeezed his hand, hard, and nodded through the tears.

“Yes, Beel. Always.”

He slipped the ring on your finger, and something settled between you — like the last puzzle piece sliding into place. He leaned forward, kissed the corner of your mouth, and smiled.

And for the first time in his long, aching existence, Beelzebub felt completely full.

“A Light in Eternal Twilight” [Belphegor]

Lost in shadows and sleep, he finds a spark that refuses to fade — a promise of love beyond the night.

Belphegor doesn’t trust happiness. Not because he’s incapable of it, but because it’s always been something fleeting — a soft thing that crumbles in his hands before he can savor it. Death has left fingerprints on everything he touches, and love… love felt like a dream meant for someone else.

But then came you. Not a dream. Not a delusion. Real. And terrifying.

He tried to ignore it. Tried to drown it in apathy, in sleep, in sarcastic deflections. But love snuck in — soft as twilight, steady as moonrise. You didn’t wake him from the darkness. You joined him in it. Sat beside his grief, held hands with his ghosts, and whispered, “You don’t scare me.”

So when Belphie proposes, it isn’t dramatic or well-rehearsed. It’s hesitant. Shaky. Real. Because this is the first future he’s ever dared to believe in — and he’s still afraid he’ll lose it.

.

.

.

He asked you to meet him in the planetarium. Not the grand one open to the Devildom’s elite — but the abandoned one tucked inside the observatory near the edge of the Devildom sky cliffs, where forgotten stars still flickered on mechanical orbits, and the air smelled of dust and old dreams. You found him lying in the center of the domed floor, arms behind his head, eyes open — watching galaxies spin above. He didn’t look up when you entered. He just patted the floor beside him. You laid down. The silence stretched — not uncomfortable, but heavy. Sacred. Time passed like breath. Then, his fingers brushed yours. “I used to come here after Lilith died,” he said, voice low, almost inaudible. “I’d watch the stars and pretend she’d become one. That maybe, if I stared long enough, I could follow her.” You turned your head to face him. His lashes were wet. “I never thought I’d want to stay,” he whispered. “Not really. Even after the war, even after I forgave everyone. I thought I’d just drift until my body gave out.” He paused. Swallowed. “Then you came. And for the first time in eons… I didn’t want to follow the stars. I wanted to build something beneath them.” He sat up slowly, then stood — and reached into the pocket of his hoodie. “I don’t have a box,” he muttered. “Or a speech. But I have this.” He held out a ring — small, dark silver with tiny, faint constellations etched along the inside. At its center was a polished moonstone that shimmered like sleep. “I had it made from starstone. Same kind they use for grave markers in the Celestial Realm. It’s a stone for rest. For endings.” His voice trembled. “But I want this to be a beginning.” He knelt beside you. Not formal. Not poised. Just a boy who once hated the world, daring to love it through you. “I’m not easy to love. I know that. But you make me want to try. So… will you marry me?” You sat up and reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hoodie as you pulled him close. “Yes,” you breathed. “Even if we sleep under the stars for the rest of time — it’ll be enough. You’re enough.” His forehead rested against yours. His breathing hitched. And high above, the planetarium stars paused — as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath for you.