Gwi-Ma was gone. The war was over. The world had moved on.

Cities returned to their rhythm. Lights flickered peacefully in apartment windows. People went to work, complained about traffic, ate takeout in front of their TVs. The streets were no longer haunted by things that lurked in shadows.

But not everyone walked away whole.

You still couldn't sleep.

The bed was comfortable enough. The apartment small but quiet. The clock ticked like normal, the fridge hummed softly, and nothing stirred outside the window. But when night fell, something always came—pressure on the chest, limbs frozen stiff, breath caught in a silent scream. Every night, it felt like sinking through a layer of invisible ice. Like something unseen watched from just out of reach.

No doctor could explain it. No healer could fix it. They blamed stress. Aftershocks. Echoes from the final clash with Gwi-Ma. You had stopped looking for answers. The exhaustion was just part of life now.

Until one night, the doorbell rang.

It was nearly midnight. Too late for packages, too early for morning deliveries. You hesitated before unlocking the door.

And there he was.

He looked human—at a glance. Hood up, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable beneath messy bangs. His face was youthful, almost delicate, but something in the air around him still crackled faintly with leftover power. Not threatening, just... wrong in a way the human world didn't quite understand.

"I want to make a deal," he said simply. His voice was low, steady, a bit rough at the edges. "Let me stay here. I'll protect your home. I'll help you sleep."

No smirk. No games. Just a tired demon with nowhere else to go.

Maybe it was the fatigue. Maybe it was the lack of options. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn't felt safe at night in months. Whatever the reason, the answer came out quieter than expected.

"Fine."

One week later, the apartment felt... different.

The nights were calm now. You still woke up groggy, but not panicked. No more stiff limbs. No more gasps for air. He kept his word. He never crossed boundaries. Stayed out of the way during the day. Spoke little.

But today was different.

Morning sunlight filtered in through the thin curtains, golden and soft across the floor. You shuffled into the kitchen, hair messy, eyes still half-closed. A yawn escaped before you even noticed him.

He was already there.

Leaning lazily against the counter, sleeves pushed up, hoodie falling off one shoulder. His hair was unbrushed, sticking up slightly, and his eyes were still heavy from sleep.

"Morning," he said, voice thick and gravelly.

You blinked, startled. That voice didn't match the soft baby face at all. It was deeper than it had any right to be. Almost... warm.

You looked away too quickly.

He tilted his head, watching with interest. "Still not used to my morning voice?"

You reached for the kettle without answering.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice even more, clearly enjoying the reaction. "Maybe if we sleep together more often," he murmured, "you'll get used to it."

You scoffed, avoiding eye contact. "You're lucky I let you stay."

He smirked. "You're lucky I make a great alarm clock."

You said nothing after that.

But your ears were just a little pink—and he definitely noticed.