Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 20

**KACIA**

When I wake up, I’m still pissed off. Not full on, raging against the system pissed off like last night, just a simmer. A slow boil behind my ribs that makes everything taste like bitterness. It doesn’t help that I feel kind of gross. I ate too much junk food in a fit of emotional sabotage and now I’m paying for it. I’m bloated, mildly nauseous, and stuck in that special kind of regret where even the memory of fries feels greasy. I’m usually decent at mornings. Not bright and chipper or anything, I’m not a monster, but I can usually roll out of bed without snarling. Not today. Not after staying up way too late fuming about enslaved brownie servitude and the fact that apparently I’m now going to have to be personally responsible for dismantling supernatural indenture systems because no one else is going to do it. I basically ate until I felt sick and then locked myself in my room like an emotionally unstable teenager. Classic. I have no idea what Oz did with himself. I think I heard him wandering around at one point, quiet footsteps, faint muttering, some tail thumping against a wall maybe, but I’m pretty sure he went to bed before I did. Not that I was keeping track. (Okay, I might have paused to listen when I thought I heard the couch creak.) Honestly? I can’t blame him for being restless. My couch is decent, for a couch. But Oz is not exactly a small man. He’s all broad shoulders and unfair jawline. That couch was not made to accommodate demon sized dimensions. If he’s planning to stick around, I might need to look into an air mattress or something. Something that won’t leave him bent in half and grumbling every morning… But do I WANT to encourage him to stick around? That’s the real question. He keeps saying he made a deal with me and he has to honour it and stick around until he’s paid it back or whatever. But he couldn’t possibly mean to stay here long term. Right? He has to go home sometime… Right? I should probably talk to him about it. At some point. Clarify expectations. Set boundaries. Define terms. You know, like a responsible adult who definitely isn’t trying to emotionally distance herself from the weirdly charming demon she dragged home like a stray dog. But first, I need to know what the hell is going on in my kitchen. Because I’m hearing things. Clinks. The scrape of cutlery. A distant hum that might be Oz talking to himself or maybe just the sound of my sanity cracking. Most likely Oz is making himself something to eat. I haven’t checked the time yet, but I’m betting it’s late enough that he gave up on waiting for permission and just started doing his own thing. Not that he strikes me as someone who waits for permission anyway. Honestly, I’m amazed he lasted this long without taking over the entire kitchen. Then again, this is the same guy who apparently hasn’t yet figured out the concept of personal space, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.

I hear footsteps padding softly down the hall, then a quiet knock on my door. 

“Sweetheart? Are you awake?” Oz calls out gently, voice lower than usual. Careful. I groan internally. What now? I don’t have the energy to care about anyone else right now. I’m tapped out. Emotionally at least, whatever tanks I had left are currently lying face down on the carpet. I just want to lie here and sulk a little longer before facing the world again. If Oz is the kind of guest who knocks on your door during a sulk session, then maybe this ‘temporary stay’ of his needs to be very temporary.

“Yeah, I’m awake.” I grumble. There’s a pause.

“Is it safe to come in?” He adds cautiously. I blink.

“…Yeah.” I reply, surprised. That’s… Considerate. Maybe he’s worried I’ll throw something. Or maybe it’s because I walked in on him naked and sprawled on my bathroom floor like some kind of demon Adonis in distress. Great. Now I’m remembering it. Fantastic. I suppress a blush and pull the blankets up slightly, just in case. The door opens slowly. Oz peeks around first, definitely checking for dangerous levels of exposed skin or flying objects, and once satisfied, he slips inside. He’s holding two plates. Two full, heavily loaded, smelling way too good plates. My stomach growls so loudly it betrays me before I even say a word. I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously.

“Made breakfast. Bacon and eggs. Figured you could use a pick me up.” He says proudly, like a cat dropping a mouse on your pillow. He strides over like this is the most natural thing in the world and sets one of the plates on my lap with surprising care. I look down. It actually looks… Good. Perfectly crispy bacon. Fluffy eggs. No weird burnt bits or mysterious additions. This is real food. He pulls cutlery from his hoodie pocket, of course he does, and hands it to me like this was all part of a plan. Then, before I can even react, he drops down and perches himself right on the end of my bed, balancing his own plate on his lap like this is his house. I raise an eyebrow at him. He shrugs, completely unbothered. 

“I don’t like eating alone.” He answers casually. Then he shoves a giant forkful of bacon into his mouth with the smug contentment of someone who knows exactly what he's doing and is enjoying every second of it. I should be annoyed. I WANT to be annoyed. He’s making himself at home, inserting himself into my routine, sitting on my bed like he lives here. But then again… He DID bring bacon. I take a bite, cautiously. It’s perfect. Like, unfairly good. Salty and cooked just right. I have to fight back a groan of appreciation. Dammit. Maybe he CAN stay a little longer.

I take another bite, slower this time, chewing while watching Oz devour his own food like he hasn’t eaten in days. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just eats, legs crossed at the end of my bed, like this is a perfectly normal start to a perfectly normal morning in a perfectly normal house with a perfectly normal demon guest. After a few bites, he glances up at me.

“I wasn’t sure how you like your eggs, hopefully they’re alright.” He tells me. I blink. 

“Uh, yeah. They’re great.” I answer awkwardly.

“Yeah?” He grins, fork halfway to his mouth. 

“Excellent. I will add making eggs to my growing list of things I’m apparently good at, right under ‘making myself at home’ and ‘singing.’” He says cheerfully. Singing? That has to be a joke. I snort. 

“You forgot ‘pushing your luck.’” I add. 

“Oh, right. How could I forget that one?” He answers as he  points at me with his fork. 

“That’s top tier. Almost as effective as shirtless guilt tripping, which I also excel at.” He smirks. I roll my eyes. 

“Don’t remind me, I’m still trying to bleach that image out of my brain.” I mutter, stabbing at my eggs. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Bleach is a strong word, lovely. Some would say you’re lucky.” He teases. 

“Some would be wrong.” I say flatly.

“Some would say you didn’t exactly sprint away screaming.” He argues. I pause, narrowing my eyes at him. 

“Are you seriously sitting on my bed, eating eggs, and trying to flirt with me?” I demand. He tilts his head. 

“Multitasking is a gift.” He responds without pausing. I let out a quiet laugh despite myself. He’s impossible. Utterly, maddeningly impossible. But also... Kind of nice. I guess. For a few minutes, we eat in companionable silence. The kind that settles somewhere between awkward and intimate, not uncomfortable, just... Unfamiliar. Eventually, I break it.

“Did you sleep okay?” I ask, trying to sound casual. He glances at me. 

“Not bad. Your couch is small, but functional. I’ve slept in worse places.” He says with a shrug. I nod slowly. 

“Still. I might get an air mattress or something.” I tell him thoughtlessly. Oz freezes then slowly he arches a brow. 

“Does this mean you’re officially allowing me to stick around?” He asks. Oops, I didn’t mean to make that kind of commitment. 

“Don’t push it.” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. He smiles. Another pause. 

“You okay after yesterday?” He asks softly. It catches me off guard. I blink down at my plate. “Define okay.” I say with a sigh. 

“I mean... After Angelo. The bar. Everything.” He frowns. I exhale through my nose. 

“Still mad, honestly. But also just... Tired. I hate how normal it was for everyone there. Like no one cared. He was just background.” I say, dangerously close to another rant. Oz nods, serious now. 

“You cared.” He points out. 

“So did you.” I answer. And he did care, more than I expected him to. Oz shrugs. 

“He reminded me of someone.” He says. I glance up at him, but he doesn’t elaborate. Just spears a piece of bacon and eats it like he didn’t just drop a crumb of his actual feelings into the middle of breakfast. I don’t press. Not right now.

“You’re not the worst guest I’ve ever had, you know. At least you can cook.” I joke, changing the subject. 

“Oh? Does this mean I’m being promoted to officially tolerated guest status?” He perks up. 

“Let’s not get crazy.” I say flatly. He grins again. 

“So... Breakfast tomorrow, same time, same place?” He asks. There he goes, pushing it again. I roll my eyes. 

“You make it, you can keep sitting on the bed.” I answer, mostly because I want more bacon. 

“Dangerous promise, sweetheart.” He says with a smirk. 

“Not a promise.” I say quickly 

“Too late. You said it. It’s binding now.” He declares in a singsong tone. I shake my head, smiling despite myself. I know he’s joking… At least I think he is…

Once we’re both finished eating, Oz stands, balancing our now empty plates in one hand like a pro.

“We agreed we’d go sell the blood this morning, right?” He says, all bright and breezy. 

“I’ll go tidy up the dishes and kitchen. You can get yourself cleaned up and dressed, and we can head out in, what, an hour? Yeah, that sounds about right. Okay. I’ll leave you to it.” He says easily. Then he grins at me, all sunshine and casual efficiency, then just… Walks out. Like he owns the place, like this is normal, like I agreed to any of this! I stare after him, dumbfounded. What… Just happened? Did I just get managed? Did a demon with bed hair and a smug smile just schedule my morning for me like some kind of overqualified personal assistant? I didn’t even get a chance to grumble at him. He just, preemptively dodged my mood with logistics.  That’s cheating. And infuriatingly effective. I sigh and flop back against the pillows for a moment, glaring at the ceiling like it owes me an apology. But he’s right. It is time to get up and face the day. Still… The next time Oz tries to hijack my schedule with bacon and competence, I’m going to be ready. Maybe. Probably not. Ugh.