Chapter 7: Flickers of Jealousy

The morning started as it always did.

Mikael was already up, moving around the apartment with a quiet ease that Loona still found unsettling. It wasn't that she minded him being up before her—she just wasn't sure how someone could function that well at 6:30 AM. Especially when there were more important things to do, like, well, sleep.

She groggily pulled herself out of bed, finding her way to the kitchen, rubbing at her eyes as Mikael slid a coffee mug toward her.

"You're up early," she muttered.

"I'm always up early," he replied, his voice as calm as the never changing light that streamed through the apartment. "Besides, you were up late with Vortex last night."

Her gaze darted to his face. "I wasn't up that late."

Mikael didn't respond immediately, just poured himself some coffee. "You seemed to enjoy the company."

Loona's eyes narrowed. She hated the way he could just read her like that. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he said smoothly, leaning against the counter. "Just an observation."

Loona wasn't sure why she felt defensive. Maybe it was the way he said it, like it was just another one of his constant assessments of her mood. Maybe it was the way he'd been subtly observing her for weeks now. Like he was always waiting for her to break.

She took a long gulp of coffee, not really tasting it, but needing the action to fill the space between them.

The apartment was quiet for a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the refrigerator. Loona could hear the distant sounds of Hell—snarls from across the street, the deep growl of a hellhound somewhere nearby. It was all strangely calming.

Until the knock on the door.

The knock was light—more a suggestion than a request—but it cut clean through the quiet.

Mikael moved first, setting his coffee down and striding toward the door with his usual calm. Loona followed, if only because something about the timing felt off. It was too early for deliveries, too polite for Blitzø, and too confident for a stranger.

He opened the door.

The succubus on the other side smiled like she already knew she was welcome. She was tall, striking in a way that made even Loona straighten on instinct—lithe body wrapped in a tailored velvet dress, her skin a cool rose-gold hue, with lips like blood and eyes like melted garnet. Her horns curled elegantly around her head like a crown of sin, and she smelled faintly of cinnamon, smoke, and something more dangerous.

"Mikael," she purred, drawing out his name like it tasted sweet. "The Governess sends her regards. And a request."
She extended a sealed envelope with two fingers, the wax imprinted with the Governess's sigil. Mikael took it without hesitation, but his attention was already back on her, waiting.

Loona blinked. Wait. The Governess?

She took a step forward, suspicious. "That's from the Salon?"

The succubus turned her head, amused. "Of course. You didn't know?"

Loona looked at Mikael, fur bristling. "You work for the Governess' Salon?"

"I do a few things for them," he said, calm as ever. "Product supply. Discreet consulting."

Loona scoffed, the disbelief bubbling into something darker. "A brothel. You've been walking into a literal brothel this whole time and didn't think that was worth mentioning?"

"I didn't think it was relevant," he said evenly.

"Of course not," Loona muttered under her breath, tail twitching.

The succubus smiled, clearly enjoying herself. "I was told to deliver it personally," she went on, voice rich as melted chocolate. She walked a slow circle around the room, taking in the apartment with casual indulgence, but her gaze kept drifting back to Mikael. "I didn't think you lived somewhere so… quaint."

"It's quiet," Mikael replied simply, slipping the envelope onto the kitchen counter. "I like quiet."

She smiled, flicking her tail lazily. "That's not what the girls say. They say you're mystery wrapped in silk. And that you smell like moonlight and patience."
She stepped in closer now, too close. "Do you really not burn when touched, or is that just part of the legend?"

Mikael didn't step back, but neither did he lean in. "I'm just here to do my job."

Loona's lip curled. "Yeah, and you've done it. So maybe take your heels and the bedtime story and go."

"I didn't realize that you would have, ah… company." the succubus said dismissively.

"I live here," Loona growled.

"Ah." The woman raised a brow. "That explains the attitude."

Mikael didn't say anything, but Loona swore there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. The succubus must've seen it too, because she smiled wider.

"Well," she said, voice suddenly silk and knives, "perhaps next time Emelea will send me with something a little more... personal. Maybe then we'll have time to talk."

Mikael gave her a polite nod, completely unaffected. "Thank you for delivering it."

She winked at him. "Anytime, sweetheart."

And then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her like a punctuation mark.

Loona glared at the spot where she'd been. "What was that?"

"A message," Mikael replied, already reaching for the envelope. "From Emelea."

She didn't respond. Just took her coffee, sat back down, and stared at the table, scowling deeper with every sip.

Mikael didn't press. He read the message in silence.

But Loona didn't miss the way his fingers lingered on the wax seal just a little too long.

And she hated how that made her feel.


Loona didn't say anything at first.

She just paced.

The living room wasn't big, but she made do, tail lashing, claws clicking against the floor with restless energy. Mikael had resumed his seat at the counter, coffee in hand, flipping through the contents of the envelope like nothing had happened.

It made her want to scream.

"So," she finally bit out, "you really work for the Salon."

Mikael glanced up. "I do."

"That's—" she stopped, snarled, and threw herself onto the couch instead. "That's a brothel. A fancy, perfume-drenched, demon-infested brothel."

"Yes."

"And you just—what—drop in for tea and trade hair cream with succubi?"

"I provide specialty products," he said calmly. "Cosmetics. Perfumes. Healing oils. Sometimes custom orders. Sometimes consultation."

Loona stared at him, incredulous. "Consultation. Seriously? On what? How to not catch something?"

He looked at her patiently. "Presentation. Illusion magic. Temporary enchantments. Psychological cues for customer interaction. I'm good at it."

"Oh my God." She rubbed her face. "You make stripper potions for literal succubi and act like it's no big deal."

"It's work," he replied. "It's not personal."

Loona shot him a glare. "They flirt with you."

"They flirt with everyone."

"But you go. You still go. And you let them wrap themselves around you like they're just part of the furniture—"

"I don't let anyone do anything," Mikael said, not unkindly. "They try. I decline."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

He blinked at her, tilting his head. "Why would it need to?"

That did it.

Loona stood up, fuming. "Because it's gross! It's creepy and stupid and you're too—" she flailed, looking for the right word, "—you to even notice how messed up it is!"

"I notice," he said gently. "I'm just not bothered by it."

"Well I am!"

He didn't answer. Just watched her, the same way he always did—quiet, steady, maddeningly calm. Like she was a puzzle he didn't need to solve, just… observe.

She hated that.

She hated how he never fought back, never raised his voice, never gave her anything to push against.

And she hated that the more honest he was, the more it hurt.

Loona's voice cracked when she snapped, "You like going there, don't you?"

"No," Mikael said, voice quiet. "But I don't hate it."

It wasn't the worst answer he could've given.

That made it worse.

With a frustrated growl, Loona turned on her heel and stormed off, tail lashing. The door to her room slammed shut behind her hard enough to rattle the lights.

Mikael didn't move.

He sat there in the stillness she left behind, sipping lukewarm coffee and letting her anger settle into the walls like smoke.

From her room Mikael heard something muttered into a pillow.

He didn't catch the words.

But he caught the tone.

And still, he didn't stop listening.