Disclaimer: I don't own D. Gray Man.

The Exorcist © Blob80

…

There is pleasure in suggestion,

More in patience,

Most, however, in presence.

Her fingers trailed over cerise stained ruffles.

Over a torn off arm and a broken leg. A neck snapped in half and barely noticeable marks of tiny teeth along a pale shoulder—whether those marks were from an animal or a monster, she didn't know. But it was certainly an otherworldly being. Because they contrasted so wonderfully against the woman's skin, she could just imagine the look of either intense pleasure or crippling regret that must've stretched across her lips, before they were left. Red against stark white. Though she was merely speculating. Because they weren't red. The nameless woman's body had been drained of all blood, and as she placed the final touches of make-up on her already cold face, she smiled in unbridled delight.

What a beautiful sight.

Swathing the woman in a dress more suited for the occasion and its dreary company, she closed the door behind her. There was no more for her to do. Nothing left, but to wait for the dead woman's funeral. Where family and friends would cry in commemoration of a woman they never truly loved—but of course, for appearances sake, they'd need to run through the proper motions, lest society speak ill of them—for if they truly loved her, why would she have been advertising herself every night to faceless men that sought nothing more than a warm body and a good time?

They didn't even pay her. That was what really got to her. Not the fact that she whored herself off to dozens of poor and rich men alike, but that she didn't even seek payment. Or perhaps it was that she didn't need it. Yes, she was a rich little thing. She had to be. To order her services. When she was tasked to do something, they'd bought not only her skill. But her discreet tongue. Perhaps the woman just wanted to bring color into her drab world. Paint her days with lecherous fun. And like a madman with a brush, that's what she did. The scent of semen and play radiated from the woman's corpse. So thick, it was as if the men thrust it straight into her pores.

Still, the woman was beautiful.

She'd just never understand why she'd find the need to do such things. There were surely easier ways of self-deprecation. Then again, perhaps she loved herself. Perhaps she was so comfortable and in tune with her body that she didn't care what others thought. Because she loved herself so much that she didn't allow others to make her feel bad for living life the way she wanted to. That was a far more beautiful description—and it was the one she kept of the corpse in her back room. The very one that would go into a coffin tomorrow for men to mourn her loss and worship her one last time, before she was buried six feet under.

The scent of nicotine invaded her nostrils like the most relieving of balms, cutting through the putrid stench of dirt and formaldehyde and death. When she finally opened her eyes again, realizing that she'd been leaning against the door, she found a handsome man stretched like a succubus across her seemingly incomparable couch. It was a ratty thing that didn't belong under someone with such a beautiful face. His dark skin was a contrast to the white dress shirt, but his darker hair matched gloriously with his black pants, framing golden eyes in a way that could only be described as alluring.

For the past three months, he'd been coming and going as he pleased with nothing more than a smile in her direction and a genteel introduction.

"My name is Tyki Mikk, Miss," he had said with a bow, grabbing her hand and placing a kiss atop her knuckles, like she didn't smell of fresh carcass. "And you are?"

Later, she'd realized he had brought a dead man with him. And from his relaxed posture and easy grin, she could tell that he wasn't unused to seeing such things. Why he brought him, she hadn't a clue. But from the way his mouth had tilted up into a seemingly careless smile, she didn't think he knew either. Perhaps it was a whim. He looked like the type. Tyki didn't say much, as she began prepping the man out of instinct, despite not knowing his name or anything about his standing. Despite not receiving payment for doing so. And though she saw the clear marks of murder that trailed along the nameless man's body, she didn't bother interrogating him.

She merely did her job, then turned away. Content to leave the process of burying the man to him. Tyki didn't, however, and before she could say anything about it. A single black butterfly had floated past her head and began the dutiful process of swallowing the man in bite sized chunks. The surprise was clear in her eyes and before she knew it, he was laughing at her.

It was a startlingly pleasant sound.

Too lovely for such an appalling setting.

And by the time he'd ushered himself out, the very next week, he was back with another corpse on his shoulder. And a dazzling smile that turned dark when he summoned his butterflies of death. By then, he'd been decent enough to leave a sum of money on her table and had even cleaned up her shop. A small, yet durable place that fit her needs well rather than provided a place of comfort. Though she supposed she did find some sort of solace in her work.

Tyki was a demon, she'd decided one day when he came with a particularly bloody package on his back. A child, she later saw, after unwrapping the cloth that had been haphazardly thrown about him. Tyki was a demon that had come to haunt her and give her victims for her to beautify one last time, before they disappeared silently from existence. And because he was a demon, she didn't question him anymore than necessary.

A truly foolish thing.

But she liked him.

She wasn't stubborn enough to not be able to admit that to herself. It wasn't the romantic sort—though even she wasn't entirely sure of that—it was the sort of like that came from sitting long nights with someone whom she considered pleasant. A like that spoke of comfort and ease. Perhaps that was also his power of allure as a demon. But they shared the same scent—a truly difficult thing to come by—and she liked it. His odor had a touch of danger to it, whereas she had morbid enthusiasm. That strange flare added flavor to something she was already well acquainted with. He was open with his mania and it was refreshing. But what she found most agreeable was his display over her chosen profession and how he handled himself with each of her inappropriate smiles as she drained the bodies of blood and fixed their appearances. Spreading balms over their mangled selves.

Tyki looked at her with neither disgust, nor monotony.

Just a small smile on his face that told her he approved of her taking pleasure in his work. It was a sick and twisted smile, she knew. Yet, it was refreshing all the same.

She loved it.

"Miss Orvis," Tyki suddenly drawled, dragging her from her thoughts. His voice dropped into a whisper, as he corrected his mannerly slip. He hadn't meant to refer to her so formally. He knew she didn't like it. She'd told him that many times. Because Orvis belonged to her parents. "Monet."

"Yes?" she asked, snapping from her stupor and finally leaving her place by the door. She settled on a nearby desk, filing paperwork for the woman she'd just finished preserving. The sleeping beauty that made men weep. The world was already a little uglier now with her gone. But at least all women around the world could feel just a tad better about themselves in comparison.

"So you do have customers other than myself," he mused, taking an exceptionally long and unhealthy drag from his cigarette. He thoroughly enjoyed every second it spent in his lungs. "The first time I come to visit you without work and you're actually working."

"Yes," she repeated, though now with a different end tone. "Even if you decide to stay home or do your job, people will die with or without your assistance, Tyki."

"I know," he said, smiling in that way that could make the purest of women tremble before him. A smile that held secrets. The secret of writhing in throes of passion, surely. She wasn't tempted enough to find out. Tyki was pretty to look at, however. She could admit that. And the way his eyes lit up at the mention of his job somehow made him look brighter. Even she didn't know what his job entailed, but from the bodies he brought back with him, she kept to her demon theory. It certainly didn't seem too far off. It would at least explain the man's beauty. A demons beauty was strictly a matter of course after all.

"Thank you, though," Monet amended, fingering her black locks. As she continued to write. "For your continued patronage."

He laughed then. Amused and distinctly virile. "You're welcome, Miss. I enjoy the pleasure of your company. But—" he paused and Monet watched him stretch his neck, looking uncomfortable as he did so, "—it would help if you had bandages on hand. I'm sure I'd be able to more thoroughly enjoy our weekly meetings if I wasn't sporting such tender cuts."

"Rarely, do I enjoy the company of fickle men."

"Fickle?" he laughed again. "I assure you, it was a kitten that scratched my back."

"A kitten able to use perfume."

Tyki stood, walking over to sit at the very edge of her table, uncaring for the papers that fell to the ground upon his doing so. "I apologize then for lying so poorly."

"You're forgiven," Monet easily declared, smiling, as she leaned back in her seat. "If you had expressed regret for your more… crass actions, I would have thrown you out for lying again."

His gaze lifted toward the window, where rain pounded the streets below, creating puddles along concrete. "I'm very grateful for the shelter," he purred.

She merely blinked at him. "You clean my house every week. I can shelter you for a few hours. I never said I disliked your company."

Tyki smirked. "This is a nice place, but you're slovenly attitude makes it a hovel. I can't stand clutter."

"There's nothing beautiful about inanimate objects. They lack warmth, you know?"

"All too well."

"I don't find joy in caring for cold things."

Ironic, since she dealt with the dead.

Tyki didn't mean to keep returning.

He knew it was dangerous. But he'd always been closer to humans than the other Noah. He liked their strangeness and their quirks. Monet was especially peculiar. And because he was a hedonist by nature, he continued his pleasurable visits. It was just another one of his sudden whimsies. And never one to ignore his impulses, he acted upon them almost without thought. It was just second nature.

His interest had been stoked after all.

After that first night, when he walked into a house that sat precariously at the edge of town near the cemetery where the inconsolable went to grieve, he'd simply been curious. He knew that the one that lived there must have been either a priest, an undertaker, or a groundskeeper. And because the night had been long and the winds had been cool, he knocked on the door, briefly wondering if he should have morphed into his lighter form. But he'd decided against it at the last moment when he realized that the old man that lived there would have definitely seen stranger things than a man with scars on his forehead and unnatural eyes during his undoubtedly long life. To his surprise, however, a young woman had opened the door.

Her black hair was long and unkempt, her dress was the same and though not unfashionable, it wasn't modern either. Pale eyes stared out from paler skin that put his white version's complexion to shame, as if she hadn't seen the sun in ages. Not a difficult thing to imagine, really. For someone that lived on the edge of a town that's weather was more often than not darker than his mood, he was surprised some of the residents had a tan at all.

With nothing more than a timely bow and a minute assessment of her, he flashed her a smile that spoke his pleasure and surprise at both her age and gender.

And when he told her about the burden he'd left a short walk away from her home, he amused himself with watching her work.

"Why do you do it?" he had asked during one of his weekly visits, as he changed, fiddling with the cuff links of the expensive suit the Earl had so generously gifted him. He'd begun to keep a change of clothes at her home—along with a fine tea set he only really used for coffee. He wasn't very fond of the scent of blood. And that's what he usually smelled of whenever he came through her door with his newest job haphazardly thrown over his shoulder. He knew he could've just let the Tease eat them, but there was something that tickled his sadistic side whenever he watched her fix those he'd ruined.

It became a game after a while.

Sometimes he'd destroy certain parts just to see how much she could repair. At one point, she'd actually pouted when he'd finally brought in someone she couldn't fully restore. That was when he knew he'd gone too far. He toned down the next time. Because it wasn't a game if he gave her no hope of winning. And win, she did. Quite a lot. Though he didn't hate that. There was also pleasure in losing. In seeing the satisfaction flit across her face after she was done. He doubted she knew they were playing though. And he didn't bother telling her.

"Do what?" she had asked.

"Embalm."

"Because I want to commemorate life."

"Then you should go out and live it instead. Dealing with corpses is dreary. Unfit for a lady. I'd whisk you away, if you'd simply ask."

"I like my job."

"Do you like seeing the smile on the families' faces?" he'd asked, needing to know why she liked it. "That's all funerals are, you know? They're for the weak, sniveling people left behind."

"I like seeing them at peace," she'd declared. And perhaps it was that declaration that truly hooked him. It was such a peculiar trade, yet she found pleasure in it all the same. He, on the other hand, wasn't fond of the dead. Sure, he liked the process right before they died—more specifically, the bloody way in which they reached their end—but he had no interest in them after all was said and done. Boring things, they were. They couldn't speak, couldn't think, yet when she treated them, it was as if they'd suddenly spring up and show him that frightened look all over again. Right before he killed them.

It was exciting.

He was able to watch them be eaten without the unwanted distraction of tears and screams.

And so he continued to come.

Tyki watched her carefully, as she wrote out the final sentences concerning the young woman's funeral on a slip of paper, before sliding it into a manila folder. Her writing was smooth, cursive, and round. Very round. And he found himself tracing the lines on top of a note taped crudely on top of her desk.

"No work today?" she asked, leaning back in her seat. As he lit another cigarette. They tasted strange whenever it rained. He didn't particularly like it.

He shook his head. "I have the freedom to do what I please today. While there is pleasure in being alone, I'm not the sort that enjoys loneliness."

"So you choose to come here?"

"I figured the room would be a mess." Tyki shrugged, grinning playfully. "I see I wasn't mistaken."

"You'll spoil me if you keep cleaning up after my messes."

"A woman should be spoiled. I've always excelled at it," he muttered. And suddenly the warmth from the hearth paled to the fire welling between them. The look he gave her left her breathless—he knew it, he felt it—and the surge of desperation and heat that left his own body surprised even him. The flames across the room were complacent in comparison. He was getting too close. But that had never stopped him before. It certainly wouldn't now. "And I enjoy spoiling you. This is a very different sort from the type of spoiling I'm used to, however."

"Feel free to stop when you tire of it then."

"I will," he assured, running a finger down her cheek, before cupping it. She smelt like him. Blood and death and cigarettes. Unappealing, yet he was fine with it all the same.

She closed her eyes and sighed, leaning into his palm. "You're a strange demon."

Tyki laughed, highly amused. "Is that what you think of me?" he asked, eyes shining. "You aren't far off. What does that make you, I wonder? Willingly hanging around a demon isn't a habit you should get into, Monet."

"You haven't killed me yet, so I must be doing something right."

"Your contentment is disconcerting."

"So are those butterflies of yours."

He smiled, bending close enough so that he could feel the warm exhale of her breath against his lips. "Thank you for your time, love. But my freedom has come to an end. At least for today. I enjoyed seeing you work. It's a shame I couldn't let my pets loose."

"Take an umbrella on your way out."

He grabbed his hat instead, tipping it politely, before he excused himself.

Tyki didn't return for weeks after his lethargic departure. The scent of nicotine was beginning to wear from her home. In its place was jasmine and lavender that came from a particularly rich client that believed her workplace needed a better aroma. It made her nose twitch.

Monet stared blankly at the four squares of her drawing room that doubled as her office. A red couch in the center with a low coffee table before it looked as inviting as it was comfortable. Which was not at all. How Tyki managed to relax on it was a wonder even to her. She certainly couldn't. Monet preferred the comfort of her leather chair. The place was horribly spotless, the garbage filled to the brim with used gloves, scrapped paper, and plastic wrappers. Her papers were pristine. The unused ashtray at the side of her desk, however, was a sore reminder of his lack of presence. She'd had many customers recently, since the holidays were near—the depressed seemed to collectively agree that Christmas was the best time to commit suicide—and she'd spent most of her time working. The bodies were nothing special. They provided no real challenge. Still, she enjoyed it all the same. At least she tried to.

Her hands lingered on the trash bin by her side. It wasn't as if he'd promised to return. He never had. She didn't see him as the type to do so. He came and went as he pleased, but if he had a lot to clean, sometimes he'd linger.

"He'd laugh," Monet muttered, "if he found out that I'm actually a neat freak."

She tipped the can over. Crumpled papers rolled across the floor and when she flicked a mountain of folders by her side, they fluttered all over the room, slipping under furniture.

"Am I a child?" she wondered, self-deprecatingly. "This room's going to be a mess if you don't come, Tyki."

It was then a knock came, urgently rasping against her door, as if death himself were on the visitor's heels. From the heaviness of the sound, she guess it was a man. And when Monet opened the door, she found her assumptions correct. He was handsome—once. His hair had thinned, his strong jaw was hammered down by wrinkles, and the blue eyes that met her own were dimmed by age. Still, his smile was dazzling. Even with the drear of their surroundings and his panting breaths. They were visible things. Puffs of white in the cold. He wore a black robe that would have been worthless had it not been for the many lines of silver all across its stitching.

One look at the holster at his side told her he wasn't one to be trifled with.

"Can I help you?" she asked, ushering him inside.

"Yes," he cleared his throat. "Are you the groundskeeper here?"

"For the cemetery, you mean?" Monet gestured out the window, not really looking at him. She could tell he was irked by the mess in the room, but she couldn't find it in herself to care. She sought only to make the dead comfortable. The living were a different matter entirely and since he didn't seem to be here for business, then his mentality was none of her concern. "No, I'm afraid the official groundskeeper lives on the other side. Closer to the town and closer to the cemetery's main gate. I'm the local mortician."

"I see," he said, nodding vaguely.

"Can I help you?" she repeated.

"There have been reports here." He eyed her, cautious. The way he chose his words was even more so. "Of Akuma. Have you heard of them, Miss…?"

"Monet," she supplied, instantly thinking of Tyki. "And I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. I live quietly here. Rarely, do I receive visitors. And if any demons were to come then I don't think I'd have the ability to truly recognize them."

"These aren't demons from fairytales or churches," he told her. "Akuma are… very noticeable. Lethal things."

"Then I haven't seen any."

"You seem to be taking this quite well," he observed. "Do you not believe me or are you really so confident in your ability to protect yourself against anything?"

Monet laughed at that. "I live in a graveyard, sir. Demons and ghosts don't scare me."

He shook his head, but smiled all the same. "They should, Miss Monet."

"If I was scared of death then I would have quit long ago."

"Seeing and experiencing it are quite different."

"I suppose you're right." Monet grinned at him. "Still, I've yet to experience such a thing. And I don't plan to either."

"Very well then, Miss Monet." He bowed. "Your confidence is reassuring, but if you do happen to see anything then please don't hesitate to call. I'll be staying at the Blue Basin Inn for the time being."

She curtsied in return. "Of course."

As he turned to leave, he came face-to-face with a shaggy haired man in overalls. His skin was as pale as hers and the cigarette that dangled from his lips was a welcome scent in her small room. The swirly glasses balanced on the tip of his nose hid his eyes from view, but he seemed like the ditzy sort, judging by the way he gave the finely dressed man a goofy smile, before awkwardly sliding out of the way.

"Sorry 'bout that," the newcomer said, stepping aside. As he scratched the back of his head. A small blush lit his cheeks in a terribly cute way. He reminded Monet of a puppy.

"No, I'm sorry for blocking your way." The nameless man shook his head politely, before turning to give Monet one last nod of farewell. "Well then, Miss Monet. It was a pleasure."

"Hoooo~" the newcomer muttered, watching the other walk away. "Rich guy, huh? He had some really nice clothes. I bet he could afford a really great funeral. Was he here for you, too?"

"No. He just had a few questions."

"Hmmmm…" he contemplated, taking a long drag from his cigarette. It was strangely similar to the way Tyki held his. Less refined, but the way it hung carelessly in his mouth reminded her of the dark haired man. They even had the same hair. Though his seemed as if it hadn't been washed in a week.

Monet tilted her head, gesturing the stranger in, assuming he was a customer. Because why wouldn't he be? It was strange to receive two non-paying visitors. Consecutively, at that. People tended to avoid graveyards. She didn't blame them. The stranger, however, stopped at the threshold of the door. His cheeks burned, turning the tips of his ears a beautiful red.

"Is something wrong?" Monet asked. And the tint darkened. "This room is my office," she assured. "It's okay to come inside."

"Ah!" He looked up quickly and took a deep breath, before stepping through the door. A bright smile on his face. It didn't disappear even when he looked upon the mess she'd—intentionally—made. "Kinda messy in here, don'tcha think?"

He nervously backed up at the glare she shot him, holding his hands up in the universal signs of surrender. "I mean…" he muttered, uncomfortable. "Nice place."

Monet sighed. "Someone usually comes to clean, but… he's not here today."

"He?" he asked, surprised. "Not a woman?"

She shrugged. "He enjoys it apparently."

"Hmmm…" His eyes continued to roam. "Wish I had someone to help cleanup. The guys where I work ain't exactly the neat sort, ya know?"

"All too well. I'll mention you to him. Maybe he'll be interested in cleaning your place as well. He's strange like that."

He laughed at that, shoulders shaking in absolute mirth and his glasses almost falling from his nose. Almost. "You like him? You sound like you do."

"Do I?" she questioned, not sure herself. But if he said it then it must have been true. What reason would he have to lie? "I suppose I do. He brings me work and I enjoy his company. Is that good enough?"

"S'pose so…" He shrugged. "Talking about another man is depressing me though."

"Then is there something you need?" Monet asked, getting down to business. The man was decidedly easy to speak to. His atmosphere was warm and welcoming, a complete opposite to the one they were speaking of. But she didn't hate it. He was earnest and bright like the sun. Something she didn't see much of in her life. Monet watched as he made himself comfortable on the lumpy couch. It suited him. In an impoverish way. Though she didn't dare voice that thought. It was too rude. But from the way his mouth tilted up knowingly, she wondered if he knew what she was thinking. His thick glasses made it impossible to tell.

"Nah," he muttered, waving his hand to and fro. Monet raised an eyebrow at him. "I was out here visitin' an old friend. I thought that ancient guy may have been harassing you, yea?"

"So you stepped up out of the kindness of your heart?" she asked in disbelief, stepping back in sudden suspicion. He was a scrawny thing. He didn't look like he could put up much of a fight.

"Chivalry ain't dead!" he said with a laugh and a smile entirely too bright for a mortuary. It was a nice, comfortable smile. He gestured to the empty ashtray at the side of her table, as he took a long drag from his cigarette. "Pass the ashtray, will ya?"

She reached for it, but then hesitated. Dark hair and darker skin under a half open shirt entering her mind. And Monet shook her head. She handed him an empty bowl instead. "It's not mine. I'm sorry."

The smile he gave her was forgiving.

When he left her office, it was in a far better mood than when he had arrived. The Earl was driving him mad with assignments and Road certainly didn't ease the burdens of his work. Still, he completed them without fail. As was expected of him. Though the effect it had on his mentality was something else altogether. Tyki enjoyed having spare time. And he hated having it taken away for any extended period of time.

So, when he'd seen the exorcist questioning her during his usual trip to her home, he'd acted on impulse. He'd quickly changed into his lighter version, observing the man as he left and committing his appearance to memory. The exorcist didn't recognize him, but that was only to be expected. He looked nothing like his usual self. Tyki hadn't meant to stay. He hadn't meant to ever visit her in his human form. But he'd also been craving her easy company for the past few days and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

And it was that desire that compelled him to walk through her door and spend time in her company as a normal man.

It was an… informative experience. To say the least.

But that was a thought for a later time. Right now, he stood at one of the old, rickety doors of the Blue Basin Inn and from the way the shadows below the door ceased their movement, the exorcist within knew he was there. He couldn't have an exorcist walking around, asking questions, and ruining the Millennium Earl's plans. More importantly, he couldn't let this place become overrun with exorcists. There was someone important to him here. Someone whose company he enjoyed. Which idiot had infested and planted the thought of Akuma here in the first place? He'd have to rid this area of the Akuma himself. It wouldn't take too long. But he could do that tomorrow.

Knocking, Tyki smiled as the man opened the door.

The barrel of a gun was promptly pointed at his head.

"Noah," he snarled, before firing.

The bullet missed and before he could react, Tyki was already behind him. His eyes gleamed, as his lips stretched into a smile worthy of masks and ancient jesters. The Earl would be proud.

"Allow me to liberate your head from your shoulders," he told the man.

"Neve—"

"I'm sorry. That wasn't a literal request," Tyki said placidly. "Please die."

The exorcist screamed louder than he liked. And by the time Tyki hauled the man over his shoulder and dragged him away, the entire town was awake. But his Tease easily took care of any witnesses.

Two languid rasps sounded against her door, breaking through the stillness that always settled with the cicadas during particularly peaceful nights.

And when Monet opened the door to her apartment, she wasn't surprised to find him leaning against the frame. Smelling of blood with his dress shirt half-buttoned. His top hat was nowhere to be found, allowing dark curls to fall temptingly over golden eyes. There was a cigarette in his mouth that tilted upward when he smirked. His hand brushed over her face. It was cold. So, so cold. But the heat in his eyes was anything but.

"I was just talking about you," she told him.

"With a customer?" he asked innocently, raising a perfectly formed eyebrow.

Monet shook her head, ignoring the way he looked at her in surprise. There was amusement in his gaze, and she wondered for a moment if he was stalking her. He was a demon after all. She wouldn't put it past him.

A butterfly floated past her ear and she stared as it passed.

Forcing her gaze away from the messenger of death, she turned to see a man in a familiar silver trimmed coat slumped against the wall. Blood pooled around him and her eyes widened when she found his own head cradled in his carcass' arms. Tyki tugged, forcing her gaze back to him.

"Hey," Tyki said, far too casual. "I have work for you."

She eyed him, reminded of the day he'd first come to her. But there was certainly something different in his gaze. As if he'd suddenly start saying things that didn't sound like him.

"I don't have much money on me right now," he told her, patting his pockets with his free hand. And with her keen eyes, she caught sight of swirly glasses in his dress pants. Had he killed that stranger, too? But when his smile widened in what seemed to be sudden remembrance of something, she saw the same flash of excessive warmth as the stranger that had come to visit her a few hours ago.

Just who—what— was he?

"Let me cleanup for you instead," Tyki told her, already deciding in his head that it was a good enough trade. As he gestured with his chin toward the corpse behind him. "Think you can handle it?"

Well, no matter.

She didn't want to question a demon. Because, well… she'd been over this part already. There was no need to reiterate. Especially when he was waiting for a response. She'd been doomed the moment he first stepped through her door. She knew it. He knew it. They disregarded it. It truly didn't matter at this moment. And Monet felt her mouth twitch upward, as she motioned him inside, where the fire burned poorly in comparison to the warmth of his hands.

"Come in."

A/N: Heavily inspired by a manga. Kudos to you if you know which one it is. This was my first time writing for this fandom, so don't hate me for not including other characters. I haven't read the manga in ages and I didn't want to make them come off as OOC. Sorry if Tyki is OOC. I'm not really sure anymore, tbh. This three-shot is dedicated to NightOwlCC. You've been an awesome friend and happy early birthday! And allow me to shamelessly advertise by saying, check out her YYH fics!

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