Satan stood at the door, holding a heavy brown paper bag filled with groceries, looking every bit composed. Emily was surprised—why was he here? Bert, drying his hair, noticed her hesitation. "Who is it?" “…It’s Vincent.” Bert’s face lit up. “Vincent’s here? Why aren’t you letting him in? ” Bert pushed past Emily, opening the door eagerly. When he saw Satan, he broke into a broad smile, his face wrinkling with joy. “Come in, come in! You bought a lot of things! You should have called; I’d have had Emily go down and meet you.” Satan smiled, respectful as ever. “No need, it’s not much.” “Not much? This must weigh at least thirty pounds! And you’re not fully recovered yet. It must be freezing outside. Does your throat hurt?” Satan, wearing a pair of black leather gloves, stood in the warmth of the room, the gloves quickly gathering condensation. “Emily, get Vincent a cup of hot water,” Bert urged. “He’s probably caught a chill outside; let him warm up a bit.” “There’s no need. I just stopped by to drop these off,” Satan turned to Emily, looking as if he wanted to say more but hesitated. “I saw the forecast; they’re predicting snow for New York soon. I thought I’d bring some supplies over for you to have on hand.” Emily glanced at the bag in the corner, packed to the brim. The items ranged from fresh meat and eggs to vegetables and even snacks, at least twenty or thirty pounds. “Let me know if you need anything else, and I’ll bring it by,” he added. “I could have gotten these myself,” Emily said, still a bit uncertain. “It’s heavy, and the store isn’t close by. How would you have carried it all?” Emily tried to counter, “You’re recovering from an injury, but if you can do it, I can help too.” “But I’m a man,” Satan insisted simply. Bert was thrilled and pulled Satan onto the couch as if he were greeting a future son-in-law. “Vincent, stay for lunch. Emily’s cooking, and you should join us.” Satan looked to Emily for approval, waiting for her response, but Bert intervened, “You’re practically family. Think of this as your own home; don’t be a stranger.”“It’s still Emily’s space,” Satan replied cautiously. “What’s hers will be yours soon enough. Vincent, I wanted to discuss something with you—come with me.” Bert led Satan into his bedroom, throwing a parting instruction over his shoulder, “Emily, make a bit extra for lunch, will you?” The door shut with a soft click, leaving Emily feeling a bit out of sorts. What exactly was happening here? They hadn’t even sorted things out, and here was her uncle practically handing over his blessing. In the kitchen, Emily prepared lunch while Olivia messaged, checking in. Emily recounted her unexpected morning with Bert and Satan. Olivia replied with an emoji: “Honestly, men have a different way of judging people. I’d bet your uncle just sees Satan as a good man through and through, so he’s pleased as punch.” Emily raised an eyebrow at the message. “A ‘man’s perspective’?” “Yeah, and as an elder. I watched this psychologist’s talk recently, and she said men often have a unique ability to tell if another man is trustworthy, just like women often sense things about other women. I’d bet Satan’s got all the ‘reliable guy’ boxes ticked.” Emily sent back an eye-roll emoji. “Oh, and what did your uncle say about Jackson? I’m curious.” Emily thought back, then typed, “He said Jackson’s a good guy but can be impulsive.” “Honestly, Emily, I agree.” “Hmm?” “Yeah, Jackson’s the kind of guy I’d be drawn to if I were in high school or college again. He’s passionate, fun, and loves fiercely—like a hero out of an old romance novel.” Emily laughed. “A hero?” “Exactly, but heroes’ partners often don’t fare well. If I had to choose now, I’d rather settle down with someone more grounded. A simple, steady life sounds a lot better than a whirlwind romance with a hero.” Emily caught the message’s underlying meaning. “You think I should choose Satan, don’t you?” “Even though Jackson’s my soon-to-be brother-in-law, if I were in your shoes, I’d say you should pick someone you truly love. That way, you’ll have no regrets down the line.” Olivia’s philosophical response surprised Emily. Just then, the kettle whistled, signaling the water was ready, and Emily excused herself from the chat to pour a cup. Taking the steaming cup to Bert’s room, she knocked. Satan opened the door, just about to leave. They stood face to face, both momentarily frozen. “Um…” Emily extended the cup toward him. “This is for you.” She handed it over a bit too forcefully, spilling a few drops on his hand, where it immediately turned red from the heat. “Oh no…” Emily quickly apologized. “Run it under cold water. I’m so sorry.” Satan dismissed her concern. “It’s nothing. I… didn’t feel it.” Emily looked worried. “But this is freshly boiled; it’s really hot!” Satan reassured her softly, “My skin isn’t very sensitive to temperature anymore. It’s fine, Emily—don’t worry…” Not sensitive to temperature anymore? Emily’s gaze softened with understanding. Was it because of that fire?