The giant mansion pulsed with Helluva Boss chaos—Blitzo yelling at Moxxie, Millie egging them on, Loona half-asleep on a couch, Fizz and Ozzie holding court in the ballroom, Verosika already three drinks deep. Stolas floated near the main staircase, wine glass in hand, while you stood at his side like always.
You: 6'2", lean athletic build, sharp shoulders and defined arms under a loose white shirt, dark pants, and that long dark-grey trench coat. Shoulder-length dark brown hair in a messy half-up top knot, loose fringes framing a sharp, lightly stubbled jaw and tired green eyes. Stoic. Detached. The kind of fatalistic quiet that made most demons give you space.
Your gaze, however, kept drifting toward Andrealphus.
The peacock prince was draped across a velvet settee in the side lounge, ice-blue feathers catching the chandelier light, expression as sharp and cold as ever. Every measured gesture, every clipped remark, every dismissive tilt of his head pulled your attention like gravity. You didn’t smile. You rarely did. But the interest was there—quiet, pragmatic, and stubbornly fixed.
When a fight broke out near the bar and someone threw a chair, you simply tilt your head dodging it.