You'd gone simple. A devil costume. Red horns, a black dress, a tail that kept snagging on chairs. It felt safe enough. Easy. You didn't have to think about it.

Music rattled the walls. Coworkers wandered around in increasingly ridiculous costumes—someone had dressed as a vending machine, another had gone as a villain that immediately got booed out of the room. Someone had already lost a shoe somewhere near the kitchen.

You were nursing a drink and pretending you weren't checking the door.

Every few minutes.

You'd tell yourself you were just seeing who else showed up. That it was habit. That you weren't looking for one specific head of messy blond hair, one specific pair of wings that always seemed to fill whatever room they were in.

Then the door opened.

And then Mirko walked in right behind him.

Of course.

The room erupted. Whistles, catcalls, someone shouting, "Look at the happy couple!" Hawks just laughed, running a hand through his hair, and Mirko played it up—wrapping an arm around his elbow, leaning into him like it was nothing.

You laughed with everyone else. It was easier than admitting your stomach had just dropped.