The mirror had always been unkind to Freya.

She stood in her bedroom, bathed in the pale yellow light of her desk lamp, staring at her reflection. Same skinny arms. Same awkward shoulders. Same plain face that disappeared in the crowd at school. She tugged at her oversized sweater, trying to will herself into someone beautiful—someone worthy of being noticed.

It didn’t work.

Freya let out a sigh, her breath fogging up the glass. She reached up and wiped it away, smearing the reflection. There was a dance next week. Everyone was talking about it, pairing up, planning their dresses and hairstyles. And he—Caleb—was going to be there. Her crush since freshman year. Golden boy of the school. The one who’d never even looked at her twice.

Her fingers curled into a fist. “I just want to be seen,” she whispered.

No one heard her. Not her absent parents, always working late. Not the girls at school who laughed too loudly when she walked past. And certainly not the universe, which had remained stubbornly indifferent to every silent plea she’d ever made.

That night, she retreated into the attic—a space she’d avoided since childhood. Dust choked the air, and shadows clung to the wooden beams like cobwebs. But something about it called to her. She wanted to be alone, but more than that, she needed to escape the version of herself she was tired of living with.

She was about to turn back when she noticed an old trunk tucked behind a broken rocking chair. Curiosity tugged at her. With effort, she dragged it out and pried it open. Inside were old velvet cloths, a melted candle, bones—real or not, she couldn’t tell—and a leather-bound book with faded gold lettering.

Her skin prickled. The title read: "The Binding of Desire: Rituals from Beyond."

She should have closed the trunk. Should have laughed and walked away. But something in the air shifted. The silence around her thickened, charged, as though holding its breath.

Freya sat cross-legged and opened the book.

The pages were filled with strange symbols, incantations, rituals. Most were written in languages she didn’t understand, but one stood out—A Summon for Love’s Longing. Her eyes scanned the ingredients. A drop of blood. A mirror. A black candle. A wish spoken from the soul.

Her heart pounded.

It was insane.

And yet… what if it wasn’t?

Later that night, in her room, she drew the sigil from the page onto her mirror with lipstick. She lit a black candle she’d found in the attic, pricked her finger, and let the drop of blood fall onto the glass. Her voice trembled as she read the words aloud:

"I call to the one who answers longing,

From shadows deep and desires belonging.

Show yourself to me, bound by this plea,

And grant the beauty I beg to see."

The flame flickered. The room grew colder.

Suddenly, the mirror darkened—black smoke billowing across the surface like storm clouds. Freya gasped and stumbled back. The reflection faded, replaced by something—someone—else.

A tall figure emerged from the smoke. Eyes like molten gold. Hair dark as midnight, tousled like he'd just stepped out of a dream or a nightmare. His presence filled the room like a storm. And then he smirked.

"Well," he said in a voice like velvet and fire, "someone’s been a naughty girl."

Freya’s heart nearly stopped. “W-who—what are you?”

He stepped closer, barefoot, shirt open at the collar, revealing smooth, pale skin beneath. “You summoned me. The question is—why?”

“I… I wanted…” Her voice was barely a whisper. “To be beautiful.”

He laughed—dark and low. “Humans. Always so predictable.”

She flushed, backing up against the wall. “Is this real?”

“Oh, very real.” He tilted his head, studying her like a hunter studies prey. “I’m Azrael. Demon of desire. And you, Freya, have made a deal.”

She froze. “How do you know my name?”

“I know everything about you. Every time you’ve cried into your pillow, every time you wished for more. That’s the scent I follow. Need.” He leaned in, his lips near her ear. “And yours is delicious.”

Freya’s knees went weak.

Azrael straightened. “I’ll give you what you want, little dove. But a wish always comes at a price.”

She swallowed hard. “What do you want?”

He grinned. “Oh, nothing much. Just… your time. Your space. Your soul might come later.” He winked.

Freya stared at him, pulse racing. This was madness. This was dangerous. And yet, for the first time in forever, someone was looking at her—not through her.

She whispered, “Okay.”

And with that, the pact was sealed.

The morning after the summoning felt like a dream Freya wasn’t ready to wake from.

Except it wasn't a dream.

When she opened her eyes, he was there—sitting casually on her desk chair, legs stretched out, flipping through her math textbook like it was some ancient artifact. His black shirt clung to his lean frame, sleeves rolled up, revealing tattooed forearms with markings that looked alive. His golden eyes lifted lazily to meet hers, and he smirked.

"Good morning, Freya."

She bolted upright in bed, her blanket clutched to her chest. "You're still here?"

Azrael stood with a slow grace, every movement fluid and precise. “Of course I am. You agreed to my terms. I’m staying until your wish is fulfilled.”

She blinked at him. “But where will you stay? What if my parents—?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Your parents barely remember you exist, darling. They won't notice.”

The words stung more than they should have. Because they were true.

She flinched, but he softened just slightly. “I mean no offense. It’s just… humans often leave their most fragile ones to fend for themselves.”

Freya slid out of bed, pulling on a hoodie over her nightshirt. “This is insane. You’re insane.”

Azrael leaned against her wall, watching her like she was a puzzle to be solved. “And yet you summoned me.”

She avoided his gaze. “I didn’t think it would work.”

“That’s always the most dangerous kind of summoning.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “Desperate. Pure. Unfiltered. Those wishes taste the sweetest.”

Freya’s breath caught in her throat as he hovered a few inches from her. She could feel the heat radiating from him, his energy humming beneath her skin.

“I’ll give you what you want,” he murmured. “Make him notice you. Make him want you. But you have to let me in, Freya. Into your world. Into you.”

She shivered, unsure if the chill came from fear or something far more dangerous. She didn’t respond, and after a beat, Azrael stepped back.

“Get ready for school,” he said smoothly. “I’ll be with you today. Watching. Helping.”

“You're not coming to school with me,” she snapped, grabbing her bag.

“Oh, but I am.” His smile was maddening. “No one can see me unless I want them to. I’m very good at blending in.”

He vanished in a swirl of smoke, only to reappear behind her. “Now go impress your pretty little crush.”

Freya moved through the halls like she was walking through water—slow, uncertain, disoriented.

Azrael was everywhere. Leaning against her locker, whispering in her ear during class, lounging on desks during lunch. No one else could see him, but his presence was overpowering. His voice, velvet and dark, coached her through every social interaction.

“Stand taller,” he whispered when she slouched. “Smile like you know something they don’t.”

And people started noticing.

Her classmates looked at her differently, like something had shifted. Her posture was more confident. Her laugh more open. Even Caleb glanced her way during lunch—a small glance, sure, but it made her heart flutter.

“You’re doing well,” Azrael purred, appearing beside her on the empty bleachers after school. “But he’s not worthy.”

Freya gave him a tired look. “You don’t even know him.”

“I’ve seen into his soul.” He smirked. “It’s boring.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of him?” Azrael laughed, then leaned in close. “If I wanted you, Freya, I’d have you begging.”

Heat flushed her cheeks. She looked away quickly. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet, your heart is racing.” His voice dropped. “Would you like me to stop?”

She said nothing.

He watched her for a long moment, then his tone softened. “I’m not here to hurt you, Freya. Not unless you want me to.”

She gave him a look, unsure if it was annoyance or something darker. “You're messing with my head.”

“Of course I am,” he said with a wink. “It’s part of the service.”

That night, as Freya lay in bed, she stared at the ceiling while Azrael lounged at the foot of her bed, swirling shadows between his fingers.

“Why me?” she whispered.

Azrael glanced at her. “You called. I answered.”

“No… why are you really here? You said you feed on need, desire. But it feels like... more.”

Azrael was quiet for a moment. Then, almost too softly, he said, “Maybe I wanted to be seen, too.”

Freya turned her head. In the dim light, his expression was unreadable, almost human.

And that night, she dreamed of fire, of kisses that burned, of hands that promised both destruction and safety.

When she woke up, she wasn’t afraid anymore.

She was curious.

Freya didn’t notice the change until her reflection did.

It was subtle at first. The tired shadows under her eyes faded. Her skin looked smoother, her lips fuller, her frame still slim but more… shapely. She blinked, leaning closer to the mirror. Her hair fell differently now, softer somehow, and her posture no longer hunched like she was hiding from the world.

She touched her face, her fingers trembling.

“Careful,” a voice drawled from behind her. “Admiring yourself too long might make you greedy.”

Azrael stood at the doorframe, arms crossed, bare-chested beneath an unbuttoned black shirt that fluttered around his lean body like smoke. His golden eyes flicked over her body with unhidden interest.

“You did this,” she whispered.

“I merely revealed what was already there,” he said, stepping closer. “You were always lovely. I just brushed away the dust others threw on you.”

Freya turned away, embarrassed. “You talk like you’re trying to get in my head.”

“Because I am,” he said, and she heard the smile in his voice. “It’s part of the package.”

She glanced at him through the mirror. “You really think I’m… pretty?”

Azrael tilted his head, gaze darkening. “Pretty is far too mortal a word for what you are. You are temptation beginning to bloom. You're the wish every man makes when he’s alone at night.”

Her breath caught.

His voice dropped an octave. “But they’ll never see the full extent of it—not like I do.”

A strange warmth coiled low in her stomach. She hated how easily he could do this to her—make her feel seen, powerful, desired. And yet she couldn’t look away.

“Is this part of the deal?” she asked, half-whisper. “Flattery and flirtation?”

“No,” Azrael said. “That part is free.”

At school, the effect was undeniable.

Caleb, her long-time crush, started talking to her. First, it was small things—compliments on her new hairstyle, questions about assignments. Then casual invitations to hang out, sit near him at lunch, walk together after class.

Freya felt like she was floating.

Azrael watched from the shadows, always unseen but never unnoticed. He was there when Caleb handed her a note during class, when he brushed her hand “accidentally” during lunch. And each time, Azrael’s presence grew heavier, darker, like a storm building behind her.

“You’re not happy,” she told him one evening as they walked under a sky choked with stars.

Azrael kicked at the gravel on the road beside her. “I’m not jealous.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You were thinking it.”

She turned to face him, crossing her arms. “Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, their bodies only inches apart now. His scent was intoxicating—like ash and roses. Dangerous and beautiful.

“You think he sees you now?” Azrael asked, voice low. “He doesn’t. He sees the illusion. The shine I put on you. He wants the fantasy, not the fire underneath.”

Freya’s chin lifted. “And you think you know the real me?”

“I do know the real you,” Azrael growled. “The one who cried herself to sleep. The one who kept journals full of dreams no one ever read. The one who looked in the mirror and begged not to exist.”

Her breath hitched.

“You’re more than just a wish, Freya. More than what he wants between classes.” Azrael’s hand reached up, brushing her cheek with a gentleness she didn’t expect. “You’re becoming something powerful. And dangerous.”

Her lips parted, and for a moment, all she could do was stare up at him. “Then what do you want from me?” she asked.

His thumb grazed her lower lip.

“I haven’t decided if I want to ruin you…” he whispered, “or worship you.”

She shuddered.

Then he stepped away, leaving her in the cold.

Over the next week, their tension simmered.

Azrael began appearing in her dreams, not by accident, but by design. Every night he took on a different form—sometimes a shadow in her bed, sometimes a voice in her ear, sometimes a pair of burning eyes that held her gaze until she woke breathless and aching.

And during the day, the touches grew bolder.

He would lean over her shoulder while she did her homework, his breath warm on her neck. His fingers brushed against her lower back when he walked past her bedroom door. One night, when she dropped her pen, he picked it up and placed it in her hand—his fingers wrapping over hers for a moment too long.

“Stop playing with me,” she whispered, eyes locked with his.

“I’m not playing,” he said. “I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to stop pretending you don’t want me.”

She pushed him away.

But that night, she dreamed of him again.

One stormy evening, the power went out. Her room was lit only by the flicker of a candle Azrael lit with a snap of his fingers. She sat on her bed, legs crossed, while he lounged beside her—far too relaxed for someone who didn’t belong in the human realm.

“You’re restless,” he noted, watching her bite her lip.

“You’re confusing,” she said back.

“I’m consistent. I want you.” He said it simply, like he was stating a fact. “And I think you want me too.”

Freya looked at him, the candlelight dancing on his skin, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the gold in his eyes. His beauty was unearthly, almost too perfect. But it wasn’t just that.

He saw her.

And it scared her more than she wanted to admit.

“I still want Caleb,” she whispered, almost apologetic.

Azrael gave a slow nod. “Then go to him.”

But his eyes said otherwise.

He stood, walking toward the window, his silhouette outlined against the lightning outside.

“You’ll realize soon,” he murmured. “Desire isn’t always what you think it is. Sometimes, the one you crave is the one who makes you feel most alive.”

With that, he vanished into smoke.

And Freya was left alone in the dark, trembling—not from fear, but from the thrill he left behind.