Page 12 of Cuddly Demon

"This processed food is addictive," I grumble to myself, forking another bite into my mouth. "I can see why humans love it so much."

Saint chuckles, wiping down a nearby table. "I think that's the sugar rush talking."

I grin, the buzz of the sugar and caffeine coursing through my veins. "Maybe so. But it's worth it."

"You're going to have to pace yourself. You don't want to get a stomachache."

"I'll be fine." I take another bite. "I have a demon's stomach. I can handle anything."

Saint shakes his head. "You're something else."

"I know." I wink at him, reaching across the table to take his hand.

Saint's gaze softens, and he leans in to press another kiss to my cheek. It's sweet and tender, full of the same affection I feel for him. "I'll see you soon."

I can't help but notice the way the customers interact with each other as I fork down my grub. Some are clearly regulars, chatting away with the staff and joking around with each other. Others are quiet, keeping to themselves as they eat their meals.

But there's one customer who catches my eye. He sits alone at a booth near the back of the diner, hunched over his plate of eggs and toast. His aura is dark and heavy, filled with sadness and despair. I can practically feel the weight of his emotions pressing down on me.

Without thinking, I get up from my booth and make my way over to his table.

I summon all my strength to make myself visible to only him for a few moments. "Excuse me, sir. Is everything all right?"

The man looks up at me, surprise and confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean?"

"Well, your aura," I explain. "Everyone else's is colorful and happy, but yours is impenetrable."

"My aura." The man scoffs. "I don't know who you think you are, but you don't know anything about me."

"I'm just trying to help," I say, holding up my hands in a non-threatening manner. "Sometimes it's good to talk to someone about what's bothering you."

The man hesitates, his eyes flicking around the diner as if he's looking for an escape. But then he sighs and says, "My wife died a few months ago. I can't seem to shake this feeling of… emptiness."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I say, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Grief is a heavy burden to bear."

The man nods, his eyes filling with tears. "I don't know how to move on. Everything feels so… sad."

"Have you thought about seeking therapy?" I suggest. "Talking to a professional can be really helpful."

The man shakes his head. "I don't have the money for that. Plus, I don't want to burden anyone else with my problems."

"You're not a burden," I say firmly. "And there are resources available for people who can't afford therapy. It's important to take care of yourself, both physically and mentally."

The man looks at me for a long moment, as if he's considering my words.

I may not know what it's like to have lost a wife, but I know what it's like to feel alone. Three thousand years locked in a tomb will do that to you.

At last, the man looks lighter, like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you," he says, his voice thick with emotion.

"You're welcome," I reply, giving his hand a squeeze.

I head back to my booth, my heart a little lighter now that I helped someone in need.

Saint pants as he plops down into the seat across from me. "I'm beat."

I smile and squeeze his hand. "You're a little sweaty, but still cute as ever."

"The diner's not normally this busy. I haven't had two minutes to steal a kiss."

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