Chapter Text
Prologue
o-0-o
A gentle, insistent beeping broke the silence.
You opened your eyes to the dim room and turned your head toward the window. Darkness still pressed against the glass — that deep, hushed shade that lingered just before dawn, when even the birds hadn’t quite decided to wake. Outside, the street lamps washed the pavement in soft pools of amber light. The sun had yet to rise, but you already knew.
You sat on the edge of the bed, your feet touching the cool floor, and let your mind finish waking up. The room still held the faint scent of clean linen and the lingering warmth of sleep.
After a quiet breath, you began your stretches. Slow. Deliberate. Thirty minutes — every morning, without fail. A ritual your dear friend once recommended… and one you’d kept ever since. There was something reassuring about the constancy of it, like a promise you made to yourself and never broke.
When you finished, you headed into the bathroom. The tiles were cold beneath your feet, but the water that flowed over your skin was warm, gentle, patient. You washed away the last traces of sleep and felt the fog in your thoughts gradually melt into clarity. The mirror reflected someone calm. Someone steady. Someone who had chosen this life — quietly, intentionally.
Refreshed, you dressed: the crisp white uniform shirt, neatly pressed pants, and finally your sunflower-motif apron — bright, soft, familiar. The fabric brushed lightly against your fingers as you tied the strings behind your back.
You went downstairs to the kitchen and stepped into the world you knew best. The soft hum of the refrigerators. The faint metallic scent of clean countertops. The ovens warming to life, radiating a slow, comforting heat. You moved through the space with practiced ease, the small sounds of your morning — bowls set down, trays arranged, flour rustling faintly as it poured — becoming their own kind of music. You had spent most of your life learning to bake — croissants, tuna toast, all the small morning comforts that paired well with sunrise.
And butterscotch-cinnamon pie.
Oh, the pies.
They were your specialty — golden, fragrant, quietly comforting. The crust baked to a delicate flake that gave way beneath a fork, revealing a smooth filling where the mellow sweetness of butterscotch blended with the warm spice of cinnamon. The scent alone — sweet, buttery, gently spiced — filled the café with a feeling that reminded people of safety, of simpler days, of coming home after a long journey. Best with a cup of hot milk, the way you always preferred. Your mother used to make something like it for you, until—
You stopped the thought before it could finish.
You let out a slow breath and returned your focus to the dough beneath your hands. Not now. The crust needed chilling. The filling needed stirring. And outside, the blackness of night was already thinning into the first suggestion of dawn.
Running a café alone hadn’t been easy at first. Even a small one could feel enormous when every responsibility rested on your shoulders — menus, orders, bookkeeping, cleaning, the quiet worry that people might simply… not come. Moving to Japan had only added to that weight — a new language with its layered politeness, unfamiliar customs you were afraid of misunderstanding, expectations that never quite stopped whispering in the back of your mind.
You had prepared as best you could — lessons, notes, politeness phrases repeated until they became instinct. But anxiety had still followed you like a shadow, tugging softly at your thoughts whenever you locked the door at night.
Fortunately, the neighborhood had been kind.
The local mothers especially — kind smiles, cheerful greetings, and soft laughter when they discovered your pies. They would chat across the counter about their children, about school events, about small concerns and everyday joys.
They taught you little things — the proper way to refuse politely, the gentle rhythm of casual conversation. Their approval didn’t erase the fear all at once, but it softened it. Day by day. Slice by slice.
You checked the clock.
5:30 a.m.
Sixty minutes until opening. Sixty minutes to sweep the floor, tidy the front, polish the glass, and straighten the chairs one last time. You stepped into the dining area — small, cozy, sun-yellow walls and wooden tables arranged neatly across the space. A place meant for warmth. For conversation. For quiet mornings turning into gentle afternoons and ending with contemplative evenings.
It was about time.
Right on cue, a glowing crimson magic circle shimmered into existence on the floor, intricate sigils weaving and rotating with serene precision. The air rippled with soft power, bathing the room in gentle red light.
It didn’t feel threatening. Just… otherworldly. Familiar, by now.
A heartbeat later, a girl stepped out.
Tall. Beautiful. Poised with the kind of natural grace that didn’t need to be announced. Her long crimson hair cascaded down her back in smooth waves, catching the light like silk. A calm, refined face framed eyes that held both intelligence and kindness. She wore a white button-down shirt beneath a black shoulder cape and corset, paired with a magenta skirt and brown dress shoes over white socks. Authority suited her easily — it settled around her like a cloak — yet the warmth in her gaze softened every sharp edge.
Her expression brightened the moment her eyes met yours.
“I didn’t keep you waiting, did I, Frisk?” she asked, her voice smooth and elegant — polite, yet strikingly familiar. There was a soft hint of playfulness beneath the composure, as though she already expected your answer but wanted to hear it from you anyway.
You shook your head lightly.
“You’re right on time,” you replied, your tone calm and certain. “As always.”
o-0-o
A shrill alarm cut through the quiet of early morning.
Within her room, a certain red-haired girl stirred as the sound tugged her out of a pleasant dream. Her lashes fluttered, and deep blue eyes slowly opened — greeted not by the fantasy she had just left behind, but by familiar shelves crowded with figurines, walls lined with posters, and the unmistakable atmosphere of a dedicated otaku’s sanctuary.
Rias Gremory let out a soft sigh.
“…I was just getting to the good part,” she murmured to no one in particular, a faint pout touching her lips. Her voice still carried the softness of sleep, like a whisper wrapped in silk.
She had been having such a nice dream, too…
Reaching out, she picked up her phone.
4:55 a.m.
“Thirty-five minutes left…” she said quietly, amusement threading through her tone. “He really is terrible for my sleep schedule.”
She paused — then smiled faintly.
“…And I suppose I’m even worse for indulging it.”
Yet she didn’t sound the least bit upset.
With practiced ease, she slid out of bed. The blanket slipped away, leaving her pale skin bare to the cool air. She never wore anything to sleep — a habit she saw little reason to change.
“Not that there’s anyone here to complain,” she added lightly, stretching her arms above her head with a small, sleepy groan.
She crossed the room with unhurried grace and stepped inside the bathroom, starting the shower as part of a routine long since engrained. Warm water traced the lines of her body, steam curling lazily around her. She took extra care today, just as she had every morning for the past few months — shampooing, conditioning, drying, brushing, styling — each step deliberate and precise.
She needed to look her best.
No… she wanted to look her best.
At Kuoh Academy, she was known as one of the “Two Great Ladies,” the “Number One Beauty.” Titles like that had never mattered much to her — though she understood the expectations placed upon the heir of the Gremory Clan: grace, dignity, composure.
That had always been true.
But lately… that wasn’t the only reason.
There was someone she hoped might notice.
As she blow-dried her hair, she found herself smiling faintly at the memory.
“…Honestly. All of this effort, and he still treats me like any other customer,” she mused to her reflection, half-exasperated, half-fond. “Just once, he could act a little flustered. That wouldn’t be so unreasonable, right?”
Her reflection, naturally, did not answer — but the thought alone made her chuckle softly.
They had first met during the second half of her second year — by pure accident, and a rather ridiculous one at that. One of her potential contractors had apparently dropped a signed flyer on the way home. He happened to pick it up later while buying cleaning spray at a convenience store.
So when she activated the teleportation seal that night, she did not appear in a cramped apartment or hidden alleyway.
She arrived inside a small café tucked quietly into a peaceful district of town.
Café Undertale.
That was where she first saw him.
He stood behind the counter in a long-sleeved light-blue shirt with two magenta stripes, light-blue pants — which, amusingly, some merchandise depicted as shorts — and red-brown sandals. When she emerged from the glowing red magic circle in the center of the shop, his expression wasn’t shock or fear.
Simply mild curiosity.
“Huh. A customer?” he said calmly, tilting his head just a little. “I’m sorry, but the café closes at 9:30 p.m. It’s already 10.”
Rias blinked.
“…Pardon?”
He looked at the wall clock, then back at her.
“Yeah. Ten-oh-two. I didn’t lock the door properly, did I?”
Most humans either screamed, fainted, or started babbling. This man who looked a few years older than her — just… apologized for being closed.
“I see. That may be inconvenient,” she replied with an elegant smile, smoothing away her surprise. “But you’re not wrong — I’m not here as a normal customer. I’m Rias Gremory, a devil answering your contract.”
He paused, brows knitting slightly.
“Contract?” he asked.
Rias produced the flyer, holding it up between two slender fingers.
“This. You signed it, yes?”
He leaned forward, squinting a little.
“Oh, I remember picking up something like that,” he said. “It had someone’s signature on it, so I was planning to go to the police tomorrow morning to report it as a missing item.”
Rias blanked.
“…You… you weren’t the signatory?”
“Signatory?”
She sighed softly. “Never mind.”
For a brief moment, she wondered if she should just erase his memory and leave. That would be the simplest solution — clean, quiet, efficient. No paperwork in the Underworld, no apologies to make, no awkward explanations about stray summoning flyers and mistaken identities.
Her fingers twitched subtly, magic gathering at her fingertips. One small spell, one faint glow, and the whole absurd situation would be over.
“…It would be kinder, too,” she told herself in silence. “He wouldn’t need to be involved with devils at all.”
She looked at him again.
He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t even unsettled.
He was simply… studying her. Calmly. A little curious. As though a devil appearing from a glowing magic circle in his café was only a minor scheduling issue.
The magic dissipated.
Before she could decide anything, he placed a small plate on the counter.
A slice of butterscotch-cinnamon pie.
He slid it toward her with a simple, unforced motion, as natural as breathing.
“Even if it was an accident,” he said with that same unwavering calm, “you still came all the way here. Please — have some before you go.”
She stared at the plate… then at him.
“…You’re offering a devil… pie?”
Her tone hovered between disbelief and amusement. This was not among the reactions manuals prepared you for.
“Well,” he replied, voice soft and surprisingly warm, “you look like you could use something sweet.”
That wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t bravado.
It was sincere.
Her lips twitched into a faint smile.
“I usually offer things to humans, not the other way around.”
He met her gaze without flinching.
“Maybe we can trade, then,” he said. “You eat. I’ll listen.”
She tilted her head, red hair spilling over one shoulder.
“…Listen to what, exactly?”
“Whatever you want to say.”
The answer was so simple it disarmed her. She almost laughed — not out of ridicule, but from the sheer absurd tenderness of it.
She was the one who made deals. Negotiated. Traded favors, power, dreams, desires.
Yet the scent drifting from the plate — warm butterscotch wrapped in gentle cinnamon — was disarming in its simplicity. Steam curled softly upward, carrying the homely sweetness of something baked with patience rather than precision.
She picked up the fork. He watched, not with expectation, but with quiet anticipation, as though the opinion of a devil genuinely mattered to him.
She took a bite.
“…This is—” Her eyes widened despite herself. “—wonderful.”
The flavors unfolded slowly — buttery softness, mellow sweetness, cinnamon warmth blooming across her tongue. It tasted like hearthlight and comfort and something stubbornly gentle.
“I’m glad,” he said, smiling — small, honest, content. “It’s… a family recipe.”
Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer.
There was something in his eyes then — something distant, like a memory that hurt and soothed at the same time. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.
They spoke for a while.
She formally introduced herself, giving a light, practiced bow. “Rias Gremory.”
He nodded slightly in return. “Frisk.”
No surname.
When she asked where he was from, he evaded the question with quiet ease — not sharply, just gently, like pushing water away with open hands.
“It’s… complicated,” he said. “But I like it here.”
“Complicated how?” she pressed — lightly, curious, more intrigued than suspicious.
He shook his head, an apologetic softness in his expression.
“Another time. Maybe.”
She decided not to force the matter. Devils could be patient when they chose to be.
He mentioned he ran the café alone — ordering supplies, cooking, cleaning, serving. She glanced around again, taking in the meticulously tidy counters, the handwritten chalkboard menu, the mismatched but carefully placed chairs.
“That’s a lot to handle,” she remarked.
He shrugged mildly. “It keeps me busy.”
When he handed her a menu, a few names stood out immediately:
Undyne Spicy Spaghetti.
Toriel Pie.
Alphys Noodle.
Asgore Golden Flower Tea.
Papyrus Oatmeal.
Sans… Ketchup?
She raised a brow, giving him a long, skeptical look, the menu still lightly pinched between her fingers.
“These are… unusual names,” she observed, voice smooth but edged with curiosity. “Undyne? Toriel? Papyrus…? And Sans… Ketchup?”
He didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, the corners of his lips lifted a little more.
“My family,” he said simply.
She waited.
He didn’t elaborate.
Her eyes lingered on him, searching for some hint — a joke, a lie, a hesitation — but found none.
“…They must be important to you,” she said softly, her tone shifting from playful to sincere without her quite realizing it.
He nodded — a small, thoughtful motion.
“They are.”
There was a weight to those two words. Not heavy in a burdensome way — but steady. Rooted. As if each name on that menu wasn’t just a dish, but a memory. A life. A bond.
Her gaze softened.
“Are they… here?” she asked carefully.
He shook his head.
“No. Not right now.”
“Will they be?”
He looked down for a moment, then back up at her with that same calm gentleness.
“…Maybe. One day.”
She could have pried. A devil’s instinct was to dig, after all. But the quiet certainty — the peace — in his expression held her back. It wasn’t the smile itself that captivated her, though it was warm and honest.
It was the contentment behind it. A deep, unshaken peace. A quiet certainty that felt utterly out of place in a fragile human body.
And that was where it began.
Curiosity — patient, persistent, and unexpectedly fond.
How could someone radiate such calm when devils appeared unannounced in his shop? How could someone speak of “family” with such simple reverence?
She had proposed a contract — that he become her client, letting her help with the café, offering protection, favors, anything within reason.
He listened to her carefully, head tilted slightly, hands folded loosely in front of him.
And then he shook his head gently.
“No bindings,” he said. “You’ve already helped enough just by visiting.”
She folded her arms beneath her chest — not in offense, but intrigue. Her lips curved in a faint, amused smile.
“You’re refusing a devil’s contract? How bold. Most humans would jump at the chance. Fame, fortune, power… I offer very generous terms.”
“I don’t want anything in return,” he replied simply. “But… you’re welcome here. Anytime.”
Silence settled for a beat — light, not awkward. The hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the wall clock filled the space between them.
“…You’re a strange human,” she finally said, her voice soft but undeniably affectionate.
He tilted his head slightly, considering that.
“I get that a lot.”
She laughed quietly.
Eventually, they reached a compromise: a voluntary arrangement. She would help in the mornings whenever she wished. No obligation. No seal. No binding magic. Just… presence.
At first, she had planned to ease him into a proper pact. A long game. A slow negotiation.
Now… she simply wanted an excuse to see him.
Standing before the mirror, she noticed the faintest blush coloring her cheeks. She pouted, just a little, touching her warm face with her fingertips.
“Honestly… does he not find me charming at all?” she muttered to her reflection.
She could almost imagine his gentle voice replying:
“You’re more than charming.”
Her lips twitched.
“Right. And then I wake up.”
She shook her head, smiling at herself — a small, helpless smile that betrayed just how far gone she was.
Months had passed, and he still treated her exactly the same as that first night.
Warm. Gentle.
And utterly unchanged — as though she were simply Rias. Not the heir of Gremory. Not the “Number One Beauty” of Kuoh. Just… herself.
She exhaled, then smiled at her reflection, determination sparkling in her eyes.
“No. I won’t be discouraged.”
She dressed in her Kuoh Academy uniform with practiced precision, smoothing out every crease, straightening her cape, adjusting her tie until everything was perfect. Then she summoned her teleportation circle. Crimson light flared beneath her feet — intricate sigils blooming outward like a rose of magic — and in the next instant, she appeared inside the cozy café she knew so well.
The bell above the door chimed softly at her arrival — even though she hadn’t touched it.
A welcoming sound.
And there he was.
In his usual work clothes. Calm. Focused. Peaceful. He was wiping down the counter, movements slow and steady, as though the act itself was grounding. Morning light spilled through the window, painting him in soft gold and catching in the faint steam that rose from freshly brewed tea.
Warmth blossomed in her chest.
“I didn’t keep you waiting, did I, Frisk?” she asked, tone elegant and relaxed, with just a trace of playful familiarity that she allowed only here.
He looked up at her and smiled softly — that same gentle expression that had undone so many of her defenses without even trying.
“You’re right on time,” he said. “As always.”
She stepped closer, resting a hand on the counter, leaning forward just slightly — close enough to feel the warmth lingering in the air between them.
“You make it sound like I’m very predictable.”
“I think,” he replied gently, “you’re reliable.”
Her lips curved, amused by the sincerity in his tone.
“Careful,” she teased lightly. “Flattery like that could be interpreted as affection.”
He blinked once, as if genuinely processing the statement.
“…Is it?”
She laughed — a soft, melodic sound that seemed to brighten the room more than the morning sun.
“Perhaps.”
He smiled in return — unflustered, steady, as though the world could shift around him and he would remain anchored by kindness alone.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Those simple words warmed her more than any ornate compliment ever had.
Her own smile deepened — gentle, sincere, touched with a quiet happiness she rarely showed even to her peerage.
“Then,” she said lightly, “shall we open shop?”
He nodded.
“Yeah. Let’s make it a nice morning.”
She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes glinting.
“And later,” she added with playful expectation, “I expect another slice of that butterscotch-cinnamon pie.”
He chuckled softly.
“I’ll see what I can do. No contracts attached.”
She rolled her eyes, but her heart felt light — buoyed not by magic, but by something far simpler.
And the morning truly began.
o-0-o
End of Chapter.
A/n: Was listening to Hopes and Dreams / Saves the World from Undertale and the opening of High School DxD season 1 while working on my stories (including an original one) and somehow I got an inspiration to write this story.
I think this is my first time writing a story using second person pov, hopefully it doesn’t turn into a disaster. Also, in this story, Frisk is 21 years old.