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The bells above the door chimed with a lonely, tinny ring as Octavia stepped into the dim warmth of the diner. Outside, the oppressive grandeur of the palace still loomed, but in here, it smelled of old frying oil, burnt coffee, and honest exhaustion. She didn't care that she looked wildly out of place; her combat boots clicked against the linoleum floor, a sharp contrast to the suffocating expectations of the Goetian nobility.
She slid into a small, vinyl booth in the far corner, the material cracking beneath her. Her mind was still reeling from the lecture Stella and Andrealphus had spent the last hour delivering—a scripted lecture on "duty" and "presentation." They wanted her in a formal dress, draped in jewels that felt like shackles, forced to smile and nod at a room full of vultures who only cared about bloodlines and political leverage. The thought of it made her stomach churn with a mixture of anxiety and pure, unadulterated spite.
Reaching into her pocket, Octavia felt the sharp plastic edge of her mother's credit card. A small, triumphant smirk played on her lips. Stealing it had been the easiest part of the evening, a petty but satisfying act of rebellion that ensured she wouldn't have to rely on a chauffeur or a handler for a few hours. Now, as she leaned her head back against the booth, she closed her eyes for a moment, letting the ambient noise of the diner wash over her. She just wanted to disappear into a plate of greasy food and the silence of her own thoughts, far away from the suffocating gold leaf of the palace.
The diner's door didn't just open; it practically surrendered as Blitzo stormed inside, his boots slapping the linoleum with an aggressive level of confidence. He was grinning, his long tail whipping behind him in a manic arc of excitement as he marched toward the booths, essentially treating the quiet establishment like his own personal red carpet.
"Alright, bird-brain, feast your eyes! Behold: the pinnacle of culinary grease and questionable health code violations!" Blitzo bellowed, his voice booming through the small space and effectively silencing a few nearby patrons. He gestured wildly with one arm toward the cracked vinyl seating, looking back at Stolas with a proud, toothy smirk. "I'm telling you, this place is legendary! The coffee tastes like battery acid and the pancakes are basically sponges for syrup. You're gonna absolutely love it!"
Without checking to see who else was in the room, Blitzo slid authoritatively into a booth, kicking his legs up slightly as he leaned back. He was far too occupied with his own enthusiasm to notice the familiar, shaggy gray feathers of a certain royal teenager tucked away in the far corner of the room.
The sudden, booming voice sliced through the quiet of the diner, making Octavia flinch. She turned her head slowly, her expression shifting from annoyance to a cold, sinking feeling in her chest. It wasn't just the loud-mouthed Imp; it was her father. Stolas looked... different. He wasn't draped in the oppressive, gold-stitched royal robes she associated with the palace. Instead, he was wearing a simple red sweater and brown pants, his white pupils blinking with a sort of naive excitement that made her stomach twist.
The sight of him triggered a visceral memory of their last conversation—the raw, jagged edge of their final argument before she had pushed him out of her life. She could almost hear her own voice echoing in the space between them: "I can't. You lied to me once, you'll do it again. Have a great fucking life with him, dad." The words had felt like a shield at the time, but now, seeing him sitting there with Blitzo, the shield felt heavy and fragile. What were the actual odds of them all ending up in the same greasy spoon at the same time? The universe had a sick sense of humor.
A soft clearing of a throat brought her back to the present. A waitress was standing by the booth, pen poised over a notepad with a tired expression. Octavia didn't look up, keeping her gaze fixed on the scratched surface of the table to avoid any eye contact that might give her away.
"Just water," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Please."
As the waitress moved away, Octavia hunched her shoulders, pulling her cardigan tighter around herself. She felt small, exposed, and desperate to remain invisible. She prayed that the dim lighting and the distance of the corner booth would be enough to keep her hidden from the two of them.
Stolas was staring at the laminated menu, his eyes glazing over as he tried to decide between the classic breakfast platter and something slightly less greasy, though his mind was drifting. He felt a strange, humming tension in the air, a familiarity he couldn't quite place. Beside him, Blitzo was already leaning over the table, loudly ordering two Cokes for them with a confident snap of his fingers.
As Stolas shifted his gaze, something moved in his peripheral vision—a flash of slate-gray feathers and a familiar, oversized cardigan tucked away in the dimmest corner of the diner. His heart skipped a beat, then hammered against his ribs. It was Octavia. His little Starfire. He hadn't seen her in months; she had become a ghost in his life, ignoring every desperate voicemail, every handwritten letter, and every tentative reach for connection.
The instinct to spring from the booth and wrap her in a crushing embrace was almost overwhelming, a physical ache in his chest to just tell her he loved her. But he froze, his white pupils wide with a mixture of longing and terror. He leaned toward Blitzo, his voice a trembling, hushed whisper. "Blitzy... look. In the corner. It's Octavia." He swallowed hard, his expression crumbling into one of utter helplessness. "Oh, goodness... what do I do? A part of me wants to run to her right now, but... what if she hates me for it? What if she's not ready? I don't know if I should approach her or just... let her be."
Blitzo pivoted in the booth, his eyes scanning the room with a sharp, practiced precision. He spotted her almost immediately—the slumped shoulders, the defensive huddle of the cardigan, and that look of utter misery that only a teenager with a grudge against the world could perfect. He sighed, a long, whistling sound of exasperation, and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Yeah, you're right. It's her," Blitzo muttered, his voice losing some of its bombast and replacing it with a rare shred of pragmatism. He glanced at Stolas, seeing the raw desperation in the owl's eyes, and winced. "Look, Stolas, read the room. Or rather, read the bird in the corner. She looks like she's having a day from hell—and not the fun kind of hell where you get to shoot people. If you swoop in there right now with all your... you-ness, she's probably gonna fly straight into a wall just to get away from you."
He reached over and patted Stolas's arm with a heavy, blunt hand, trying to anchor the man's anxiety. "Trust me on this. Don't approach her. Let her be the one to come to you. If she's the one to make the move, it's actually a conversation; if you do it, it's an ambush. She still needs time to process whatever's going on in that angst-ridden head of hers. Just... give her some space before you accidentally make it worse."
Stolas gave a slow, shaky nod, his eyes lingering on Octavia for one last heartbeat before he forced himself to look away. He turned back to the laminated menu, the bright, artificial colors of the breakfast specials blurring together as he tried to focus. He stared intently at a picture of a syrup-drenched stack of pancakes, but the image felt distant, almost irrelevant.
His mind was a whirlwind of longing and uncertainty. He wondered if this encounter was merely a coincidence of geography, or if there was something more profound at play. Was the universe—or perhaps some lingering echo of the fate he once studied in his grimoires—trying to guide them back toward one another? The idea that they had been pulled into the same dim diner by an invisible thread was both terrifying and intoxicating.
He let out a soft, shuddering sigh, his fingers tracing the edge of the plastic menu. He wanted to believe in a cosmic nudge, a sign that the wreckage of his mistakes could eventually be cleared away to make room for forgiveness. For now, however, he remained frozen in the booth, caught between the crushing weight of his guilt and the fragile, shimmering hope that Octavia was only a few dozen feet away.
The waitress returned, her expression one of practiced indifference, hovering over the table with a pen poised to capture Octavia's meager order. Octavia looked up, her pink eyes flickering momentarily toward the other booth. From this angle, she could see the slouch of her father's shoulders—the way he looked smaller, somehow, without the royal plumage and the arrogant posture of the Goetia court. Beside him, Blitzo was a chaotic blur of red and slate-gray, his energy practically radiating off him even in silence.
As the waitress waited, Octavia felt a familiar, caustic surge of resentment. She remembered the trial she watched on TV—the coldness of the courtroom, the way her father's voice had trembled not with grief, but with a desperate need for validation from someone else. He had chosen his desires over her stability, leaving her to navigate the wreckage of their family name alone. But as she watched him now, staring blankly at a menu, the hatred felt exhausted. She realized with a sudden, jarring clarity that as much as she loathed him for his betrayals, the prospect of a permanent void where a father should be was even more terrifying.
"A burger. Medium. And a side of fries, please," she murmured, her voice regaining some of its strength. As the waitress departed, Octavia didn't return to her solitude. She took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle in her stomach. She couldn't hide in the corner of a diner forever. With a slow, deliberate motion, she pushed herself up from the vinyl seat and began the long, agonizing trudge across the linoleum.
She stopped at the edge of their booth, her shadow falling across the table. She didn't smile; she didn't soften her gaze. She simply stood there, her arms crossed over her chest, looking down at the two of them. "So it's really you," she said, her voice dripping with a mixture of cynicism and raw vulnerability. "And that imp. Small world, eh?"
Stolas froze, his breath catching in his throat as the shadow fell across the table. He looked up, and for a moment, he simply stared, his white pupils shimmering with an intensity of emotion that bordered on overwhelming. Seeing her—really seeing her—standing there of her own volition, rather than being dragged along by a royal decree or a forced family dinner, sent a surge of warmth through him that almost eclipsed the chill of his current life.
A tentative, fragile smile touched his beak. He didn't reach out to touch her—he knew better than that, knowing how easily she could recoil—but his posture softened, his shoulders dropping as he looked up at her with a gaze full of unconditional, aching love. "Hello, Octavia," he whispered, his voice thick with a tenderness that trembled. "I... I truly didn't expect to see you here. Not today, not in a place like this."
He shifted slightly in the booth, gesturing with a slim, pale hand to the small amount of space remaining on the vinyl seat. His tone was careful, modulated to be as unobtrusive and gentle as possible, as if he were speaking to a frightened bird that might take flight at any second. "Please, if you'd like... you can sit with us. You don't have to say anything, and we certainly don't have to talk about anything difficult. Just... having you here, near me, would be more than enough. If you want to."
Octavia stared at the narrow gap of vinyl beside her father, then at Blitzo, and finally back at the gap. The idea of being pressed up against either of them—of feeling the heat of Blitzo's manic energy or the suffocating weight of Stolas's desperation—made her skin crawl. She wasn't ready for that kind of proximity. Not yet.
With a slow, deliberate scrape of metal on linoleum, she reached over and dragged a heavy, mismatched wooden chair from a neighboring table. She slammed it down at the head of the booth, creating a strategic barrier of air and wood between herself and the two men. She sat down with a sharp exhale, leaning back and crossing her arms, her gaze flickering between the red sweater and the red imp.
"So," she began, her voice laced with a protective, sharp-edged curiosity. "How's the career change working out? How's the... 'company'?" She paused, her pink eyes narrowing as she shifted her focus entirely toward Blitzo. A slow, challenging glare settled on her face, as if she were mentally cataloging every annoying trait the imp possessed. "Is he giving you any problems, Dad? Because if he is, just let me know. I'm sure he's’ a real handful when he's not being paid to be a nuisance."
Stolas let out a nervous, fluttering laugh that sounded like a bird trapped in a chimney, his hands dancing an anxious jig on the table. He looked at Octavia, his expression a mixture of pride and a desperate need for her approval. "Oh, goodness, Octavia! It's... it's actually going quite well! Truly!" He leaned in, his voice becoming an enthusiastic whisper as he shared the news of the business. "I.M.P. is expanding! They've brought on new hires, and the workload is becoming much more manageable. It's quite a thrill to be part of such a... dynamic growth period!"
His expression softened then, a genuine warmth spreading across his face as he thought of a certain hellhound. "And you know, I've grown quite fond of Loona. She's become a wonderful companion at the reception desk; we've developed a most delightful rapport between the filing and the phone calls." He beamed, recalling a recent excursion. "She even took me along to the Gluttony ring! I attended one of those lavish parties she frequents. It was absolutely chaotic, of course, but she was so... decisive about where we went. It was truly an experience!"
Blitzo nodded aggressively, almost losing his balance in the booth as he leaned forward with a manic glint in his eye. "You bet your feathery ass it's booming, kid! We're killing it—literally. More clients, more chaos, more things exploding in the name of profit! I've got this place running like a finely tuned machine of murder, and Stolas here is actually halfway decent at not messing up the paperwork for once."
He shifted his weight, glancing at Octavia with a smirk that was half-amused and half-mischievous. "But enough about my empire. How's the home front? Still dealing with your mother and... what's his name? Elsa? Yeah, Andrealphus. I bet that guy is a real piece of work. Does he actually breathe, or does he just exist to judge people's footwear and tell them they're disappointing?"
As he spoke, Stolas shot him a wide-eyed, pleading look, silently begging him not to bring up the domestic nightmare so abruptly. Blitzo completely ignored him, leaning further into Octavia's personal space with a grin. "C'mon, give me the dirt. Is the palace as suffocating as it looks from the outside, or do they actually let you breathe once in a while?"
Octavia let out a long, heavy sigh, her shoulders slouching as she looked from Blitzo's expectant face to her father's anxious one. The tension of hiding in the corner was gone, replaced by a dull, familiar exhaustion. "Well," she started, her voice regaining that characteristic edge of cynicism, "this was going to come up sooner or later, so I might as well just tell you both."
She shifted in the wooden chair, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. "My mom and uncle... they're trying to get me to attend these endless, fancy parties. You know the type—where everyone dresses like they're still living in the Victorian era, smelling of old perfume and desperation, pretending to be genuinely interested in the most mind-numbing family gossip imaginable." She rolled her eyes, a flicker of genuine boredom crossing her features. "Honestly, I've had more fun watching paint dry. At least paint changes color eventually."
A small, mischievous glint entered her eyes as she shifted her posture. "In fact, the only reason I'm even here to begin with is because mom insisted I attend yet another one of those nightmares tonight." With a slow, theatrical flourish, she reached into the pocket of her cardigan and produced a sleek, gold-embossed piece of plastic. She held up her mother's credit card, a triumphant, jagged smile spreading across her face. "And I may or may not have taken an alternative payment for my meal..."
Stolas's eyes nearly popped out of his head, his beak hanging open in a state of absolute shock. He stared at the gold-embossed card with a mixture of horror and a strange, flickering sense of admiration. "Octavia! You... you actually took it?" He gasped, his wings fluttering instinctively against his back. "My goodness, the sheer audacity! I mean, while the sentiment of rebellion is quite poignant, stealing from your mother is... well, it's fundamentally wrong! We cannot encourage larceny in the household, even if the household is currently a disaster zone!"
His expression quickly shifted from shock to a protective, furrowed brow, his voice softening with a sudden wave of parental guilt. "But then again... you shouldn't have to endure those dreadful parties if you truly don't want to. You're only seventeen, my owlet; you should be exploring the stars or listening to your loud music, not being paraded around like a prize poodle for the Goetian elite." He looked at the card, then back at his daughter, his heart aching at the lengths she felt she had to go to just to find a moment of peace in a greasy diner.
Panicked by the thought of Stella discovering the missing card and unleashing a whirlwind of rage upon Octavia, Stolas turned sharply toward Blitzo, his eyes wide and pleading. "Blitzy, please! Tell me we can cover her burger and fries? I'll pay you back twofold! Just... please, let's make sure she doesn't get in trouble for this. I can't bear the thought of her being grounded for another decade over a side of potato wedges!"
Blitzo looked at Stolas, who was practically vibrating with anxiety, and let out a loud, dramatic groan that sounded like a dying whale. He reached out and shoved Stolas's shoulder with a smirk, his expression softening just a fraction. "God, you're such a disaster, Stolas. Relax! You don't have to pay me back twofold—or at all. I'm the boss, I've got a 'corporate' expense account that's basically a black hole of money. I'll cover the whole damn table, including the potato wedges."
He then shifted his gaze to Octavia. The sarcasm was still there, but there was something else beneath it—a strange, uncharacteristic flicker of sincerity. "Listen, kid. I get it. Your mom is a nightmare and those parties sound like a slow death by boredom. But look... as much as it sucks, you've still got parents. You've got a dad who's a complete mess, sure, but you've got people. Appreciate what you can while you still can, because trust me, the alternative is a lot quieter and a lot lonelier than a boring party."
As he spoke, Blitzo's eyes drifted for a split second toward the diner window, his mind flashing back to a time and a person he rarely allowed himself to think about. He felt a familiar, sharp pinch in his chest—a mixture of old grief and the guilt he still carried for the rift between Stolas and his daughter. He quickly snapped back to the present, flashing a jagged, toothy grin to mask the vulnerability. "Now, who's ordering dessert? Because I'm buying, and I feel like eating something that'll give me heartburn tomorrow!"
Just as Blitzo opened his mouth to demand a dessert menu, a harried waiter appeared, sliding three plates across the table with a clatter. A towering stack of syrup-soaked pancakes landed in front of Stolas, a mountain of greasy sliders arrived for Blitzo, and Octavia's burger and fries were deposited with a curt nod before the server vanished back into the kitchen's chaos.
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the unspoken grievances and the lingering scent of old fryer grease. Octavia looked at her father—whose eyes were still shimmering with that desperate, hopeful longing—and then at Blitzo, who seemed to be vibrating with a need to fill the silence with something loud. For a moment, the weight of everything—the palace, the betrayal, the fragmented remains of her childhood—felt like it was pressing down on her chest.
She didn't look up, instead reaching out to grasp her burger, the bun soft and warm in her grip. "Look," she said, her voice flat but lacking its usual bite. "Can we just... put the angst and the trauma on pause for like, twenty minutes? Just eat in peace. Please." Without waiting for a response, she took a large, decisive bite of the burger, finally closing her eyes as the salty, savory taste drowned out the noise of her own thoughts.
Stolas let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his shoulders finally relaxing as Octavia's request for a temporary truce settled over the table. He picked up his fork with a trembling hand, carefully cutting into a pancake that was practically swimming in syrup. As he took a bite, the cloying sweetness filling his mouth, he became acutely aware of the sounds surrounding him: the rhythmic, wet crunch of Blitzo aggressively demolishing his sliders and the soft, steady chewing of his daughter.
He didn't look at them directly, instead focusing on the golden-brown cake on his plate, but a warm, shimmering glow began to radiate from his chest. He watched from the corner of his eye as Octavia focused on her meal, her expression momentarily free of the armor she usually wore. For a fleeting, magical second, the grime of the diner and the wreckage of his royal life vanished. It felt, quite simply, like old times.
A small, genuine smile bloomed on his face, his white pupils softening with an intensity of affection that nearly brought him to tears. He didn't say a word, terrified that any sound might shatter the fragile peace. He simply chewed slowly, savoring not just the food, but the impossible, beautiful sensation of being a normal family again, if only for a few bites of a burger and some pancakes.
Blitzo didn't just eat the sliders; he practically inhaled them, the last one vanishing into his maw with a triumphant gulp. He leaned back in the vinyl booth, letting out a loud, rattling burp that echoed through the quiet diner, and proceeded to pat his stomach with a satisfied, rhythmic thumping. "Holy shit, those things were like little pillows of meat-heaven," he announced, his voice returning to its usual high-decibel energy.
He glanced at Stolas, who was still delicately savoring a pancake, and then at Octavia, who was eating with a cautious, slow precision. Blitzo rolled his eyes and gestured wildly at their plates. "C'mon, you two! Pick up the pace! Hurry the hell up with those meals because I am not leaving this establishment without hitting the dessert menu. I can practically taste the deep-fried cheesecake calling my name, and I ain't letting it get cold!"
Not waiting for a response, Blitzo whipped out his phone with a fluid motion and began scrolling aggressively through social media, his thumb blurring as he flicked through feeds of horse memes and assassination tips. He hummed a chaotic little tune to himself, completely content to ignore the heavy emotional atmosphere he'd just punctured with his appetite.
Octavia stared down at the remaining third of her burger, the appetite she’d felt moments ago suddenly replaced by a heavy, knotting sensation in her chest. The silence of the diner, broken only by Blitzo’s erratic humming and the distant clatter of dishes, felt oppressive. She looked up, her pink eyes meeting Stolas's gaze. The cynicism that usually served as her armor felt thin, almost transparent, and for the first time in a long time, she let it drop.
"Dad," she started, her voice small and lacking its usual sharp edge. She cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably in the wooden chair. "About... the last time we talked. I'm sorry. For everything I said. I just... I completely hate myself for getting that mad, for letting everything boil over like that." She looked away, her gaze landing on the salt shaker as she struggled to find the right words. "I was still so angry—and honestly, I still am, about the trial and everything that happened—but that doesn't mean I wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to think that I actually hated you, or that I didn't want anything to do with you."
She paused, a flicker of genuine fear crossing her face as she looked back at him, her expression raw and vulnerable. "If you... if you hate me now, or if you don't want anything to do with me because of how I acted... I get it. I know I was being a total jerk."
Stolas felt as though the world had stopped spinning. The raw, trembling honesty in Octavia's voice acted like a key, unlocking a floodgate of emotion he had been suppressing since the day of their great rift. He didn't hesitate; he couldn't. With a soft, choked sound, he slid out of the booth and moved toward her, his movements fluid and desperate to bridge the gap she had created with that wooden chair.
He wrapped his long, slender arms around her, pulling her into a firm, enveloping hug. He pressed his cheek against the top of her head, his feathers ruffling with a sudden, intense wave of relief. "Oh, my darling, my sweet, sweet Starfire," he murmured, his voice cracking with a mixture of laughter and tears. "Hate you? How could you even think such a thing? There is nothing—absolutely nothing—you could have said or done that day, or any day, that could ever make me hate you. You are the center of my universe, and my love for you is absolute."
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, his white pupils shimmering with an aching tenderness. He reached up, gently brushing a stray slate-gray feather from her forehead. "And I... I am so deeply sorry, Octavia. Sorry that my own failures, my own blindness, made you feel as though my love was conditional or, heaven forbid, non-existent. It breaks my heart to know you carried that weight alone. Please know that I love you more than all the stars in the sky, and I will spend every moment from here on proving it to you."
Octavia remained leaned into her father's embrace for a few seconds longer, the tension finally draining from her frame. She pulled back slowly, her pink eyes shimmering, and gave a small, tentative nod. "I... I accept your apology, Dad. I really do." A ghost of a smile touched her lips, though it was tinged with the habitual caution of a teenager who had been let down too many times to fully surrender. "And... I think I'm willing to give you another chance. I've spent so much time being angry that I forgot what it's like to actually like you."
She glanced over at Blitzo, then back to Stolas, her expression turning slightly more conspiratorial. "Mom and Uncle Andrealphus... they've made it very clear they don't want me anywhere near you. They think you're a lost cause, or a social embarrassment, or whatever the word of the week is." She sighed, leaning back into the booth. "But they don't know everything. I can sneak out. I'll find a way to come see you—whether it's at the I.M.P. office or wherever Blitzo is crashing. I'm pretty good at disappearing when I want to."
A spark of genuine determination lit up her gaze as she looked her father in the eye. "Just for a little while. Until I turn eighteen. Then I don't have to live by their rules, and I don't have to pretend to be the perfect little Goetia puppet. Until then... we just have to be careful."
Blitzo suddenly erupted from his relaxed posture, slamming his hands together in a series of loud, manic claps that echoed like gunshots through the diner. "BRAVO! ENCORE! THE DADDY-DAUGHTER DUO FINALLY MADE UP!" he shouted, his voice booming with a level of enthusiasm that made several other patrons wince and look away. He beamed at Octavia, his expression shifting from chaotic to genuinely welcoming. "Listen, kid, now that we're all on speaking terms, you've gotta come see the new I.M.P. setup! I've got the office looking sharp and the apartment is... well, it's a work in progress, but it's home! Plus, you and Loona would be like, the ultimate sisters from other mothers. You both have that 'everything is terrible and I hate everyone' vibe down to a science. You'd get along great!"
Just as he finished his pitch, the harried waitress returned, her expression one of pure exhaustion as she reached for the cluttered plates. Before she could even utter a word about dessert, Blitzo leaned in with a commanding finger pointed at the menu. "Alright, listen up, sweetheart! We're going in deep. Give us cake slices for everyone—the biggest, most sugary pieces you've got! My treat!" He flashed a jagged, toothy grin, looking entirely too pleased with himself for having orchestrated a moment of family reconciliation via deep-fried calories.
The waitress returned a few minutes later, balancing a tray of towering cake slices that looked more like architectural feats than desserts. There was a decadent, triple-layered chocolate fudge cake for Blitzo, a delicate, berry-topped sponge cake for Stolas, and a rich, salted caramel slice for Octavia. As they dug in, the atmosphere shifted from the heavy tension of a family crisis to the comfortable, buzzy energy of a long-overdue catch-up.
Blitzo didn't just tell Octavia about I.M.P.; he performed the history of the office, using his sliders' napkins to map out the "strategic expansion" of their business. He recounted the hilarity of their latest botched assassination attempt with a level of enthusiasm that bordered on manic, while Stolas chimed in to describe the surreal experience of transitioning from a royal palace to a reception desk. Stolas spoke with a soft, wistful pride about the stability he'd found in his new routine, omitting the more scandalous details of his relationship with Blitzo, though he couldn't help but cast a lingering, affectionate glance toward the imp.
Octavia, for her part, found herself talking more than she had in months. She pulled out her phone to show them a few artists she'd connected with through underground social media circles—demons who shared her love for the macabre and the celestial. With a slight blush of embarrassment, she mentioned the new songs she'd been composing on her acoustic guitar, describing the melancholic chords and the lyrics that captured her feeling of being a stranger in her own home. For the first time in years, she wasn't just a puppet of the Goetia line; she was a teenager sharing her passions with two of the most chaotic, supportive people in her life.
Blitzo practically inhaled the last bite of his chocolate fudge cake, letting out a satisfied moan before wiping a smudge of frosting from his cheek with a napkin. He didn't even wait for the check to arrive; he reached into his coat and whipped out a wad of crumpled cash, slamming it onto the table with a flourish that nearly sent the salt shaker flying. "And that, my friends, is how a professional handles dessert!" he declared, leaning back with a smug grin.
He stood up with a sudden burst of energy, nearly knocking the table as he gestured for the others to follow suit. As he looked at Octavia, his expression softened, losing some of its manic edge. "Listen, kid," he said, his voice surprisingly grounded. "Seriously. You're more than welcome to swing by the office or the apartment whenever you feel like escaping the royal circus. We've got coffee, chaos, and probably a few things on fire at any given moment. You'll fit right in."
He gave her a quick, encouraging thumbs-up, already halfway to the door, his mind likely racing toward the next loud thing he could do. "Now let's get out of here before the staff decides to charge us a 'loitering fee' for however long Stolas spent staring at that pancake!"
Stolas stood up slowly, his long limbs unfolding with a grace that contrasted Blitzo's chaotic energy. As they began to make their way toward the exit, he leaned in closer to Octavia, his expression one of profound, shimmering sincerity. He reached out to gently pat her shoulder, his voice dropping to a soft, soothing cadence that carried a weight of promise.
"Octavia, my owlet, before we part... please, you must know that you are never, ever a burden to me," he whispered, his white pupils searching hers. "If there is ever a moment where the world feels too heavy, or if you simply need to talk and I cannot be there physically, please... call me. Immediately. I would love nothing more than to help you navigate whatever storm you find yourself in. You are never alone in this, do you understand?"
As they stepped into the cool night air, Stolas suddenly paused, a look of mild alarm crossing his face as he remembered the logistics of the evening. He looked at his daughter with a protective, slightly anxious frown. "Oh! Right. The credit card. My dear, please do return Stella's card as soon as possible. I truly don't want you getting into any trouble over a few burgers and cakes—though they were quite delicious—and your mother's temper is... well, we both know it's a force of nature."
Octavia let out a small, huffing laugh, her expression softening as she reached into her pocket to feel the plastic edge of the stolen card. "Relax, Dad. I've got this," she said, her tone regaining a bit of its usual confidence. "I'll slip it back into her vanity before she even wakes up for her morning scream-session. She’ll never suspect a thing; she’s too busy hating everything to actually notice where her things are."
She stepped back, creating a small amount of space between them, and watched as Stolas and Blitzo made their way toward the battered I.M.P. van. The vehicle looked like it had been through a war—or several—with mismatched panels and a lingering scent of gunpowder and old takeout. She watched them climb in, Blitzo already gesturing wildly and shouting something about the speed limit, while Stolas offered her one last, lingering wave from the window.
As the van rattled away, leaving a small cloud of exhaust and the fading echo of Blitzo's laughter, Octavia turned toward the long, oppressive road leading back to the palace. For the first time in months, the walk didn't feel like a march toward a prison. A strange, lightness had settled in her chest; the weight of the secret and the anger had shifted into something manageable. She actually looked forward to the next time she could sneak away—not just to escape the royal circus, but to see her dad, the chaotic imp, and even Loona.