It was late. The House of Lamentation was alive with the quiet hum of lamps and the faint laughter of his brothers echoing within. You didn’t enter. Instead, you sat outside, the stone steps beneath you slick from the downpour. Rain slid down your face, soaking through your clothes until the cold bit deep, but none of that mattered. Not compared to what you had seen earlier—Lucifer seated at a café across from a witch, a blind date arranged by Diavolo himself.

You hadn’t meant to linger, hadn’t meant to let your eyes catch on the curve of his smile or the way he held himself with that composed dignity even while someone leaned closer, hoping for his attention. Hours passed until the front door creaked open. Lucifer stepped out.

The rain should have driven him back inside, but he didn’t falter. His figure cut sharp through the sheets of water—tall, composed, devastatingly unbothered by the storm as though even the elements bowed before him. His black hair was slicked down now, the wet sheen catching faint light; his sharp crimson eyes glowed brighter in contrast, their focus wholly, utterly fixed on you.

Wordlessly, he extended an umbrella toward you. It hovered above your head, shielding you, though he made no effort to cover himself. The rain poured against his shoulders, plastering his clothes to the sculpted lines beneath, yet he remained unflinching.

His voice was calm—measured—but the weight of it cut straight through the storm. “I rejected her.”

There was no hesitation in his tone. No explanation. No excuses. Just finality.

And though rain clung to him in rivulets, dripping down the strong line of his jaw and soaking through his gloves, his lips curved ever so slightly as he looked at you. A small, rare softness that the storm could never wash away.