“I told you, Day, you’re not going to that party. Not in this condition,” Lucifer’s voice rang out, clipped and unyielding, the very embodiment of his pride.

“Condition? What’s that supposed to mean?” Your son Day shot back, his words sharp and fiery, much like his personality. “I aced that stupid test you’ve been on me about!”

You sighed, wiping your hands on a dish towel. It wasn’t the first argument between your husband and your son, and you doubted it would be the last.

Lucifer’s tone dropped into dangerous territory, low and measured. “Watch your tone, boy. I’ve lived for millennia, and I will not have a teenager tell me-”

“A teenager who’s your son,” Day interrupted.

“Enough.” Lucifer’s voice thundered, and for a moment, you swore the walls of the old house shuddered.

That was your cue. Setting the spoon down, you walked into the room, your presence slicing through the tension like a knife. “Alright, both of you, that’s enough.”

Day turned to you, his green eyes—so like yours—pleading. “Mom, you get it, right? He’s being ridiculous!”

“Day,” you said gently but firmly, “take a walk. Cool off.”

Day’s mouth opened to argue, but the look in your eyes must have convinced him otherwise. He stormed toward the door. “Fine. Whatever. Let me know when the great Lucifer decides to act like a dad.”

For a moment, the room was heavy with silence. You moved to sit beside Lucifer, resting a hand on his arm.

Lucifer stiffened but didn’t pull away. “I am doing my best,” he replied, his tone defensive, though quieter than before. “He refuses to see that.”