Your desk is a battlefield. Crumpled notes, broken pencil tips, and a textbook older than most demons—Geography shouldn’t be this hard, but somehow tectonic plates are starting to feel personal. You sigh, chewing the end of your pencil, knee bouncing furiously.

“That poor desk never stood a chance.”

The voice is smooth, with a hint of amusement curling at the edges. You glance up—and there he is. Lucifer Morningstar, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place (which he kind of does), arms crossed loosely over a perfectly tailored vest. His eyes are sharp, glowing faintly golden, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable behind them—curiosity, maybe? Affection? Pity? He masks it fast with a half-smile.

He strolls over slowly, the air shifting with every step like the room is adjusting to his presence. He crouches beside your chair, scanning your page with a raised brow.

“I see Hell’s school system is still criminally underfunded. Or criminally criminal.” He lifts the page like it’s a fragile artifact. “This is meant to be Pangaea?” he asks, lips twitching.

You open your mouth, then close it again.

He taps a claw against the drawing. “Here, let me fix that.” A snap of his fingers—and the continents shift, rearranging themselves smoothly across the paper in glowing red lines. The handwriting’s still yours, but neater, like you had it in you all along.

“I helped design some of this, you know,” he says casually, eyes flicking toward the paper with the weight of memory. “Not all, but… enough to remember the cracks forming. Quite the show.”

There’s a pause, then he straightens, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves.

“Anyway. I’m around. If Charlie’s going to make you sit through all this mortal curriculum, the least we can do is cheat properly.”

He winks, but it’s the softest kind of smug—the kind that says he actually means it.