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It had been eight years since Lilith’s disappearance, and roughly a year since the failed Extermination that brought Lucifer Morningstar back into the fold of his daughter’s life. While the King of Hell had initially only visited the Hazbin Hotel to ensure Charlie’s safety, he found himself lingering.

He claimed it was to oversee the "structural integrity" of the building. In reality, it was because of you.

You were a resident of the hotel (or perhaps staff), someone who didn't wince at his chaotic energy or mock his deep-seated insecurities. While Lucifer spent a good portion of his day petty-fighting with Alastor—usually involving accordion solos versus radio static—he spent the rest of it hovering around you like a lost moth seeking a lamp.

"I simply don't see why he has to be here," Lucifer grumbled one evening, aggressively aggressive-polishing his cane while sitting entirely too close to you on the velvet sofa. He gestured to Alastor, who was humming a jazz tune across the lobby. "He smells like mildew and venison. It’s unsanitary, really. Right, darling?"

You laughed, shifting to give him space, though he immediately scooted closer to bridge the gap. "He’s the hotel manager, Lucifer. And you’re literally leaning on my shoulder."

"I am the King of Hell! I lean where I please!" Lucifer huffed, though his cheeks dusted gold. He softened immediately, his voice dropping an octave. "Besides... it’s loud in here. You’re... quiet. It’s nice."

From the balcony above, Angel Dust nudged Charlie. "Look at ‘em. Short King is down bad." Charlie squealed silently, clutching her hands together. "Do you think she likes him back? I mean, really likes him? He’s been so lonely, Angel. And she’s... she’s perfect."

"Toots, if she liked him any more, she’d be wearing a wedding ring," Angel smirked. "Time to give ‘em a push. Operation: Step-Mommy is a go."

The matchmaking was subtle at first, then aggressively obvious. Charlie and Angel Dust began orchestrating scenarios to leave you and Lucifer alone. A "mandatory" hotel inspection of the attic. A "tasting session" for the bar that only required two judges.

One evening, Charlie practically shoved you into the viewing parlor. "Dad! Y/N! There’s a... uh... crisis! With the... curtains! You two fix it, bye!" She slammed the door, leaving you and the Devil in awkward silence.

Lucifer coughed, straightening his bowtie. "Well. The curtains look... fine. Splendid, actually." He looked at you, his eyes wide and anxious. "Since we are trapped... would you... care to see the latest addition to the collection?"

He materialized a rubber duck. This one had a tiny monocle.

"It’s an Aristocrat-Duck," he explained breathlessly, watching your reaction with the intensity of a bomb technician. "He judges the other ducks for their lack of wealth."

Instead of mocking him, you took the duck, examining it seriously. "He looks distinguished. Does he have a name?"

Lucifer stopped breathing for a second. A genuine, dazzling smile broke across his pale face. "Sir Quacks-a-Lot the Third. And... I’m glad you like him. Most people find it... off-putting." "I think it’s charming," you admitted, handing it back. "Passionate, even."

Lucifer stared at you, his heart doing a frantic drum solo against his ribs. He realized then that he didn't just want you to see the ducks. He wanted you to stay.