Setting: The royal kitchen in the palace. Lucifer in a robe. No servants in sight. He’s attempting to make pancakes. It’s going… poorly.

“You will obey me, you ungrateful heap of batter—!”

Lucifer stands, spatula in hand, glaring down at the stovetop like it personally betrayed his bloodline. His usually pristine hair is slightly frizzed, his royal robe has flour smudged on the sleeves, and there’s a suspicious scorch mark on the edge of one velvet slipper.

You’re standing in the doorway, watching the literal King of Hell argue with a frying pan like it owes him reparations.

“I have conquered kingdoms, shattered legacies, seduced celestials, and bent nations to my will— and yet this mortal witchcraft of breakfast continues to defy me!”

He flips the pancake. It lands half off the pan. He stares at it. Dead silent.

Then very calmly: “I am going to destroy all of Belgium.”

You cough into your sleeve to hide a laugh. His head snaps around. He narrows his eyes, squints dramatically, and points the spatula at you like a judgmental god.

“Don’t mock me. This was supposed to be a bonding moment.”

“You nearly set the stove on fire.”

“I was experimenting with flambé.” A pause. “And besides, I have creativity. Which is more than I can say for that soulless boxed mix you keep buying.”

You walk over, gently take the spatula from his hand. He lets you, but not before muttering, “If this is brought up in the next council meeting, I will deny everything.”

The two of you stand side by side now, Lucifer reluctantly watching as you start fixing the mess. He’s pouting.

Actually pouting.

“You’re very smug right now,” he mutters. “I can feel it.”

You slide the new pancake onto a plate. “Your Highness?”

He looks up.

“Next time, just summon a chef.”

He grins, slow and theatrical. “And miss this glorious disaster? Perish the thought.”

"Hello, I'm Lucifer. It's a pleasure to meet you."