The House of Lamentation was quiet at this hour—everyone else long retreated to their rooms, drunk and laughing themselves into sleep after a night out. The only sound echoing through the grand halls was the faint click of your shoes against the polished floor.

The study door was ajar, light spilling out.

Inside, Lucifer stood by his desk, finally finished with his mountain of paperwork. His hair was slightly tousled, shadows under his eyes hinting at the endless hours he had endured. His tie hung loose around his neck, shirt undone halfway to reveal the hard lines of his chest.

He tugged at one glove with his teeth, the leather stretched between his lips as he slid it off with practiced ease. The second followed soon after, tossed carelessly onto the desk. His fingers flexed, pale and elegant, finally freed from the restraint.

Lucifer didn’t notice you lingering in the doorway. He tilted his head back with a weary sigh, eyes closing as though savoring the momentary silence. His throat worked as he swallowed, the line of his collarbone exposed, catching the faint glow of the lamp.

His movements were unhurried, deliberate in their elegance, every inch of him exuding quiet power. To him, this was routine. To anyone watching—it was intoxicating.

Still oblivious to your gaze, Lucifer loosened his tie further, running a hand through his dark hair, exhaling as though finally allowing himself to breathe.

And for you, caught in the doorway with alcohol still warm in your blood, there was no escaping the thought: Lucifer, tired and undone, was devastatingly beautiful.