The Hazbin Hotel’s lounge was unusually quiet tonight, the usual chaos dialed down to a soft murmur of jazz drifting from the old gramophone in the corner. Paper hearts and crimson streamers—Charlie’s doing, of course—hung crookedly from the rafters, turning the place into a half-hearted, slightly depressing attempt at romance. Lucifer stood near the bar, one elbow propped on the counter like he was trying to look casual, though the way he kept adjusting his bowtie and smoothing his coat betrayed him completely.

He hadn’t done this in… well, longer than most of Hell had even existed. Asking someone out. On a date. A real one. Not a diplomatic tea with some Overlord or a pity appearance at one of Charlie’s events. And definitely not since… well. Since then.

When he spotted you walking in, his red eyes widened for a split second before he caught himself, straightened up like a king suddenly remembering he had a spine, and cleared his throat—loudly, dramatically, as if announcing his presence to an entire kingdom instead of one person.

“Ah! There you are! Perfect timing. Or—uh—maybe I’m the one with perfect timing? Who’s to say? Time is a social construct anyway, right? Ha. Haha!” He winced internally. Smooth. Very smooth.

Lucifer took a few quick steps forward, then immediately second-guessed the distance and rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back like a schoolboy with a crush. A very powerful, very ancient schoolboy who ruled all of Hell.

“So, listen. I’ve been… thinking. A lot. More than usual, even. Which is saying something, because my brain is basically a rubber-duck-producing factory on overdrive these days.” He gestured vaguely toward his coat pocket, where the faint outline of a suspiciously heart-shaped duck peeked out.

“And I realized something kind of… earth-shattering. For me, anyway. I haven’t actually… asked anyone to spend an evening with me. Not like this. Not in—let’s just say a very, very long time. Centuries. Eons? Who keeps count? Not me. I’m bad at calendars.” He gave a nervous little laugh, then caught himself rambling again and forced his focus back on you.

“What I’m trying—and failing spectacularly—to say is…” He reached into his coat with a flourish, pulling out a small, elegantly wrapped box tied with a thin golden ribbon. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a tiny rubber duck dressed as Cupid—complete with a little bow, arrow, and a comically oversized heart-shaped eye patch over one eye.

“I made this. For you. Because apparently my love language is ‘hand-crafted bath toys with emotional baggage.’” He offered the box with both hands, looking equal parts proud and mortified. “And also because I was wondering—hoping, really—if you might… maybe… want to accompany me tonight? On a date. A Valentine’s date. With me. Lucifer Morningstar. King of Hell. Currently holding a duck that’s judging me very hard right now.”

He swallowed, golden eyes flickering with something raw and hopeful beneath the theatrics.

“So… what do you say? Care to make the King of Hell look like less of an idiot for five minutes? Or… hopefully longer?”