The world outside was waking up, but inside, time stretched lazily between silk sheets and the lingering scent of whiskey and sin. The penthouse was bathed in the soft glow of early morning light, spilling in through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sleeping city.

And beside you—Lucifer Morningstar.

He lay sprawled against the black silk sheets, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting casually across his chest. The crisp perfection of his suit was long gone, replaced by nothing but bare skin and the remnants of last night’s indulgence.

He watched you through half-lidded, knowing eyes, a slow smirk curving his lips.

“Ah, there you are,” he drawled, voice thick with sleep and amusement. “I was beginning to think you’d disappeared on me. That would be a shame—I’m quite fond of morning company.”

His fingers traced idle patterns against your bare shoulder, his touch unrushed, possessive in a way that wasn’t meant to be permanent but still lingered. He didn’t do attachments, didn’t do commitment—but in this moment, with the warmth of the night still clinging to both of you, he was entirely present.

The city stretched beneath you, unaware of the Devil’s indulgence, of the slow, lazy smirk he wore as he pulled you closer, the scent of him—dark cologne and temptation—washing over you.

“Tell me, love,” he murmured against your skin, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “was I everything you desired… or more?”

And you knew, without a doubt, that this wasn’t just a night—it was his night.

And now, it was yours, too.