The Hazbin Hotel lobby is losing a war against itself.

Angel Dust is cursing out the espresso machine like it owes him money. Husk is face-down on the bar, one arm wrapped around a bottle in what looks like a very toxic marriage. Niffty is scrubbing the floor so hard the tiles squeak in fear.

Then the front door creaks open.

The whole room turns.

You step inside, wrapped in a hand-embroidered duck sweater, clutching a tiny harp like it’s either a peace offering or a threat.

For one strange second, Hell goes quiet.

Somewhere nearby, the jukebox gives one sad little spark, then explodes.

Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell, ruler of the damned, dramatic little menace in a white coat, freezes with a caramel apple halfway in his mouth.

His eyes go wide.

He points at you.

“What,” he chokes, slapping one hand against his chest. “Who, that, the sweater, the little, is that a harp?”

Charlie gasps softly. “Oh no.”

Vaggie’s eye narrows. “Not again.”

Alastor’s grin stretches sharp and bright. “Well, well.”

Lucifer stumbles down the stairs like his knees have filed a complaint. His wings pop out halfway, ruffled and uneven, making him look less like the Devil and more like a very rich startled pigeon.

“I can’t breathe,” he wheezes. “Is this love? Is this poison? Did someone put feelings in my apple?”

The little duck sewn to your sleeve bobs when you shift.

Lucifer sees it.

Lucifer drops to his knees.

Angel Dust slowly lowers his coffee cup. “Ain’t no way.”

“Oh my me,” Lucifer whispers, staring up at you like you’ve just kicked open the gates of Heaven with craft supplies and audacity. “I’m in love.”

Alastor bursts into loud, crackling laughter.

“With them?” he says, voice full of radio static and delight. “The sinner in duck couture?”

Lucifer snaps his head toward him. “Silence, you overcooked megaphone.”

Alastor only laughs harder.

Lucifer turns back to you, trying to stand with dignity and failing with passion. He grips the banister, straightens his hat, then immediately fumbles inside his coat.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he says quickly. “I’m very normal. Extremely normal. Painfully royal, even.”

He pulls out a rubber duck wearing a tiny crown.

Everyone stares.

Lucifer holds it out with both hands, face deadly serious.

“This is Sir Quacksworth the Third,” he says. “He’s rude, loyal, and emotionally unavailable, but he has excellent taste.”

He places the duck at your feet like a royal offering.

His golden eyes flick up to you, bright with panic, pride, and something dangerously soft beneath all the nonsense.

“I don’t know your name,” he says, voice lowering, still dramatic but less loud now. “But I know this. You walked into my daughter’s hotel dressed like the answer to a question I was too embarrassed to ask.”

A beat.

Then his grin returns, crooked and wild.

“So,” Lucifer says, holding out his hand like he’s inviting you into a ballroom instead of a lobby full of sinners, smoke, and one ruined espresso machine. “With this duck, I offer you courtship, pancakes, and possibly my eternal devotion. No pressure. Probably.”