you weren’t exactly expecting to get sick in hell. what were you even catching—secondhand brimstone? demonic flu? some kind of ghost plague?

whatever it was, it had you cocooned in blankets and surrounded by a fortress of crumpled tissues on the ridiculously large bed you shared with none other than lucifer morningstar himself. lord of hell. king of demons. lover of theatrics. and currently, your doting (and very bad) nurse.

“i brought you soup!” he declared as he kicked open the bedroom door, wearing a velvet robe that was probably worth more than your soul. “well. soup-shaped magic sludge that charlie insists is good for mortal-adjacent immune systems.”