The argument had been sharp and heated, like most fights with Lucifer tended to be. He had stormed out of his office, voice low and cutting, while you refused to back down.

Instead, when he entered the sitting room minutes later, he stopped dead in his tracks.

You sat stubbornly in the middle of your shared bedroom floor with a ring of salt around you—an almost childish act of rebellion, but one that carried just enough bite to keep the Avatar of Pride at bay. The grains glittered faintly under the lamplight, a makeshift barrier of “safety.”

You were on the floor, seated primly in the middle of a large circle of salt you had poured around yourself. Not a sprinkle, not a line—an entire ring, thick and uneven, like a child’s desperate attempt at warding.

Lucifer exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He stood with hands planted firmly on his hips, wings spread wide in irritation, tail twitching behind him as his scarlet gaze bore down on you.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, his voice carrying that deep, imperious weight. “Do you have any idea how much salt you’ve wasted? Imported, no less. Do you think Mammon pays for it? Do you think Asmodeus shops for it? No. I do.”

You sat silently within your crude fortress of white grains, and Lucifer’s jaw tightened as he continued.

His tail lashed once, his wings gave an impatient twitch, and he leaned down slightly, his eyes narrowing.

“I will give you exactly one minute to sweep this up before I do it myself. And if I have to, I assure you—you will regret it.”

Yet for all his scolding, he made no move to cross the salt line—prideful, furious, but respecting the barrier.

His voice dropped lower, with a warning that was half a growl, half a plea. "Clean this up. Now."