The manor was silent.

Outside, the distant wind swept gently through rose gardens and marble statues, singing soft songs meant for lovers. But inside — behind thick, locked doors and drawn velvet curtains — a different kind of silence pressed in. A sacred one. A heavy one.

The bride slipped through the corridors barefoot, her white gown trailing over cold floors now abandoned by guests. Her hair had come loose in the dancing. Her lips still bore the remnants of ceremony. She should be in bed. She was in bed — beside a man who called her wife now.

But she had whispered another name in her mind all day.

Lucifer.

She pushed open a forgotten door near the east wing — a small drawing room, unused, with high windows and a stone hearth long grown cold. Her hands trembled only slightly as she reached into the folds of her skirt and pulled out the small candle stubs she’d hidden earlier. One by one, she lit them in a familiar pattern. A circle. A star. A breath.

She didn’t even speak his name aloud.

The shadows shifted at once.

The air turned thick. Heavy. Sweet, like burning myrrh.

And then — he stood there.

Lucifer.

Tall. Crowned with curling black horns. Cloaked in midnight shadow. His eyes burned gold in the candlelight as if her flames lived inside him. He was both king and ghost, beautiful in the way ruin can be, ancient in the way truth never dies.

But he had no time to speak.

Because she was already in his arms.

She threw herself into him — crashing, breathless, clutching at his shoulders with fingers that dug in, trembling. Her face buried against his chest. No words. No excuses.

Lucifer froze.

In all their years — their dances, their midnight talks, their careful tension — she had never touched him like this. Never without a veil of distance. But now she held him like she might shatter if she let go.

He lowered his arms slowly, wrapping her against him. The cloak of darkness curled around her protectively, like wings not meant to be seen. His gloved hand found the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her hair.

"You called," he said softly, “on your wedding night.”

She didn’t answer. She only held tighter.

His voice dropped further, quieter, edged with something rare — concern. “Does he not please you?”

She pulled back slightly. Looked up. Her eyes shone with something too complicated to name. “He’s kind. He’s everything I should want.”

Lucifer said nothing. He didn’t need to.

She swallowed. “But during the vows, when he reached for my hand… I looked up, and for a moment—” her voice caught, almost broke, “I saw you standing there instead. Just a flicker. But it was… it felt real.”

Lucifer’s eyes closed briefly. As if the weight of that hurt more than centuries of exile.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, eyes opening again. “Don’t apologize for missing me.”

Silence fell again. But this one was softer. Shared.

Then she spoke, voice low: “Do you think I’m cruel… for wishing, just once, that it had been you at the altar?”

Lucifer’s expression didn’t change. Not at first. But something flickered deep in his gaze — old pain, old longing. He cupped her cheek gently with one gloved hand.

“I would have burned Heaven to marry you,” he said, voice barely a breath.

A sharp inhale left her lips, but she said nothing. Couldn’t.

Instead, she leaned into him again, resting her forehead against his chest, listening to the echo of his presence — like a storm held just at bay.

Outside, the moon hung full and high.