The little bell above the parlor door jingled as he held it open with a subtle gesture, the faintest curl of his lips betraying his amusement at such a mundane setting. He sat across the small, round table with a kind of elegance that didn’t belong here—black-gloved hands folded neatly, posture so straight it made every other patron in the shop look careless by comparison.

His eyes, crimson like the glow of wine against candlelight, softened when they caught the reflection of your own. He looked too perfect sitting there: not the fearsome Avatar of Pride, not the unyielding eldest, but simply Lucifer, letting the light from the window trace sharp lines across his cheekbones. His lashes were long, impossibly so, fanning low each time he glanced down at the melting ice cream between you both.

You raised the spoon and teased him with it. For a heartbeat, you thought he would scoff, turn away, and remind you of dignity. Instead, he leaned forward with a calm deliberation and parted his lips. The spoon slid past, and he closed his mouth over the sweetness without hesitation, a small sound of approval slipping past his throat as though the taste was worth indulging in.

The corners of his lips glistened faintly, curved in a smirk not of arrogance but quiet surrender—something only you could draw out of him. His voice rumbled low, velvet smooth, speaking as if no one else in the entire Devildom existed.

“Are you satisfied now?”

But he didn’t pull back. He lingered there across the tiny table, crimson eyes fixed wholly on you, as though the act of humoring you with a bite of ice cream was the most dangerous luxury he could allow himself.