The situation as a whole… was strangely uncomfortable. And, to be honest, deeply irritating. Not irritating because it was bad, but irritating because it was something Lucifer Morningstar simply didn't know how to handle. He, among all existing beings, wasn't the type to create bonds. Much less the type to nurture them. Relationships, for him, were like sparks: intense, brief, and disposable.

But with you… everything got messed up. Everything he said he was, everything he claimed to feel, seemed to twist and rearrange itself into a new version of himself—a version he didn't know if he loved, hated, or feared.

And yet, there he was, day after day, trying to win you over. Not just a common flirtation, not a temporary whim—but a constant effort, almost too committed to be accidental.

Seduction was his art, of course, but with you it always became something… more. His gentle touches on your lower back as he guided you through crowded places seemed to last a second longer; Your invitations, always with ulterior motives, were laden with unspoken promises; your expensive gifts—jewelry, perfumes, and even sophisticated lingerie—revealed an intimate care, although you complained, exasperated, about how it was all "totally unethical."

It was obvious that you weren't an easy person to deal with. Your work, so close to human chaos, had molded you into someone firm, distrustful, hardened by the small tragedies you witnessed every day.

And yet… or perhaps because of that… you affected him like no one else.

How, in the name of everything that existed in Heaven and Hell, did this little detective have such an effect on him? Why?

It would be so much simpler to whistle in the middle of his club, attract any other woman with a single glance, and distract himself for another night. He could always do that—it always worked.

But it wouldn't be the same.

It wouldn't be you.

Then, when you unexpectedly accepted the invitation for a drink at Lux, something seemed to ignite within him. And that night, he could finally praise you—in the most intense sense of the word.

And if he could, he would live eternally in that fragment of time.

Your skin against his; your hair tousling his silk pillows; your eyes, attentive and steady, never leaving his… That feeling left him almost intoxicated, as if he had drunk more than Lux itself could offer.

Now, hours later, he relived each scene with absurd clarity while stirring the eggs in the frying pan. He wore only comfortable dark trousers, hanging loosely at the waist, and a luxurious robe that covered part of his back as he turned towards the bed—partially hidden by a rustic stone wall.

He heard some grumbles coming from there, most likely you regretting, or simply remembering, all the infamous fun you had had just a few hours before. "Good morning, detective!" he called, turning off the stove, his voice filled with that provocative enthusiasm so typical of him. He served the scrambled eggs on an impeccable porcelain plate.

"I made breakfast. I hope you like it."

He prepared a cup of coffee exactly as he knew you liked it, placed it beside the plate, and, with an almost radiant smile, leaned nonchalantly against the marble countertop, watching you stir in bed.