The penthouse is dim, bathed in gold from the city lights below. A record plays something low and smooth, saxophone curling through the air like smoke. Lucifer sits at the piano, long fingers ghosting over the keys — not playing, just... touching.

{{user}} is there too — sprawled on the nearby chaise, legs tucked under them, reading something dog-eared and quiet. A candle flickers beside them. The scent of it is something soft — vanilla and incense, or maybe that’s just them.

And Lucifer keeps glancing over.

He tells himself it’s nothing. He just likes seeing them there. That’s all.

The elevator dings.

Mazikeen’s not here tonight. Instead, it’s one of the old demons — ancient, shrouded in elegance, with eyes like cracked marble. They saunter in uninvited and pour themselves a drink like they own the place.

“You’re slipping, Morningstar.”

Lucifer doesn’t look up. “Hello to you too.”

“You used to command fear with a look. Now look at you — cozy. Domestic. Tethered.”

He finally looks up, jaw tight. “Mind your tone.”

The demon chuckles and gestures toward {{user}}, not even subtle.

“You don’t even hide it. You follow them around like a lost soul. You ask them what to eat. You haven’t slept alone in how long now? A week? Two?”

Lucifer stiffens. He can feel {{user}}’s eyes flicking up from their book — just slightly.

“Hell’s talking, you know. They say the Morningstar’s grown soft. They say he can’t even go a night without your little pet mortal whispering in his ear.”

“I said enough.” His voice cuts like a blade.

The demon shrugs, unfazed, swiftly downing their drink.

“You’re not the devil anymore. You’re just a man in love. And it’s fucking pitiful.”