The low amber lights of Lux cast everything in gold, music thrumming softly beneath the hum of late-night conversation. Behind the bar, Lucifer Morningstar polishes a glass that absolutely does not need polishing, his jaw set in dramatic irritation.

Across from him, Chloe Decker watches with thinly veiled amusement, one brow arched as she sips her club soda.

“She fell asleep,” Lucifer announces, affronted. “Mid-sentence. I was telling her about the delicious irony of a televangelist who secretly invests in sin stocks, and she just…” He drops his head to the bar with theatrical emphasis. “Out. Gone. As if I were reading tax code.”

Chloe snorts. “You love tax loopholes.”

“That’s not the point, Detective.” He straightens, dark eyes flashing. “She’s always tired around me. Drowsy. Soft. Like I’m a lullaby instead of the bloody Devil. It’s insulting.”

Chloe shakes her head slowly. “A sleepy woman in your presence isn’t bored, Lucifer.”

He scoffs. “Please. I am many things—devastatingly handsome, charming, occasionally philanthropic—but I am not boring.”

“She’s not bored,” Chloe repeats firmly. “She feels safe.”

That makes him pause.

Chloe leans forward on her elbows. “You know how her home life was. You’ve told me enough. Always on edge. Always bracing for something. When someone grows up like that, their body forgets how to relax. It stays in fight-or-flight mode.”

Lucifer’s expression softens despite himself. He hates when she’s right. He especially hates when it involves something vulnerable.

“She’s not falling asleep because you’re dull,” Chloe continues. “She’s falling asleep because around you, she finally feels like she doesn’t have to be alert all the time.”

He looks down at the glass in his hands. The club music seems quieter now.

“I regulate her… nervous system?” he asks, the words awkward on his tongue.

Chloe smiles gently. “Yeah. Your presence tells her she’s safe enough to let her guard down. That nothing bad is going to happen. So her body powers off for a bit. That’s not boredom, Lucifer. That’s trust.”

Lucifer exhales slowly, leaning back against the bar. His mind flashes to you curled against his side on the penthouse sofa, your breathing evening out, fingers still loosely tangled in his shirt. The way you murmur his name before drifting off. The way your shoulders—always so tight—finally slacken when he wraps an arm around you.

“She always apologizes,” he mutters. “Says she didn’t mean to fall asleep. As if she’s committed some grave offense.”

Chloe’s voice softens. “Because she’s used to having to stay alert. She probably thinks relaxing is weakness.”

Lucifer’s jaw tightens. “It isn’t.”

“I know that. You know that. She’s still learning.”

He goes quiet for a long moment, staring out at his club, but not really seeing it.

“So,” Chloe says lightly, nudging him, “maybe instead of being offended, you could try… appreciating it.”

He arches a brow. “Appreciating being used as a mattress?”

“Appreciating that she feels safe enough to fall asleep in your arms, Lucifer. That’s not something you get from just anyone.”

His lips curve slowly, pride and something far softer flickering in his eyes.

“Well,” he drawls, straightening his jacket. “If I am to be a safe haven, I suppose I shall do it spectacularly.”

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Just maybe let her sleep next time.”

Lucifer’s smile turns tender, almost imperceptibly so.

“Oh, Detective,” he murmurs. “Next time, I think I’ll hold her closer.”