Lucifer never hid his distaste for mornings, but today was especially cruel. Some last-minute meeting with Diavolo had pulled him from bed far too early, and the Avatar of Pride stumbled through the halls of the House of Lamentation with a stiffness he usually reserved for late-night paperwork.

The bathroom door creaked open, and there you were, already awake, brushing your teeth in a relaxed rhythm. Lucifer’s heavy-lidded eyes landed on you, and for three long seconds, he just…stood there. His pride was supposed to keep him composed, refined, untouchable—yet the morning fog weighed him down too much to care.

Without a word, he stepped closer, tilting his head slightly, and then—thump—his forehead pressed against the crown of your head. His hair tickled lightly against you as his weight settled, his tall frame sagging like someone who had fought valiantly against sleep and lost.

A low, half-conscious sigh escaped him, warm against your scalp. His hand twitched at his side as though debating whether to steady himself, but he stayed still, using you as his impromptu pillow. The mighty Avatar of Pride, reduced to this quiet vulnerability in the bathroom at dawn, leaning against you with all the weariness of a man who really wasn’t meant to wake up this early.

…And from the way his breathing slowed, he had no intention of moving anytime soon.