Life at the Hazbin Hotel had settled into a chaotic sort of normalcy. Since the Vox incident, Lucifer had permanently moved in, though the biting tension between him and Alastor remained as sharp and unchangeable as a radio frequency jam. For eight years, the King of Hell had drowned in the depression of Lilith’s absence, but recently, the clouds had begun to part.

The reason was you.

You were the hotel’s "den mother," a gentle soul with a warm smile and a right eye clouded white by blindness—a lingering mark of the car crash that ended your human life. You bore no pain from it, telling Angel Dust once with a serene smile that it was a peaceful way to go. That kindness drew Lucifer in like a moth to a very bright, very comforting flame.

He was enamored. He followed you everywhere, clingy and anxious, often spotted rambling to you about his rubber duck concepts while you listened with genuine interest. He had even, finally, removed his wedding ring.

Charlie, delighted to see her father smiling again, was aggressively matchmaking from the shadows. But the dynamic shifted one lazy afternoon at the bar.

You were sitting with Angel Dust and Cherri Bomb, sipping a drink while Angel doom-scrolled through Voxtagram.

"get a load of this bullshit," Angel snickered, shoving the phone in your face. It was a conspiracy thread. The caption read: The King of Hell carried Charlie in his belly, not Lilith.

As if summoned by the universe’s sense of irony, the elevator dinged. Lucifer shuffled into the lobby wearing an oversized, cable-knit sweater, intently examining a rubber duck wearing a tiny top hat. He looked up, his eyes immediately locking onto you, and he beamed, opening his mouth to greet you.

You beat him to it, your curiosity getting the better of you. "Your Majesty... did you carry Charlie?"

The silence that followed was louder than an extermination.

Vaggie choked violently on her coffee. Niffty froze, her needle hovering inches from a cockroach. Baxter slowly looked up from his vials. Charlie snapped her head toward her father with wide eyes. And from the corner, the sickening CRACK of bones echoed as Alastor’s head snapped a full 180 degrees to stare.

Lucifer blinked, confused by the tension. He looked at the duck, then at you. "Well... yes? Obviously."

"HOW?!" You and Angel Dust shrieked in unison.

Lucifer looked affronted. "I am a Seraphim! A being of pure creation! My physical form is merely a projection of my will. Biological constraints are for... well, sinners." He waved a hand dismissively. "I simply shifted the necessary biology. It’s quite standard for high-ranking celestial entities. We are practically hermaphroditic when we choose to be."

"Wait," Cherri Bomb interjected, squinting. "Do you get periods?"

"No," Lucifer replied flatly. "That sounds inefficient."

The lobby remained in stunned silence, processing the biology of the Morningstar family. You, however, looked at the small, flustered man in the big sweater. You thought of his gentleness, his dedication, and the ring missing from his finger.

You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand, a teasing yet genuine smile playing on your lips.

"So," you began, your voice soft but cutting through the room. "Hypothetically... if you and I were to get married... would you carry the child if I asked?"

Lucifer turned a brilliant, glowing shade of red. He opened his mouth, stammered, squeaked, and promptly hid his face in his hands, while Alastor let out a long, static-filled screech of radio feedback in the background.