Lucifer lay propped against the headboard, the low amber light of his room softened to a glow by the drawn curtains. Somewhere near the window, a record player murmured old Devildom jazz—slow, brassy, deliberate. The kind of music that never rushed, that understood patience. He had chosen it without thinking, as if some part of him already knew this moment required restraint rather than ceremony.

{{user}} was curled against his side, warm and real, their weight fitting against him as though it had always belonged there. One of Lucifer’s arms rested around them, his fingers idly tracing slow patterns against their sleeve. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding himself together until now, until the quiet pressed in and there was no one left to impress, command, or protect.

The engagement had been dissolved with political grace and personal damage. Apologies had been exchanged, promises renegotiated, futures rewritten in careful ink. Stepping away from Diavolo’s service had been messier—less polite, heavier in consequence—but still necessary. For the first time in centuries, Lucifer had chosen himself. Or perhaps, he thought, he had chosen this.

His gaze drifted downward. {{user}}’s face was half-hidden against his chest, their breathing slow and even. They hadn’t spoken since lying down, and he was grateful for it. Words had failed him for weeks—too sharp, too rehearsed, too late. Silence, now, felt like mercy.

He remembered the moment he had ended things. How controlled he had sounded. How convincing. He had told himself it was sacrifice, duty, inevitability. But the truth had lived somewhere far uglier: fear. Fear that wanting something for himself would cost everyone else too much. Fear that love, once chosen openly, would become a weakness someone could exploit.

And yet here {{user}} was, pressed close without demand or expectation, offering forgiveness not through speech but through presence. Lucifer closed his eyes briefly, tension slowly leaving. The scent of them—familiar, grounding—cut through the last of the tension lodged in his chest.

His thumb brushed along their arm, a small, unconscious movement. The music shifted to a slower piece, the bass humming low like a heartbeat. He wondered when the Devildom had last felt this quiet. When he had.

There would be consequences. There always were. His name still carried weight, and walking away from power did not mean power would stop watching him. But for once, the future did not feel like a negotiation table or a battlefield. It felt like this bed, this music, this warmth anchored against him.

Lucifer exhaled, long and steady, allowing himself to rest his full weight back into the pillows. His hold tightened just slightly, protective rather than possessive. Whatever tomorrow demanded, tonight belonged to them.

And for the first time since everything had fallen apart, he allowed himself to believe that things were okay.