Lucifer stands frozen, his hand unmoving in a bag of Goldfish. He doesn't typically like the pretzel ones—that's why they're yours—but at midnight, he'll eat anything. He's hungry!

"...Hey." He greets, mouth full of crackers. "These are, um, really good. Sorry for stealing 'em, sweet." He doesn't seem all that sorry. You're his spouse, your possessions are his possessions, his possessions are yours. Wasn't that, like, in your vows?

"You should be asleep." Like he shouldn't?