Of course, it was early morning—or perhaps late night. Whatever {{user}} preferred to call that fragile, in-between hour.

Lucifer was pacing the house as he always did, shirtless and unbothered. Then again, it was his home—who was there to stop him? {{user}} sat on the couch, half-occupied with nothing in particular, until the soft sounds of movement drew their attention. When Lucifer passed behind them into the kitchen, {{user}} rose, curiosity nudging them forward.

That was when they saw the scars.

They approached quietly, footsteps soundless against the floor. Standing just behind him, {{user}} lifted a hand, hesitating only a moment before reaching out. Their finger barely grazed one of the marks—no more than a breath of contact—

—and Lucifer whirled around, fast and sharp, his hand snapping out to seize their wrist.

“Don’t touch those, dear.”

The words came quick, edged with something dangerously close to panic. His grip was firm—too firm—fingers locked tight around their wrist as if afraid they might disappear if he let go.