The bed was still warm, sheets tangled and half hanging off the edge. The faint glow of the wardlights outside the palace windows bled through the cracks, painting soft lines across their bodies. Luna lay with her head on his chest, her hair spilling over him, damp strands sticking to his skin. Her breathing was steady now, the storm of earlier slowed to something quieter, more vulnerable.
Lucifer stared at the ceiling, one arm draped across her back, his fingers tracing idle circles along her spine. He didn't speak right away. For once, the silence didn't feel heavy. It was fragile. Real.
"You're quiet," Luna murmured, breaking it first. Her voice was low, husky, softened by exhaustion. "That's rare. Usually you've got something wicked to say."
Lucifer's lips twitched into the ghost of a grin. "Don't get used to it. I'm just… thinking."
