Darkness had always suited Lucifer. It was a shield, a way to hide the sharpness in him that most couldn't handle. Tonight, under its cover, he let the usual prickly arrogance fall away. He leaned back against the pillows, one arm propping up his chin, and turned his head to watch the man beside him.
"Moses is mad at me again, isn't he?" His tone was almost lazy, but there was a shadow in his eyes.
Jehovah's gaze flickered, remembering the conversation earlier that day. The memory carried with it that sudden, deep ache in his chest—an ache that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with what he could not say.
"He's… a little upset," Jehovah answered carefully.
Lucifer's mouth pulled downward. He dropped his gaze to the sheets, tracing the creases with his eyes. "Why's he always mad? Yes, fine, I wrecked Hell, but I kept the demons in check. Sent them all back to Michael when I was done. If I wanted to fight Heaven, I could do it alone. Don't need any of those scraps to drag me down.
"My business—" His voice grew lower. "—he used to know all of it. Every move I made. Now he comes here, pretends not to care, and worse… blames me."
Jehovah bit down gently on his lower lip, the words sticking in his throat. Of course he cared. He had never stopped. He knew every detail of Lucifer's fall, had lived each moment in memory. And since he'd been here, he hadn't ignored him for a single day.
He had watched—quietly, obsessively—for an entire month.
Moses's voice came back to him, steady and certain:
If the prince is hurting, kindness from a stranger won't help. It has to be you.
Jehovah's hand curled into a fist against his knee. Then, slowly, he reached out, fingers brushing through the strands of Lucifer's hair. "He's not that angry," he murmured. "Try to trust him. Like he trusts you."
Moonlight pooled across his hand—slender fingers, pale skin, each movement deliberate. The touch was cool, but when it skimmed Lucifer's cheek, heat sparked there like a struck match.
Lucifer's breath caught. His skin felt too warm, his thoughts scattered. He coughed into the blanket, yanked it halfway over his face, and curled in on himself like a cat, leaving only the gleam of his black eyes visible.
Jehovah's lips parted, ready to tell him to sleep—
But a muffled voice came from under the covers. "Jehovah… why would someone abandon the child they raised, and then later… take them back?"
The question hung in the air like mist. It was too vague, too strange, yet too personal.
Jehovah stayed silent. Lucifer shifted, dragging the blanket higher over his head. "Forget it. Just asking."
Jehovah's voice, when it came, was soft. "They leave for one of two reasons. Either they're too disappointed… or they believe the child can manage alone.
"And they take them back…" He paused, as though tasting the words. "When they realize they can't manage. When they need them close to be at peace."
The room was quiet again. In the darkness, Lucifer's lips curved in a faint, secret smile.
The Morning Trap
He woke to the sound of music—harp strings plucked like drops of water, clear and steady, weaving through the cool air. A girl's voice followed, light and hesitant, as though afraid to wake the house.
Something warm was pressed against him. He opened his eyes to a patch of flushed skin, then the slope of a collarbone, the pale edge of a linen shirt—
And then it hit him. His face was buried against Jehovah's neck. His arms and legs were wrapped around him like a vine, holding him tight enough to leave marks.
Disaster. Utter, irreversible disaster.
Jehovah stirred.
Lucifer's instincts flared—too late to let go, far too late to roll away. If he opened his eyes now, they'd meet, and it would be—no. No, that was unacceptable.
In one smooth motion, he squeezed his eyes shut again and buried his face deeper into Jehovah's shoulder. Fine. He'd play dead.
He forced his breathing slow and even, ears straining for every sound.
First, Jehovah shifted under him, careful, almost awkward. Then, with slow precision, he began peeling Lucifer's limbs away and sliding a pillow into their place.
The faint rustle of fabric—Jehovah dressing.
Lucifer waited, mind already plotting his exit. He'd give it a few minutes, stroll out looking freshly awake, pretend nothing happened—
A sudden breath of floral scent startled him, and he almost twitched. Jehovah was leaning close, tucking the blanket over him.
And then… nothing. No footsteps. No sound but the steady weight of someone's gaze.
Lucifer's thoughts stuttered. Is he looking at me?
A moment later, he heard the soft scrape of fabric again. And then—a warm palm settled lightly on his head, fingers brushing through his hair. The touch lingered, gentle, almost hesitant.
When it left, the scent faded with it. The door creaked open, footsteps retreating.
Lucifer opened his eyes, sitting up fast. He rubbed the crown of his head where the touch still seemed to burn. His ears felt suspiciously warm.
Smoke, Song, and the Unexpected
The sun had yet to rise, but the courtyard was already alive. The smell of warm milk and honey drifted from a pot in Moses's hands. The witch's father sat outside the tent, feeding a snow-furred ferret, color back in his cheeks.
Jehovah sat at his usual place by the table, a shallow basket before him filled with wooden tokens and tools. The "Holy Spirit" figure—the man the village thought was the healer—sat nearby, reserved as ever.
And in the center of the yard, the witch's daughter perched on a low stool, a small harp balanced in her lap. She had braided her hair neatly, tied it in place with a clean floral scarf, and traded her old dress for a plain, fresh one. The early light made her look almost ethereal.
When she saw Lucifer, she set the harp aside and sprang to her feet. "Good morning, my lord!"
He nodded, stifling a yawn. "That was Heaven's First Hymn you were playing, wasn't it?"
"Yes!" Her eyes lit up. "Praise to the Almighty! I'm so grateful I met you and the other man—my father is alive because of you."
Lucifer glanced toward Jehovah. The god you're thanking is sitting right here.
Jehovah looked up, their eyes meeting briefly before he dropped his gaze. But the memory of that morning's closeness, and the soft brush of his hand, made Lucifer's ears warm again.
He walked to the girl and sat cross-legged before her. "Not bad," he said casually, "but you missed a note."
She blinked. "You… know the hymn?"
His brow arched. "Why wouldn't I?"
She handed over the harp. Lucifer's fingers brushed the strings, and the solemn melody poured forth, clear and smooth.
He was dressed in black as always, the faint weight of darkness clinging to him like a shadow. Even sitting still, he radiated the quiet authority of someone who had stood at the very top and never been dethroned.
Yet here he was, holding a delicate harp between his knees, head bent in concentration, the sharpness in his eyes softening into something almost… tender.
The breeze lifted his hair, and for a moment he looked like a fragment of light breaking through a closed room's darkness.
The girl, her voice now steady, began to sing along:
"I call to You, my Lord,
and You answer from Your holy temple.
In sleep or in waking, You guard me.
Though evil walks near, I will not fear…"
Lucifer's gaze drifted to the edge of the courtyard.
The "Holy Spirit" sat still, head slightly bowed. Beside him, Jehovah's hands had stilled completely. He was watching Lucifer, amber eyes catching the early light and glowing faintly gold.
Lucifer looked away, focusing on the strings as he hummed the final line under his breath:
"For my beloved Lord is in His temple, watching over me."