You didn’t mean to startle him.
Honestly, you didn’t think anything could startle Lucifer.
He was the Avatar of Pride, after all. The very picture of self-control. Unshakable. Regal. Terrifying, to some. That man could face Diavolo’s unplanned chaos, Mammon’s debts, and The Anti-Lucifer League's pranks all before noon without even blinking.
But apparently… he wasn’t prepared for this.
“Love, can you hand me that quill?”
Lucifer—who’d been reviewing a contract across the room—froze. Not visibly, not to most people. But you caught the subtle twitch of his fingers, the way his breath paused just a moment too long.
His eyes flicked to you. “What did you just call me?”
You blinked innocently. “Love. The quill?”
He stared at you. Then, without a word, he walked over—slow, deliberate—and handed you the quill.
But the moment it left his fingers, he leaned closer, just enough that you could feel his breath near your ear.
“…Say it again,” he murmured.
You turned your head, confused. “Say what?”
You smiled, amused. “You mean love?”
The slight, unmistakable pink at the tips of his ears.
Lucifer cleared his throat and straightened instantly, posture snapping back into place like nothing happened. “Be mindful of how you speak. Such terms… are informal.”
“Hmm.” You tapped the quill against your lip. “So… darling is off the table?”
His eye twitched. “That’s even worse.”
You giggled. “Alright, alright. I’ll stick with love, then.”
“I didn’t say that was acceptable either—”
“But your ears turned red when I said it,” you teased.
Lucifer gave you a look that could make lesser demons tremble. “They most certainly did not.”
“…You’re imagining things.”
“Oh, love. You’re adorable when you get flustered.”
His mouth parted like he had a thousand dignified responses ready—and then shut again, lips pressing together in a thin line.
You grinned and reached up, tugging him down by the collar just enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“There. You’ve earned it.”
Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “Have I?”
You tilted your head sweetly. “You did bring me the quill, love.”
This time, the flush crept down his neck.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he warned, though his voice had gone lower. Warmer. Almost amused.
You beamed at him. “So you like it.”
But later, when he passed by your seat and rested a gloved hand on your shoulder, he leaned down and whispered by your ear:
“…Be careful, darling. I may just get used to it.”
And judging by the smirk he wore the rest of the evening, you were certain he already had.
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