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"He put Chloe in your path to manipulate you."
His mother's words rang in his head like a church bell in Hell — loud, insistent, inescapable — but they went completely silent the moment he saw Chloe standing in her bedroom, in front of the mirror, blood dripping from her nose like a ticking clock.
"Lucifer, I think something's wrong."
His Father could take his 'mysterious ways' and shove them right up his omnipotent arse, for all he cared. He wasn’t going to let her die. Not when Jimmy Barnes shot her. Not when Malcolm Graham kidnapped Trixie. Not when Uriel forced his hand. And certainly not now, because of some bloody mortal lunatic with a God complex.
He shoved the whole miracle ordeal aside like it was just another one of Dad’s shitty party tricks and focused on saving her life — not sparing a thought for how it might ruin his.
He’d sworn he’d never return to that Dadforsaken place again.
But for her, he did.
Oh, how catastrophically that one could’ve turned out. The Devil gambled — and for once, he won.
The only time he allowed the weight of it all to settle in his mind was when she got the antidote, when she started breathing normally again. When he knew — truly knew — she was going to make it.
And now? Now he was supposed to just walk away?
Because his Father — the almighty, self-righteous, omniscient bastard that He is — might’ve put her in his path for some grand manipulative purpose?
Well, yes. That did sound like Him.
But as far as Lucifer knew, every human had free will.
So why the hell would Dad make an exception with her?
Sure, maybe to mess with him. That would be the easiest explanation.
But if Chloe had been designed to love him, shouldn’t she have fallen head over heels the second they met?
Instead, she couldn’t stand him.
"Repulsive on a chemical level.”
Those were her exact words.
That alone should've been proof enough that she wasn’t playing a part in some divine matchmaking scheme. She chose to tolerate him. Slowly. Against every ounce of her better judgment. That wasn’t divine intervention — that was free will. That was real.
And honestly, that’s why he started orbiting her like some hopeless, trench-coat-wrapped moon in the first place. That, and the whole immunity-to-his-mojo thing. Freak.
Okay, maybe that part was Dad’s doing, since it was the first time it ever happened. No one before or after had been able to say no to him the way she did — not without faking it.
He knew how his powers worked. He drew out people’s deepest, darkest desires. And it came with a side of that Lucifer Morningstar allure™ — people were drawn to him because he reflected the things they craved.
But Chloe? Chloe was immune.
Which meant... she didn’t see what she wanted desired when she looked at in him.
She just saw him.
Not the Devil. Not the fantasy. Just Lucifer.
And that — that was something entirely different from what his mother had told him.
But the question was… — what the hell was he supposed to do now?
Because the “right” thing — the noble, selfless, goody-two-shoes thing — would be to step aside. Disappear. Leave her be. Don’t let her become another pawn in some celestial chess match he hadn’t even realized he was playing.
But the Devil — well, the Devil was, by nature, a selfish creature. Desire was his default setting. And he’d been ignoring his own for far longer than he liked to admit.
Could he even protect her if he stayed?
Uriel had barely touched down before trying to rewrite reality. And word traveled fast in the Silver City — it was only a matter of time before another sibling came knocking. Or kicking. Or smiting. They’d try to beat him into submission, drag him back to Hell — or worse, use Chloe to do it.
And then there was his darling mum.
Yes, she’d helped save Chloe. No, that didn’t mean her intentions were pure. This was the same woman who’d dropped the whole “Chloe’s a celestial cheat code” bomb like it was gossip over brunch. Only she wasn’t stirring tea, she was stirring chaos. Just to pit him further against Dad.
Honestly, those two deserve each other. The most bloody dysfunctional family in the history of creation.
But did he really want to leave?
After everything?
After he practically laid out every possible reason why he wasn’t worthy of her attentio — and she still kissed him?
After the way she grabbed him on those stairs outside the lab — like he was something she was sure of?
“This is real, isn’t it?”
The way she looked at him. That quiet hope in her eyes. That trembling fear she was trying so hard to hide.
Could that really be fake? Could that be manipulated?
He wanted to say no.
He needed to believe it wasn’t.
Because if that had been real — even for a second — then maybe he didn’t have to walk away this time. Maybe, just maybe, he could stay.
And maybe — for once — staying wouldn't be the selfish choice.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Not even for a second.
Chloe lay motionless in the hospital bed, pale but breathing, still and fragile in a way that made something ancient and primal in him scream. The chaos around them — the machines, the nurses, the world — all blurred into nothing. There was only her. And she was still, without a doubt, the most beautiful human he’d ever seen.
Even now. Especially now.
And it hit him — just how far he was willing to go to protect her. What lines he’d cross. What oaths he’d break. What realms he’d drag himself through, just to keep her alive.
Because one day — eventually — Chloe would die.
And she would go somewhere he could never follow.
She had no place in the darkness he came from. And he had no place in the light she deserved.
So if this life was the only one he could share with her — he would fight tooth and nail for every second of it.
Because once she was gone… she’d be gone. And he’d be left behind, eternal and alone, with nothing but her memory burning like holy fire. … but a memory of her burning like holy fire inside him perhaps?
He sat by her bedside, elbows on knees, hands clasped like he was praying — not that it would’ve helped. Not for him. Not now.
She looked peaceful, finally. Alive. Breathing.
And he couldn’t stop staring.
He should’ve left. He knew that. He'd told himself that a dozen times since walking into the room. Since seeing her. Since watching her chest rise and fall like salvation wrapped in hospital linen. He’d thought maybe if he just saw her with his own eyes, alive and healing, he’d find the strength to walk away. Do the right thing.
But that strength never came.
"Well." His voice cracked the silence like a confession. "Look who's back."
She turned her head slightly toward him. Sleepy. Soft. Still worn out, but awake. Alive.
"You didn't die after all. That makes one of us." He didn’t mean to say it like that. So raw. So naked.
But it was the truth, wasn’t it? Something in him had died the moment he thought she might. Some part of him that still believed he could survive her loss — that illusion was long gone.
"I heard you saved me." Her voice was quiet. Gentle. Like she wasn’t sure it was real.
He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Too much was still storming inside.
"Well... much as I'd like to take all the credit, this one was a... a team effort."
Dad, that was weak. That was nothing like what he wanted to say. He wanted to fall to his knees, press his forehead to her hand, and tell her he would burn down the bloody universe if it ever tried to take her from him again.
But instead, he sat there, frozen between what was right and what he wanted. Between what he feared was manipulation and what he knew in his bones was real.
"You know, this whole poisoning thing has just..." She trailed off, fiddling with her fingers. Not meeting his eyes at first. "...really put a pause on everything that's been going on with you and I, so... should we just pick up where we left off?"
She looked at him then.
A little happy. A little shy. Hopeful in that cautious way she always was when it came to them. Like she didn’t quite believe she was allowed to want it.
That was it. The moment. The second his resolve shattered like glass under divine weight.
Because how could he not stay?
After everything they’d been through. After everything he’d felt. After all the blood and heartbreak and questions he still didn’t have answers to — how could he walk away from her now?
No. No, to Hell with the right thing.
To Hell with his Father's grand plans and mysterious ways. To Hell with fate.
He was done pretending he could let her go.
If his Father had a problem with that — well, He could smite him later. For now, Lucifer Morningstar was choosing desire. Was choosing her.
He stared at her for a beat too long.
The ache in his chest pressed tighter, his heartbeat roaring against ribs that hadn’t felt this fragile since… well, maybe ever. Her voice had been so light. A little teasing. Nervous. Like she was trying to make it easy for him. But it wasn’t easy. None of this it was.
Still, she looked at him with that hope again. That tiny flicker she always held out like a match in a hurricane — daring him to believe in something brighter.
He leaned forward slowly, like he didn’t trust himself not to shatter the moment if he moved too fast.
His voice came quiet. Steady, yet soft murmur. “That depends…Where exactly did we leave off?”
She let out a breathy little laugh — one of those “I can’t believe you’re you” sounds — but she smiled anyway. She always did.
He reached for her hand then, careful and slow. Like she was something sacred. And she was. To him, she always had been.
And then, without another word, he leaned in — and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Gentle. Deliberate. His lips lingered just long enough for her to feel it, to know.
No glamour. No charm. No seduction.
Just him.
Just Lucifer.
And in that kiss, in that one soft gesture, he said everything he couldn’t bring himself to voice aloud.
The kiss on her forehead lingered — not just on her skin, but in the silence that followed. He pulled back just enough to look at her again, still holding her hand like it was the only thing tethering him to Earth.
She didn’t say anything right away.
Didn’t make a joke.
Didn’t flinch.
She just stared at him with those too-honest eyes and a vulnerability that could crack open mountains — or Devils.
And then, slowly, like she was afraid he might vanish if she moved too fast, Chloe reached up with her free hand and curled her fingers around the collar of his shirt.
Her hand trembled. Just slightly. But her grip was sure.
She pulled him down — soft, steady — until their lips met in a kiss that wasn’t urgent or dramatic or perfect. It was quiet. Human. Real.
And it completely undid him.
He didn't move at first. Didn't breathe. Every cell in his body short-circuited under the sheer impossibility of it all — the fact that she was here, alive, kissing him, after everything. After the poison. After the miracle revelation.
But then his hand cupped the side of her face, and he kissed her back.
Like it was the only thing he had left to offer. Like maybe it always had been.
When they parted, barely, she didn’t open her eyes right away. Neither did he.
His forehead rested against hers, and he let out a shaky exhale.
This woman would be the death of him.
Actually… she already was.
And if he had to die a thousand more times, in a thousand different ways, just to keep feeling this — just to keep her — he would.
Every damn time.