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The apartment is too quiet.
Not peaceful, what with the mess of markers and a sketchpad on the end of the coffee table, the pile of blankets on the couch, the endless stack of laundry that needs folding. And yet, Chloe doesn’t do any of it, not with this hollow feeling in her chest. The hum of the fridge sounds louder than usual, the clock ticks too steadily. Every so often she hears the faint sound of a door slamming on another unit before it’s swallowed by the stillness.
Trixie is at Dan’s for the night, probably roping him into another Frozen marathon. Since Maze moved out, there's no stomping from upstairs or death metal pounding through the walls. Which leaves Chloe alone with half a bottle of $5 wine, a couch that feels too big, and the blinking light on her phone—ironically, another message from Maze.
you should give him another chance
Chloe stares at it blankly for a long time. Maze has been acting weird for weeks now, ever since the blow up with the band sleeping in the apartment and calling Trixie a brat. So she isn’t sure how to interpret this message. A ‘chance’ implies there's something left to save.
She exhales, a thin, tired sound. Then she reaches for her glass again. The wine is warm and bitter, but she drinks anyway.
The scene keeps playing in her mind. Over and over again, looping like bad static. Her clumsy attempts to blurt out feelings. Pierce with his usual unreadable expression, until he cut her off before she could say the words.
“This is too hard. It’s not worth it.”
Even two days later, she can’t work out what went wrong. They hadn’t argued. He hadn’t even seemed angry. She thinks he panicked, and then just...gave up. She’d stood there, staring at the door for so long she lost track of time, waiting for him to come back, to soften it, to say he didn’t mean it that way. Eventually, she heard the roar of his motorcycle, as faint as it was, and realized he wasn't coming back.
She heard the words the way she always seems to—you’re not worth it.
What she hates the most is that it landed. That she believed him, even for a moment. Because it isn’t new, is it? Nearly every relationship in her life can be summed up in those words. Her mother’s disappointment had been relentless, barbed with impossible expectations. With Dan, things started out good, until the job became more important, until Palmetto happened, and it all fell apart. Even Lucifer—she was so sure they were on their way to...something, and then she was poisoned, he saved her, then disappeared, only to return two weeks later with a new ditzy stripper wife.
Of course Pierce was never going to stay; no one ever does, not with her.
Chloe sets the glass hard enough for wine to slosh up the sides.
“Get a grip,” she mutters, mostly to herself. “You don't need a man to define you.”
Doesn't take the sting away, though, however true the words are.
Work. She can bury herself in work, something she knows she can do. That always helps. Something concrete, something she can fix.
She opens her laptop, the glow of the screen a little harsh in the dim room, and pulls up her latest case, Reina Markova. The words blur almost instantly. Names, timelines, witness statements—all familiar shapes, none of them making sense. Her focus slips, again and again, until she realizes she’s been staring at the same line for five minutes.
Pushing back from the table, she presses her palms to her eyes until the pressure makes stars burst behind her lids.
This is ridiculous.
When her phone buzzes across the wood, she jumps. For half a second, she thinks it might be Pierce, and she isn’t sure how she feels about that. He’s been keeping his distance ever since...
It isn’t him.
Lucifer Morningstar
Of course.
He’s another one who’s been...odd lately.
Well, odder.
The text preview makes her sigh.
Detective, I am reliably informed that the appropriate cure for heartbreak is hedonism. I prescribe immediate attendance at Lux.
Chloe feels her lips twitch before she can stop them. Trust Lucifer to know that something is wrong, and then respond with that.
Another message arrives before she can type anything back.
Devil’s orders. 😈
She lets the phone drop against her thigh, shaking her head. Typical. Dramatic. Self-assured. And exactly what she doesn’t need.
Except...the thought has already taken root without permission. Maybe distraction wouldn’t be the worst thing. It isn’t like she’ll be getting anything else done tonight.
She looks around her apartment. The cheap wine. The text messages left on read. The dull ache in her chest that no amount of wine or work is fixing.
Lucifer's voice drifts through her head, vivid and teasing. “Oh, come now, Detective, surely you can loosen up for one evening.”
Maybe just a drink—well, a real drink. Maybe a little noise instead of silence. Something familiar, at least.
Before she can talk herself out of it, she opens her Uber app, requests a ride, and thumbs a quick reply to her partner.
Fine. But I’m not dressing up.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Splendid! Neither am I.
Well, no more than usual.
Your table awaits.
Chloe rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling a little as she slips her phone into her pocket and leaves her apartment behind.
The last time she saw Lux this quiet, it was the night Lucifer threw her a private prom. Her heart skips a beat at the memory, while her traitorous mind wonders what he has in mind tonight. She hesitates near the doors, wondering if she made a mistake in coming. The emptiness echoes her mood a bit too well.
Only one person stands near the bar. Unlike last time, his back isn’t to her; he has his gaze locked on the stairs, as if he’s been waiting since she texted that she was on her way. He isn’t in a full three-piece suit, just a dark blue shirt and smoky grey slacks. Maybe the biggest surprise is his slightly mussed hair, like he’s been running his hands through it.
For the last two days, he’s kept a closer eye on her than he normally would. She kept expecting him to make some comment about her and Pierce’s break-up, but he’s been strangely quiet on the subject. That isn’t like him at all.
At least it looks like he's finally sleeping again, and their confrontation in the interrogation room might as well not have happened. They have a bad habit of not talking about things lately.
She starts down the stairs, and a smile breaks out across his face. Not his usual insufferable smirk or charming grin; this smile is almost...tender.
“Detective,” he says, quieter than usual. Maybe he knows she isn’t in the mood for theatrics. “I was beginning to think you may have gotten lost along the way.”
Chloe lets out a breath that might be half a laugh. “Traffic was terrible. Or maybe I just didn’t think I needed a babysitter tonight.”
He arches an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement returning. “Perish the thought, darling. I merely thought you might appreciate a bit of company. Someone has to ensure you don’t spend your evening wallowing in self-pity and cheap merlot.”
Well, he isn’t wrong about the merlot.
“I wasn’t wallowing,” she mutters unconvincingly, sliding onto a barstool.
Lucifer gives her a look that suggests he knows her better than that, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he slips behind the bar and reaches for a glass, pouring something golden and clear. “I further thought you might like something a bit stronger than your usual,” he says, setting it in front of her. “To...cauterize the wound, so to speak.”
Not acknowledging that last part, she lifts it and inhales something citrusy before taking a sip. She isn’t sure what it is, but it burns pleasantly on the way down. “Not bad,” she says.
“Not bad?” He gives her a look of mock offense. “Really, Detective, have you no appreciation for fine liquors? And this, I’ll have you know, is my finest, pulled from the vault specially for you.”
Her lips twitch once. “In that case, maybe I’ll have another.”
There it is again, one of those small, genuine smiles. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were on the verge of enjoying yourself.”
She huffs a laugh. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
They talk for a while—nothing earth-shattering. The weather. A ridiculous story about Ella’s latest lab experiment. Lucifer's ongoing feud with his own espresso machine. It isn’t their usual banter or, lately, sparring; it feels more like how things used to be—before Pierce, before the distance began growing between them. When she laughs, a sound she hasn’t made in days, the light in Lucifer's eyes is brighter.
At some point, she realizes she’s relaxed. Not happy, exactly, but lighter than she has been.
She stares down into her glass, idly drawing shapes in the condensation with her fingertips. “I didn’t really come for a drink,” she confesses quietly. “I just...didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
Lucifer stills, gaze flicking to her face. His expression shifts from slightly amused to tender, and dare she say, compassionate. “Well, then if you will allow me,” he says, sliding off his stool, “I shall provide the distraction I so promised.”
Just like the night of their prom, he holds his hand out to her, palm up, with just the faintest echo of mischief in his eyes. She hesitates a beat before sliding her fingers against his, still unsure what this is.
The smile on his face deepens as he leads her towards the dance floor where the piano is waiting. Part of her wants to ask what he’s up to, why he asked her here. Another, smaller part kind of wants to confess the real reason she’s been so upset the last couple of days. But she says nothing, allowing Lucifer to guide her to a booth feet away from the piano. A third drink, the same one he gave her at the bar, is already waiting.
“Please, have a seat,” he says, gesturing.
Curiosity bubbles up, and she finally asks, “What is this, Lucifer?”
He says nothing as he settles at the piano.
Chloe raises an eyebrow. “You going to serenade me?” she asks, half-teasing.
Lucifer pauses with his hand outstretched for a waiting glass—the same golden liquor he poured her. He throws her a smirk, but there's something off in it she can’t read. “Music, Detective, is the most honest form of language. There are no lies, no posturing; only truth in sound. Surely even you can appreciate that.”
The way he says the words, softer than his usual boasting, makes her chest tighten. He isn’t like this very often, always on for the crowd. Only there's no crowd tonight, just the two of them, and she thinks this is more than just him wanting to show off.
He sips briefly, almost as though he needs the liquid courage, then brushes his fingers across the keys. Closing his eyes, he begins to play.
At first, it sounds like chaos.
The notes crash and collide—all restlessness, defiance, and life. Sharp dissonance that somehow still makes sense, like a thunderstorm arguing with itself. There are flashes of melody that almost resolve before breaking apart again. It sounds like motion, like tension wound so tight it might snap, like the strange, electric energy that follows him into every room.
Chloe finds herself leaning forward to watch. His fingers move so quickly they’re a blur, never staying in one place on the keys for long. It only takes her a moment to realize the music is him, wrapping up his arrogance, and charm, and contradictions, with something buried beneath the cacophony that feels...more raw. The notes tangle into arguments and laughter, two people on opposite ends of the keys circling the same truth and refusing to say it aloud.
Gradually, the tempo shifts.
The storm eases, becoming quieter and more searching. Each phrase stretches as it hesitantly questions. The melody softens into a low murmur that makes her chest ache without knowing why. It sounds...lonely, she realizes. Utterly, painfully lonely.
A lump forms in her throat that she makes no move to clear, too busy listening. Or rather, watching.
Lucifer's eyes are closed, but she can see him picturing the music in his mind. The tiny flickers of emotion he doesn’t bother masking. She’s never really thought of him that way before, that he might be lonely. Lucifer is constantly surrounded by people, by noise and light and excess. But she can also see how he could be, knowing he doesn’t have many real connections. It’s all one-night stands and meaningless flings who forget about him once he’s given them ‘the best night of their life’.
The sound pouring from the piano now all but screams it’s been that way for longer than she can fathom. More than anything, though, it sounds like a confession. Like someone sitting in the dark, trying to remember what warmth feels like.
Next comes the surge.
Without warning, the melody rises, full-bodied and fierce. Two separate melodies coming together to form an even stronger one. It fills the room, making her heart soar—at least, until the sound becomes almost violent, as if the music was on the precipice of beauty before being ripped apart again. Now it sounds like heartbreak, confirmed by the way Lucifer's jaw tightens, his eyebrows furrowing as he tries to contain his feelings or memories.
Each shift in key feels like a confession he doesn’t know how to make. Passion, anger, devotion, despair—it’s all there, tangled together until she can’t tell one from the other. Her pulse matches the rhythm. She can feel it everywhere, from the center of her chest to the tips of her fingers.
By the fourth movement, the energy breaks again, becoming softer than ever, tender and aching. The music reaches upward, tentative, yearning. Each chord is another question without an answer, as if the song itself is seeking something just out of reach.
Her eyes flick back to his face again. Every emotion is mirrored in Lucifer's expression, the furrow in his eyebrows loosening slightly. He’s completely lost in what he’s playing, and all she can think is how beautiful he looks.
For the first time in days, Chloe isn’t thinking about Pierce, or her own heartbreak, or anything else. She’s caught up in the swell and fall, the push and pull, that sounds like begging without words. That, and the way her partner reflects every note.
And then the final movement begins.
It’s quieter than she expected, a slow build that seems to balance on the edge between restraint and revelation. The melody vibrates with longing and awe, but beneath it is a deeper thrum—devotion, desire, need. All of it seems barely contained, poised to spill over and yet held back at the last moment.
Then comes silence.
The sound stops so abruptly it makes Chloe’s breath hitch. The air itself feels heavy and electric, but she barely notices. Her gaze is locked on Lucifer's hands hovering above the keys for a long moment before they slowly lower into his lap.
She doesn’t speak. She can’t seem to get enough air in her lungs to try.
She thought she came here for distraction—a drink and a laugh with her best friend, maybe a little teasing to dull the sting. Now, though, she feels caught between wanting to cry and wanting to touch him, to anchor herself somewhere that isn’t falling apart.
This feels...intimate in a way she didn’t expect.
Swallowing hard, she studies his face, though he isn’t quite looking at her, as if he’s still lost in thought. “That was...beautiful,” she says, her voice barely audible. She pauses, then needs to fill the silence. “What’s it called?”
Lucifer looks up, his eyes open again. The mask is dropped, leaving only a vulnerability she rarely sees from him that makes her heart stutter. He hesitates a long moment, then says, “Still a work in progress,” he says quietly, bordering on shy. “But I call it...Canzone per il Detective.”
Chloe blinks. The only word of that she knows is the last one. It pulls a startled, reflexive laugh from her. “You’re kidding.”
The look on his face, utterly sincere, earnest even, says he is not kidding.
At all.
The realization makes her breath hitch again, a warmth and ache she associates with Lucifer blooming all at once.
She has to look away, just to get her own emotions in check for a minute. Before she knows she’s doing it, she stands and crosses to the piano, curling her fingers around the lid.
Lucifer composed a song for her. Though a niggling suspicion is brewing in the back of her mind she doesn’t voice yet. Instead, she glances at the space on the bench beside him, raising her eyebrow in a silent question. A corner of his mouth twitches as he scoots over to allow her sitting room.
“So...” she murmurs, staring at the keys, “what does it mean?”
He blinks, pulled back from wherever he’s been. “Mean?”
“The song,” she clarifies softly. “You called it...something Detective.”
For a second, he bites his lip against a laugh. “You’re hopeless at languages, aren’t you?” he teases. “Canzone is Italian for song, Detective.”
Song for the Detective?
The simplicity of the title makes her smile.
“What’s it about?” she asks.
Reaching for his drink, Lucifer exhales slowly as he considers the question. “I suppose,” he begins slowly, “in its simplest form, it’s about...well, partnership.” Chloe doesn’t get a chance to do more than inhale sharply before he continues. “It begins in chaos, before you, then the confusion of when you first appeared. Followed by the...discord of trying to understand you. Finally, the unshakable, unbearable need to be near you. Close, but never quite close enough.”
Unbearable need to be near you.
The words steal her breath for a second as her suspicion is confirmed. “So...it’s about us?”
He tilts his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Well done, Detective. Very perceptive.”
A dozen questions flood into her mind, one after another, not giving her a chance to grasp onto one to ask. Chloe looks down at the drink in Lucifer's hands, suddenly feeling the need to make a confession of her own.
“I don’t know if this will make sense, but...I thought I found closure with Pierce,” she says quietly. “That I closed a chapter of my life and mattered to someone. As it turns out...” She gives a half-shrug.
Lucifer turns towards her, quiet for a moment. “The man’s a fool, Detective,” he murmurs gently. It isn’t the potshot she expected from him. “You matter more than he can possibly comprehend.”
Then why does everyone always walk away? Why do you keep walking away? She bites her cheek to stop from asking the question.
“I thought I knew what I wanted, you know? Safe, steady, reliable,” she says instead. “Someone who saw me and still wanted to be with me. But now...I don’t know. I’m not sure he ever really did. Or rather, that I ever really let him.”
“That is his loss, darling. Not yours,” Lucifer says.
“The thing is, though, I’m not as upset about losing...him as I should be. I mean, break-ups suck, but whatever I was looking for, I don’t think I was going to find it with him.”
Chloe swallows the rest of what she wants to say. How the closure she was looking for was over feelings for the man beside her. How she spent so long trying to squash them down, deny them at every turn, and leapt into a new relationship because she thought it would make her feel better about herself.
Her whole relationship with Marcus Pierce was an exercise in convincing herself she wanted to move on. But sitting here now, after hearing the song Lucifer apparently wrote for her...well, moving on is the last thing she wants. At the same time, though, she’s been burned by her partner more times than she can count, and she isn’t sure she’s ready to admit those feelings just yet.
Instead, she focuses on what she just heard. “So that song—you said it’s us,” she says quietly. “Our partnership?”
Lucifer's eyes soften, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Indeed. Chaotic. Maddening. Yet strangely...” He pauses, his voice dropping to something almost tender. “...harmonious.”
She can’t help the smile that pulls on her own lips. “Strangely harmonious,” she echoes. “That...sounds about right, actually.”
He hesitates again, setting down his drink. “I know we’re...complicated, to say the least,” he murmurs. “But Detective, I hope that you know I’m always here. And while I don’t always express it in what Doctor Linda would call a healthy way, no one matters to me more than you do. That’s why I asked you here tonight, why I shared this composition.”
Chloe’s lips part in surprise, while her heart stutters again. Again, a dozen things fight to escape her throat, but something holds her back, and she isn’t sure what. All she can manage is a soft, “Thank you, Lucifer,” as her eyes prickle.
Just to give herself something to do with her hands that isn’t reaching for him, she takes the drink he pours her, like he knew she’d struggle to respond. Tonight is the most emotionally open he’s ever been with her, and she doesn’t know what to do with that. She feels lighter than she has in days, though, and the sting of the break-up fades slightly.
She came here hoping for distraction, expecting the drinks and Lucifer making her laugh. Something to help her stop replaying the moment Pierce looked at her and decided she wasn’t worth the effort. But now, sitting here with Lucifer, she realizes she found something else entirely.
Not closure about Pierce; closure about herself.
As she just told Lucifer, Pierce hadn’t really seen her. He saw the detective parts, the stubborn, responsible parts, the too-serious parts rather than the parts that make egg sandwiches and face paint on game nights. The parts she hardly shows anyone because they aren’t what is expected of her. Lucifer, however, has seen all of it. He knows what her father means to her, and reminds her to let loose on occasion. He knows her better than she knows herself sometimes, even the imperfections she hides. And instead of turning away, he wrote music about it. About her, and about them.
Yes, he’s left her feeling lacking on occasion, but when it really counts—like tonight—he’s there for her.
She has some things to think about.
Finishing off her drink, she sets the empty glass on the piano and glances at him. “Thank you,” she says again, quietly. Not just for the music or the distraction, but for being him.
He looks at her, surprise flickering across his face, as if he heard the silent meanings behind the words. “Always, Detective,” he murmurs.
As much as she’d like to stay, it’s getting late and she has work in the morning. She presses a hand to his shoulder as she stands, and he reaches up, brushing his fingers across the back of it. Jolts of warmth shoot up her arm.
With one last smile, she heads for the stairs. She pauses halfway across the mezzanine, glancing back down. Lucifer is still at the piano, head bowed, hands moving gently across the keys. The same song begins again, low and slow, as though he’s replaying the night note by note.
Chloe watches him for a moment, a familiar ache unfurling in her chest. Then she smiles to herself and turns to go.
Closure was what she sought tonight. Maybe she got it, maybe she didn't. But, she thinks as she steps into the night and orders another Uber, maybe what she actually found is something better.
Maybe this is a beginning.