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When Chloe dreams of the Devil, they aren’t the sort of dreams they probably should be.
Anytime she closes her eyes, she sees him, though not as he stood on the stage at The Mayan with his wings unfurled and his eyes furious and full of fire. She doesn’t see the monstrous form that roared for the demons to return to Hell, the sound shaking the air itself. She doesn’t see the crimson eyes, or the scars on every inch of his body, or even the massive, red, leathery wings spread out behind him.
No, her nightmares are quieter. Stranger.
They begin the same way every time—walking along impossibly long, narrow corridors, lined with jagged obsidian walls. The air burns, scorching her skin, and yet her breath comes out in white fog. Ash drifts from a blue-grey sky that seems both too close and far away, and too heavy, pressing down on her lungs. The silence is so absolute it’s nearly physical. No tortured screams renting the air. No fire around every corner. Only an oppressive stillness, the taste of ash that falls like snow, and the sensation that she’s walking though someone else’s grief.
Hell, she once thought.
But not the Hell she always imagined, filled with fire and brimstone and demons that look like Maze but crueler and more bloodthirsty to punish the damned. This place is something else altogether, far worse than she ever thought.
She’s tried everything to stop it. Staying up all night, forcing herself through case files until her eyes blurred. Drinking enough caffeine to make her heart race. Spending time with her daughter, and letting Trixie chatter in her ear about science projects and TV shows. Laughing when Maze drags her back to Lux for a night of drinking, dancing, pretending. Even sleeping pills that leave her groggy the next day.
Nothing works.
Sleep always finds her.
Sometimes she’ll wake halfway through the night on the couch with her cheek pressed to an open folder and a pen still clutched in her hand. Other times, she falls asleep upright, the world tipping sideways before she even realizes her eyes are closed. And every time, the same corridors are waiting.
The first few nights, she told herself it was just stress. The grief of losing someone so intertwined in her life that everything is falling apart with him gone—or so it feels. Or maybe her mind was replaying fragments of that final moment at the Mayan—the demons pressing in on all sides, grabbing at her, the sound of Lucifer's voice in a timbre she’d never heard before. How his chest heaved as he transformed back and met her gaze, expecting her to be afraid, and the look of relief in his eyes when she smiled at him. She told herself the mind has strange ways of coping, that dreams don’t mean anything.
But then she notices the ash.
The air.
The doors.
Each one is different—some innocuous and normal-looking, some carved with strange runes, others smooth and pulsing faintly with light from within, as if something behind them is trying to escape. Once, she passed a door with a nameplate that said Lieutenant Marcus Pierce, but she moved past that one quickly, refusing to even consider it. Sometimes, when she passes one, she can swear she hears a whisper, or the faint scrape of something moving.
She never touches them.
Every step feels like trespassing. She always expects to come across a demon or maybe even... But the heat blistering her lungs distracts her; the cold numbs her fingers. Her skin prickles as if the place itself recognizes her, or maybe that it’s claimed her.
And always, she walks alone.
In the morning, she wakes drenched in sweat and freezing to the bone. The sheets stick to her skin; the air feels too thin, the sun too bright after the darkness of the dreams. She’ll stumble into the shower and stand under the scalding water until the world feels real again.
But it never lasts.
By the time she’s sitting at her desk, coffee in hand, pretending to read another autopsy report, she can feel the corridors pressing at the edge of her consciousness. That strange hum behind the walls. The faint smell of smoke and ice.
She hasn’t told anyone. What could she even say? That she’s dreaming of Hell, a place she’s never visited, but not of Lucifer? That she can feel him there, not watching but waiting, somewhere deep in those endless halls? Linda might understand. Maze definitely would. But Chloe can’t deal with one friend psychoanalyzing her while the other gives her truths she might not be ready to hear.
Chloe isn’t sure which is worse: the nights when she dreams or the days she doesn’t.
No matter how hard she fights it, she knows, sooner or later, she will end up back there.
The moment her head hits the pillow, the corridors are waiting for her.
Chloe doesn’t remember falling asleep. One moment she was sitting on her couch, the television droning faintly, half a mug of untouched coffee cooling beside her; the next, she’s here again—bare feet on uneven obsidian floors, the air alive with that impossible contradiction of heat and frost.
The same walls. The same ash drifting through the blue-grey haze above.
Except this time, there is sound.
At first, she thinks it’s the echo of her own breathing, but no, whatever it is, it’s too...deliberate. Low voices bleed through the seams of the doors lining the hall. Muffled whispers. Pleas. Sometimes cries. And sometimes, though she’s sure it’s her imagination, she hears something close to his voice.
Her chest tightens as she stops in front of one door. Nothing special, really. It looks a little like the front door of her apartment, which might be why it got her attention. Her hand is halfway reaching for it before she can think better of it. The metal handle is dark, slick, pulsing faintly with a dull red light that reminds her of a heartbeat. On the other side, something shifts, and then whispers what almost sounds like her name.
She snatches her hand back. Every instinct screams at her to open it, to look, to investigate, but fear roots her in place. Fear of what she might see—or worse, who she might not.
Calming her incessant curiosity, she forces herself to move on.
The air thickens with every step, her skin prickling, hair damp against the back of her neck. The walls seem narrower now, the hum beneath the surface louder. And up ahead...she sees something new.
The corridor ends in an open expanse so vast it makes her stomach drop. At its center rises a spire, blacker than the walls around it, threaded with glowing fissures that look like veins. It reaches upward, higher than her eyes can see, disappearing into the heavy dark haze that serves as a sky. The lights from the cracks pulse like the doors, matching her heartbeat echoing through the stillness.
She knows, without question, who waits at the top.
Her heart begins to race, relief surging through her that she’s finally found him. “Lucifer!” she calls, her voice swallowed by the hollow expanse.
Nothing. No movement. Not even a shift of air.
It makes her heart sink because now she doubts he’s there. If he were, he would have heard her, sensed her the way he always seemed to. He wouldn’t leave her in this place all on her own.
But her gut says that she’s right, so she grabs onto a jagged edge of the base and starts to climb. The moment her feet leave the ground, the world folds in on itself.
Dream logic can be cruel that way—one blink and she’s no longer standing at the base but at the summit, the ground a dizzying, endless drop below.
She turns around—and he’s there.
Lucifer is sitting on what looks to be a throne made of the same stone as the spire. He looks exactly as he did when she last saw him on the penthouse balcony. The same black suit, crisp white shirt, red pocket square folded carefully. The stubble on his jaw, his hair styled perfectly, the same handsome face she’s missed so much it physically hurts.
The only thing that’s different are his eyes. They aren’t the same ones she remembers.
There is no warmth in the brown depths. No teasing glint of mischief or affection. All that remains is a cold, distant expression, like he’s staring through her into some place only he can see.
“Lucifer?” Her voice cracks as she steps closer. “Hey. It’s me, Chloe.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even seem to breathe.
The wind up here—or whatever passes for it—tastes like ash and iron. Her throat burns. She reaches for him, hesitant only a second before her fingers brush his hand, curled around the arm rest. His skin burns at first, almost painfully hot. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, it goes cold—so cold she gasps, her fingertips numbing instantly.
She cups his face with both hands, ignoring the pain. His cheeks are rigid between her palms, heat and ice warring beneath the surface. “Lucifer,” she whispers again, her voice trembling now. “Please.”
Still nothing.
Ash clings to his hair. She brushes it away, fingers shaking, and for a fleeting second she almost believes he might look at her, might smile that tender half-smile that makes her heart flutter.
But he doesn’t. His gaze stays fixed on the horizon, eyes dull and endless.
Chloe presses her forehead to his, desperate, the cold sinking into his bones. “Please. See me.”
No flicker of recognition. No spark.
When she starts to try again, the world seems to tilt. Her foot slides on the slick surface beneath them. Instinct kicks in and she grabs for him, clutching his arm, her nails digging into the fabric of his sleeve. His skin is ice cold now, his body immovable, like tugging on a mountain.
“Lucifer—”
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for her. Doesn’t even notice.
The ash thickens until it’s all she can see, the faint red glow of the spire bleeding into everything. Her grip slips.
And she falls.
The drop is endless. The heat tears the air from her lungs. The cold burns her skin raw. The world dissolves into a blur of black and grey and red—
Chloe jolts awake with a gasp.
Her sheets tangle around her legs, her heart battering against her ribs. Sweat slicks her skin; her throat feels raw, like she’s been screaming. The room is silent except for the uneven sound of her breathing and the creak of the apartment settling around her.
She’s home.
Safe.
Alone.
The clock on the nightstand reads 3:17 AM.
Falling back into the pillows, she presses the heels of her hands against her eyes and tries to steady her breathing. But even now, she can still feel the phantom chill of his skin beneath her palms, that impossible mix of hot and cold, and the hollow distance in his eyes that hurt worse than anything.
For the first time since he left, Chloe begins to wonder if Lucifer isn’t just gone. If maybe, wherever he is, it’s stealing everything that makes him him.
The dreams don’t stop; they only get worse.
Every night, the same corridors. The same ash, the same spire. The same still figure at the top.
Some nights she screams until her throat bleeds. Some nights she runs to him, shaking him by the shoulders, begging him to look at her, to say something, anything, damn it! Other times she tries to block his view, to force his gaze away from that endless, dark horizon. She even reached for his wings once—the pure white wings she last saw before he vanished from the balcony. But the instant her fingers brushed feathers, they disintegrated into ash.
No matter what she does, the outcome is the same. He sits there on that horrible throne, unmoving. She falls, and then she wakes.
The heat and cold follow her into waking life, weaving into everything she touches. Coffee goes cold before she finishes it. The sun on her face feels hollow, lacking its usual comfort. Showers leave her skin burning but do nothing to thaw the chill that has settled into her bones.
She has finally stopped telling herself it’s only stress and grief.
With everything else, she goes through the motions. At work, she interviews suspects, fills out reports, investigates crime scenes—but her voice sounds far away, not at all like her own. Dan asks if she’s sleeping, if she wants him to take Trix for a few nights; Ella offers her vitamins, sleep aids, meditation apps, jokes she’s too tired to laugh at. Chloe smiles, promises she’s fine, and returns to her paperwork. But they know. Everyone knows.
She isn’t herself.
The precinct is loud with its usual daily rhythm, enough that it should be a distraction. But anytime her eyes find Lucifer's empty chair across from her desk, all she can hear is the silence of those corridors. The hum of Hell at the edges of her mind.
None of it makes sense. Not once has Lucifer spoken to her about the place in any real detail. They didn’t even get much of a chance to talk with all the distance between them last year—and then he was gone. She’s sure he would have some explanation for why she’s dreaming about Hell; some celestially complicated reason, but he isn’t here. He’s there, and she doesn’t know how much of her dreams are truth and how much is just her mind making up worst-case scenarios.
By the end of one exceptionally long day, she’s too drained to go home. Trixie is spending the weekend with Dan’s parents, and without her daughter nearby to take her focus, Chloe knows what will happen. Her apartment will feel like a tomb that is too clean, too still, and filled with things that haven’t mattered since he left. She will spend all night poring over all the things she could have done differently in the last few months (which is nearly everything), and then her mind will switch tacks to the dreams until she eventually falls asleep.
So she goes to Lux.
Not the club itself; Maze is off on a bounty, and Chloe doesn’t want to party alone. She winds her way through the crowd, ignoring the pounding music and the call of the bar. The only time she hesitates is when she sees Amenadiel in his sharp suit, stepping into his brother’s shoes as best he can. For a second, she considers going to him and telling him about the dreams—if anyone can help, it’s an angel, right?
She keeps moving to the elevator.
The last time she was in the penthouse was that night. Despite telling herself she’d come back, she hasn’t, because the memories are too strong. Not only of then but every other time she’s been here for a post-case drink or to spend time with her partner.
She stands in the elevator with the doors open, staring into the dark space, surrounded by the ghost of him. His presence is everywhere here from the bookshelves to the furniture to the piano sitting untouched. Chloe swears she can even smell him—the faint scent of whiskey, smoke, and the sandalwood-vanilla of his obscenely expensive cologne.
The moment she steps out, her mind expects to hear him—maybe from the balcony, maybe from the bedroom.
“Detective!”
For a second, she even waits for it, but it never comes and her heart sinks further.
She flips on the tree root chandelier and bar lights, and walks slowly through the penthouse. Her fingertips trail over everything as if her touch alone can conjure him—the piano with a thin layer of dust, the bar lined with expensive bottles, the sleek furniture she once teased him about for being ‘too bachelor, not enough home’. He just sniffed and called it style, Detective.
Then comes the bedroom.
Chloe hesitates at the short staircase. His scent seems stronger in here, and she finds herself inhaling deeper, searching for some comfort. She eyes the massive bed, a smile trying to tug at her lips as she remembers the first time she woke up in it. She’d been drunk the night before and woke completely naked, and Lucifer hadn’t missed the opportunity to tease her.
“You had moves that made even the Devil blush.”
“You snore, by the way. Like an Albanian field wench.”
Of their own accord, her feet take her into the closet, which is almost the size of her whole apartment. Everything in here is neat and organized, to the point of compulsion—suits sorted by designer, then by color, jackets in one section, trousers in the next, and shirts have their own wall.
She reaches out and touches the archway as she steps inside. The smooth edge is warm under her palm, worn from years of his passing hands. Archways everywhere, because the Devil is, apparently, allergic to doors.
Though having seen Hell in her dreams and the doors that line those corridors, Chloe might have a new understanding of why that is.
Her fingers brush the hangers next, tracing the sleeve of a dark wool jacket, imagining it on him, how well these suits always fit. Without thinking, she goes straight for the wall of shirts and takes one of the white ones, the way she had on her birthday, and trades it for the clothes she wore here. The hem falls to mid-thigh, the sleeves swallow her hands whole, and the silk against her skin is cool and familiar.
For a long time, she just stands there, breathing him in.
When she eventually wanders out, her eyes drift towards the balcony without invitation. The glass doors reflect her faintly—barefoot, wearing his shirt, looking like a ghost of herself.
That is where she last saw him.
She found him here after The Mayan, hunched over the railing and far too quiet following what they’d all just gone through. The whole point of visiting was to let him know baby Charlie was back with his parents, and everything was being dealt with, or at least, that’s what she told herself. There were a hundred things she wanted to say to him that night, but nothing happened the way she planned.
He told her he had to go back, that the demons would keep defying him, that they must have a king. Her panic had her begging him to stay, thinking they could find a way to deal, because they always did before. Then she blurted out the words she tried to speak right before dozens of demons swarmed her at The Mayan.
“I love you. Lucifer, I love you, please don’t go.”
The look in his eyes was stunned and amazed, brighter than she’d seen in some time. He told her there was something else about the prophecy they’d gotten wrong.
“My first love was never Eve. It was you, Chloe. It always has been.”
Then he kissed her in a way that was both affirming of his words and a goodbye wrapped in one. She could feel it in the way he held onto her. Before she opened her eyes, she heard the soft whoosh of wings and he was gone.
She’d never known a kiss could break her heart in two like that.
Now, standing in his empty penthouse, that memory cracks her open all over again. She presses her hands to her face, having told herself weeks ago she was done crying, but the tears come anyway, hot against the cold that never seems to leave her skin.
Wiping her eyes, trying to get a grip, she pours herself a glass of whiskey she doesn’t know the name of and takes it back to the bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed to drink. She takes in everything from the Assyrian stone walls—and the crack near the safe Lucifer never bothered to fix—the marble floors, the sense of style in every inch of the place. She pulls his shirt tighter around her, as if the faint warmth left in the fabric and the burn of the whiskey can replace what she’s lost.
Even here, surrounded by the echo of him, the air feels the same—scorching and freezing all at once.
Chloe pulls back the blanket and slides between silk sheets, burying her face in his pillow. Sprawled across his bed, exhausted from tears and dreams she can’t avoid, she stares at the black, polished ceiling, letting her mind settle into a dull hum. Somewhere between a breath and a heartbeat, her eyes close and she drifts under.
And the dream takes her immediately, as if it’s been waiting for her.
When her eyes open again, she’s back in the corridor, surrounded by doors. The ash seems heavier tonight, falling thick enough to coat her shoulders, clinging to her hair like frost. The air stings her lungs. The walls glow faintly, those odd veins of red light pulsing in time with her heartbeat—or a countdown.
She doesn’t even bother fighting it tonight. She just walks, bare feet against cold stone, eyes fixed ahead. Some part of her reasons that if she can’t see Lucifer in her real life, at least she sees him here. Or what remains of him. Still, she knows where she’s headed and she doesn’t look around in curiosity.
The spire looms in the distance, larger and more imposing than ever. If that really is his throne, it must be impossibly lonely, so high above everything. How much time has he spent up there? Not just since the last time he returned but total? Maze once told her time works differently in Hell—centuries can pass there in weeks on Earth.
It only makes Chloe more determined to get his attention. If she can reach him, get through to him, maybe she can convince him to come back—to Earth, to his home, to her.
By the time she reaches the spire’s base, she’s trembling. From the cold. From the heat. From the ache in her chest that never fades.
The climb doesn’t happen tonight. Before she can even reach for the first jagged protrusion, she blinks, and she’s standing at the top. Wind tears at her hair, makes her eyes water, and the horizon of the blue-grey sky looks darker than ever.
She turns back to the throne, and there he is, like every other night.
Lucifer.
Unchanged. Untouched. Perfectly still, as if he, like the chair he’s sitting on, is also made of stone.
The black suit. The crisp white shirt that matches the one she’s wearing tonight. The stubble she’s spent too much time imagining against her cheek the last time he kissed her. Everything is the same...except for his eyes.
They aren’t dead tonight. Not entirely.
He is watching her.
Not seeing exactly, but following. His gaze tracks her as she moves closer, not that she has far to go on the short plinth. He looks as though he’s aware someone is in front of him and just...doesn’t care. Or maybe he doesn’t recognize her. Dream or not, the thought hurts.
“Lucifer,” she whispers.
He doesn’t answer.
She takes another step until she’s standing between his legs. “Please. Talk to me. Say something.”
Still nothing. The only movement is the ash, swirling between them like snow.
Chloe leans forward, trembling hands reaching for him. Her fingers brush his hairline. For a moment his skin is warm, then scorching, then so cold it feels like knives. She flinches but keeps touching him, hoping that will bring him back, down his cheek, across his stubble.
“Lucifer,” she says again, louder now. “It’s me. It’s Chloe. Your Detective, remember?”
Silence.
She shakes him harder this time. Her palms press against his chest like she’s performing CPR and feel nothing—no heartbeat, no rise of breath. Just this emptiness she’s never seen from him.
“Please,” she begs, her voice cracking. “Please look at me, Lucifer. You know me. I know you do. So please, see me.”
Nothing.
Then comes a voice, both from everywhere and nowhere. It isn’t coming from him, she realizes, it’s coming through him. The sound is low and distant and utterly him.
“Detective.”
Chloe freezes, staring at his face. His lips hadn’t moved. His eyes stay fixed on the horizon. But she hears it again, closer now, a whisper at the base of her skull.
“Detective.”
She presses a trembling hand to his chest. “Lucifer?”
“Chloe,” he says softly, her name soft and reverent the way it always sounds coming from him, almost like a prayer. “Darling, wake up.”
Shaking her head, she takes a step back. “No. No, I can’t. Not yet.”
The last thing she wants is to go back somewhere he isn’t.
“Wake up,” he murmurs again in a low, warm voice that threads through the ash, through her hair, through the cold.
Tears well hot in her eyes, prickling the edges. “Not until you look at me. Please, just...look at me.”
He doesn’t.
She leans closer, desperate now, hands framing his face again. The texture of his skin is all wrong. It’s too smooth, too still, like porcelain heated from within.
“Lucifer, please—”
A sudden warmth brushes across her forehead. One she recognizes vaguely as a kiss. Gentle. Real. Impossible.
She gasps, fingers tightening against his jaw. His body still hasn’t moved, but she can feel it—the ghost of his lips against her skin, the heat of his breath, the sound of him whispering her name.
“Chloe,” he says again, and her knees nearly buckle.
The light around them shifts. The blue in the sky seems to flare white for a moment, flooding the air with heat. The world shakes. The hum turns into a low roar.
She clings to him, nails biting into his suit. “Lucifer! Please! Don’t leave me again!”
“Wake up, love.”
“Not without you!” she screams, her voice raw and breaking.
And still, he hasn’t moved, but she thinks she sees a flicker behind his eyes, just a quick flash of recognition, a glimmer of warmth before it dies again. Her vision blurs. The spire beneath them trembles. Cracks spread across the surface of the throne with veins of light.
“Lucifer!”
“Detective,” the voice comes again, faint and urgent, audible through the roar. “Wake up. Please.”
The ground splits beneath her, and her balance falters. She reaches for him one last time, fingers grazing his lips—
—and this time, he turns. Just slightly. Enough for his gaze to meet hers.
For half a heartbeat, she sees the man she knows. The fire in his soul. The ache he feels at being separated from her. The look she saw before he last kissed her, undeniably love.
“Lucifer—”
The spire gives way beneath her. She falls, screaming his name into the burning dark, the echo of his eyes the last thing she sees before everything dissolves.
Chloe gasps before she even realizes she’s awake, lungs dragging in air that feels too thin. The sheets are twisted around her legs, her skin is clammy, and the room is half-lit by lights she doesn’t remember switching on. She braces herself for the ceiling of her apartment. The empty bed. The hollow silence.
Instead, the world feels warm.
She blinks, disoriented. The sheets wrapped around her feel both softer and heavier. The air smells of sandalwood and whiskey and smoke. And she realizes abruptly that she isn’t alone.
Slowly, she turns her head and feels her heart thud to a stop. There, just inches away, two warm brown eyes stare into hers. For a moment, she can’t move, sure it’s another part of the dream, but...no, this feels too much like reality.
Crouching beside the bed, one hand on her shoulder...is Lucifer.
Every line of his face is exactly as she remembers: the curve of his mouth, the stubble on his jaw, the perfectly styled hair. But it’s his eyes that wreck her—that rich brown, warm and alive, full of concern and recognition and love.
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She doesn’t dare speak, afraid the act will shatter the moment. Afraid she’ll wake again in the ash and the cold.
Finally, her mouth barely moving, she manages a whisper, “Lucifer?”
He smiles, small and soft, and reaches out to brush a strand of hair from her face. His fingers are warm in a way she hasn’t felt in months.
“Well,” he murmurs, his voice both teasing and relieved, “this is quite the surprise.”
Tears blur her vision. “It...it’s really you?”
Lucifer leans in until his forehead rests against hers, his breath soft against her skin. “I could ask you the same.”
Every last knot that has tightened around her lungs and heart loosens in that instant. She surges forward, arms wrapping around his neck, hanging onto him as if she can anchor herself in his heat. He catches her instantly, arms folding around her with equal force, holding her like he’ll never let go. His scent, his warmth, the solid weight of him—it’s all real.
When she finally pulls back enough to see his face, her hands cup his cheeks, still afraid he might vanish. She searches his eyes, the words falling from her lips without permission. “You know me?”
If he thinks it’s an odd question, he doesn’t say so. His gaze holds her, a corner of his mouth ticking up briefly. “I’d know you anywhere, Chloe. No matter how much time passes, I will always know you.”
The words feel like sunlight after a long winter. The cold that has lived inside her for two months cracks and melts, replaced by a rush of heat so sudden she nearly sways.
She presses her forehead to his again, closing her eyes. The remnants of the nightmare fade completely, not just to the corners of her mind, leaving only him and her and this. A thousand questions crowd her thoughts—how he’s here, how he was able to leave Hell, if she’s still dreaming, if this is real—but none of them matter. Not now. Not yet.
She simply holds him tighter.
Lucifer tightens his hold in return, one hand splayed across her back, the other curling protectively at the nape of her neck. They stay like that, neither speaking, breathing in sync, their bodies pressed so tightly together she doesn’t know where he ends and she begins.
For the first time in months, she feels heat without cold, light without ash.
For the first time since he left, she feels whole.
Chloe closes her eyes, lips brushing his collarbone in a trembling exhale. She doesn’t care if this is a dream or waking. She’s where she belongs—in his arms.