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Summary
Warm. Sweet in a way that didn’t punch him in the teeth, but softened and spread. Vanilla blooming rich and gentle. Cinnamon threading through it like comfort. A faint hint of salt, subtle but perfect, dragging all the sweetness into balance like a hand pulling him back from the edge. It tasted like being held. It tasted like someone cared whether he was alive tomorrow.
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Lucifer, mid depressive spiral, has been hiding away in his room again, but finally decides to venture out for something to eat. No one else should be in the kitchen at this time of night, right?