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The city was bleeding gold and violet as the sun sank behind the skyline, painting the streets in that bittersweet hour between day and night. Streetlights flickered to life one by one, their warm amber glow reflecting off rain-slicked pavement from an earlier shower. The air smelled of wet concrete, distant street food, and faint exhaust — the familiar perfume of a living city that no longer cared.
Lucifer sat alone on the old wooden bench at the edge of the sidewalk, legs stretched out, shoulders hunched like the weight of the entire sky pressed down on them. His pale blond hair, usually neat and golden, fell messily over his forehead, a few strands sticking to his damp skin.
The white dress shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the fabric slightly wrinkled from hours of restless wandering. A half-empty pack of cigarettes rested beside him like a silent companion.
He brought another cigarette to his lips, the flame of his lighter blooming briefly in the growing dusk like a tiny, fleeting star that died just as quickly. Smoke curled from his mouth in slow, elegant spirals, catching the dying light like threads of silver and gold before dissolving into nothing. He watched it vanish, just like everything else lately.
Empty.
That was the only word that still felt honest. Miserable in love, hollowed out until even breathing felt like a chore. Every inhale of nicotine promised relief but delivered nothing.
The smoke filled his lungs, warm and familiar, yet it couldn’t touch the cold ache settled deep behind his ribs because of the quiet, devastating longing that had made a home inside him.
His crimson eyes, usually bright and mischievous, stared blankly at the river of people flowing past. Couples walked hand in hand under shared umbrellas, their laughter soft and distant. Office workers hurried home with tired steps and loosened ties. A girl in a red coat scrolled through her phone with a small smile.
Life moved around him in gentle, indifferent waves, and Lucifer felt like a ghost sitting among the living that was so beautiful, tragic, and completely unseen.
The cigarette burned down between his fingers until the heat kissed his skin. He didn’t flinch. Only when the ember threatened to scar him did he finally pull it away, crushing it slowly against the armrest of the bench. A thin trail of smoke rose from the dying filter like a final sigh.
With a tired flick of his wrist, he tossed the butt toward the nearby trash can. It bounced off the rim and fell onto the wet pavement, glowing faintly before surrendering to the damp ground. He didn’t care enough to pick it up.
What was one more small failure in a day already full of them?
His gaze drifted slowly across the street, empty and unfocused, until it landed on a group of girls. They were laughing brightly, their voices like silver bells cutting through the quiet night air. Elegant dresses clung to their figures, flowing silks in rich jewel tones, lace trims catching the golden glow of the streetlights, hems swaying gracefully with every step. One wore deep emerald, another in midnight blue, and the last in a striking crimson that seemed to bleed into the twilight. Arm in arm, they strode confidently toward the entrance of a jazz bar across the road, their laughter trailing behind them like perfume.
Lucifer watched them disappear through the heavy wooden doors.
“Jazz”
He thought to himself with a quiet, bitter curl of his lips.
“Just bland music with a few lazy bass notes and endless chatter about some damned, sappy love.”
The kind of sentimental nonsense that filled songs with promises of forever and left people more hollow than before. He hated it. Or at least, he told himself he did.
Still, he stared at the place for a long while. The warm amber light spilling from the windows looked soft against the cool, damp evening. The neon sign reading “Midnight Velvet” flickered gently, casting a nostalgic glow over the wet sidewalk.
The faint sound of a saxophone drifted out every time someone entered — low, smooth, and strangely soothing. The emptiness in his chest pressed heavier.
“Maybe I need some alcohol…”
Lucifer thought. Anything to numb the ache, even if only for a little while.
Without fully realizing it, his feet carried him forward. He crossed the quiet street, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.
This place wasn’t as bad as he thought.
It wasn’t one of those noisy, chaotic bars with flashing lights and people shouting into each other’s ears. There was no overwhelming reek of cheap alcohol and stale cigarettes choking the air.
Instead, Midnight Velvet welcomed him with a quiet, elegant intimacy. Soft golden lighting bathed the interior in a dreamy haze. Dark polished wood panels lined the walls, deep velvet seating in rich burgundy tones, and delicate glass lamps hanging low over the tables. The air carried notes of aged oak, sweet vanilla, and a hint of citrus refined and comforting.
On the small stage, a jazz quartet played unhurriedly, the saxophone weaving slow, melancholic melodies through the room like threads of smoke.
Lucifer moved through the gentle murmur of conversation and soft music until he reached the long, gleaming bar. He slid onto a leather stool near the end, the material cool and smooth beneath him. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his wallet and placed it on the counter with a quiet sigh.
“Whiskey sour,” he ordered, his voice low and tired.
The bartender turned around to face him, and Lucifer’s eyes lifted.
He was a tall brunette with neatly styled hair that framed his sharp, handsome features with old-fashioned charm. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, dark vest, and a deep red tie, he carried himself like a British gentleman from another era that was poised, elegant, with an effortlessly refined posture. Yet when he spoke, his voice rolled out in a smooth, captivating French accent.
“Whiskey sour, right away,” Alastor said warmly, offering a polite smile as he began preparing the drink with graceful, practiced movements.
Lucifer watched him quietly.
“He looks like the type”
Lucifer thought to himself
“..the type to talk about hopelessly romantic stuff”
Moonlit confessions, handwritten love letters, dancing slowly until the world faded away and all that soft, sentimental nonsense. The very things Lucifer had grown to resent.
He rested his elbows on the bar, crimson eyes half-lidded as he waited for his drink, the soft jazz wrapping around him like a gentle, mocking embrace.
Alastor placed the whiskey sour in front of Lucifer with precise, elegant movements. The glass caught the warm amber light perfectly, ice cubes clinking softly like distant chimes. For a few seconds, he studied the man seated at his counter: the way his golden hair fell messily over his forehead, the tired slump of his shoulders, and those striking crimson eyes that looked utterly bored with the world.
Sensing an opportunity to peel back a layer or two, Alastor leaned one arm against the polished bar, his posture effortlessly graceful.
“Rough night, mon cher?” he began, voice smooth
“You have the look of a man who’s been chewed up and spat out by love. There was a couple last week who—”
“I have no need to hear about romantic love stories”
Lucifer interrupted sharply, not even bothering to look up from his glass. “Especially not the kind that sound like they’re from some cheesy ‘forbidden love’ play like Romeo and Juliet. Spare me the theatrics.”
Alastor paused, eyebrows rising with genuine surprise. Most patrons welcomed his charm, but this one cut through it like a knife. A slow, intrigued smile curved his lips.
Still, he didn’t retreat. People like Lucifer — guarded, bitter, radiating quiet despair wrapped in expensive dishevelment were far more interesting than the usual lonely hearts who spilled their souls after two drinks.
“My, my…” Alastor replied, his tone taking on a sharper, more playful edge.
“How refreshingly rude. Most men who come in looking this miserable are desperate for someone to listen to their sob stories. Yet here you are, biting the hand that mixed your drink.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with clever amusement. “Tell me then… why the strong aversion? What makes you so certain I was about to spin you a tale of star-crossed lovers?”
Lucifer took a slow sip of his whiskey sour, savoring the burn before setting the glass down. He finally lifted his gaze to meet Alastor’s, crimson eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and sarcasm.
“Because bartenders behind the counter like you always I don’t know… ‘chat’ with customers” he said flatly.
“It’s part of the job, isn’t it? And in a jazz bar like this…”
He gestured lazily at the intimate, golden-lit room as the velvet booths, the soft glow of glass lamps, the saxophone weaving its melancholic melody through the haze.
“With your appearance and that accent… you look like some kind of gentleman. The romantic type. The kind who likes to babble about love, moonlight walks, and all that sentimental nonsense.”
A beat of silence stretched between them, filled only by the low jazz quartet and the murmur of other patrons.
Then Alastor laughed — a rich, low sound laced with sharp amusement. He straightened up, one hand resting lightly on the bar as he regarded Lucifer with newfound intensity. His smile sharpened, no longer just polite but teasing, almost predatory in its elegance.
“Oh-ho! How delightfully judgmental” he chuckled, the French accent wrapping around the words like silk over steel.
“You dissect me so neatly in under a minute. Appearance, accent, occupation — all neatly boxed into ‘hopeless romantic.’ I must say, I’m almost flattered by how much thought you’ve put into me already.”
Alastor leaned in a little closer, his sharp eyes gleaming with challenge and curiosity under the warm lights.
“But tell me, monsieur… if I am truly such a cliché, why does it bother you so much? Does the idea of love offend you… or does it simply remind you of something you’re trying very hard to forget?”
The question hung in the air, laced with just enough bite to provoke. Alastor’s smile remained perfectly charming, yet there was a keen, observant edge to it now as if he had already decided that this bored, beautiful man was going to be the most interesting part of his night.
The soft jazz continued to drift around them, the golden haze of Midnight Velvet suddenly feeling a little smaller, a little warmer, and far more dangerous.
The conversation lingered between them, slow and careful at first, like two strangers testing thin ice. Alastor kept the drinks coming — perfectly mixed, never too strong, always with that elegant presentation. Each time Lucifer finished one, a new whiskey sour appeared with a quiet word and that charming smile.
As the minutes stretched and the golden lights of Midnight Velvet grew softer around them, the alcohol slowly loosened the tight knot in Lucifer’s chest. The saxophone played on, low and intimate, wrapping the bar in its melancholic embrace.
Lucifer stared into his third glass, swirling the amber liquid absently. His voice, when it finally came, was quieter than before.
“…It’s stupid, really” he muttered.
“I fell in love with someone who made me feel like the center of the universe one moment… and completely invisible the next. An unfortunate love affair, you could say. The kind that drags you through fire and leaves you cold afterward.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “I lost faith in love after that. Completely. What’s the point if it only ever ends in emptiness?”
Alastor listened attentively, elbows resting lightly on the bar, his sharp eyes focused solely on Lucifer. He didn’t interrupt. He simply nodded with genuine interest, that polite yet captivating smile never leaving his lips.
“Such a tragedy,” Alastor murmured, his smooth French accent like warm velvet.
“To be loved so fiercely and then left starving for it… I can see why you’ve grown so wary, mon cher. It takes a strong man to carry that kind of ache and still walk into a place like this with such beautiful eyes.”
Lucifer glanced up, slightly surprised by the gentle compliment, but the alcohol made him continue. He took another long sip, the citrus burn easing his tongue.
“Today was awful…” he admitted, running a hand through his messy golden hair.
“Sat on a bench for hours smoking like an idiot, watching everyone else live their lives while I felt… nothing. Hollow. Then I saw those girls laughing, heading in here, and I thought… maybe one drink would help. Just one.”
He gave a self-deprecating smile. “Clearly that plan failed.”
Alastor chuckled softly, a rich, charming sound that blended perfectly with the jazz. He leaned in a little closer, polishing a glass with graceful hands while keeping his gaze locked on Lucifer’s face.
“And yet here you are” he said warmly, tone polite but laced with gentle flirtation “opening up to a stranger behind the bar. Perhaps the night isn’t entirely lost.”
His smile sharpened just a touch, elegant and teasing.
“Besides, if I may be so bold… a man as captivating as you deserves far better than an empty bench and cold cigarettes. You wear melancholy rather beautifully, but I suspect joy would look even more stunning on you.”
The more Lucifer drank, the easier the words flowed. The fourth drink saw him leaning forward on the bar, voice growing softer and more honest. He spoke of sleepless nights, of memories that still stung, of how love had once felt like flying only to crash harder than he thought possible. Alastor listened like a man savoring fine wine — nodding, offering small sounds of understanding, never pushing too hard.
“You poor thing,” Alastor replied after one particularly heavy confession, his voice low and soothing, that French accent wrapping around Lucifer like silk.
“To have your heart played with so carelessly… If you were mine, I would never allow such neglect. Slow dances in the rain, handwritten notes left on your pillow, whispered promises at 3 a.m… the proper way to adore someone.”
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with charming mischief. “But perhaps I’m only proving your earlier point about me being a hopeless romantic, non?”
Lucifer huffed a quiet laugh, cheeks faintly flushed from both the whiskey and the attention. The bar felt smaller now, warmer. The rest of the world faded behind the soft glow of the lamps and the smooth melody of the saxophone. Alastor’s presence was tall, composed, dangerously charming, it was slowly pulling him in, one polite, flirty remark at a time.
And for the first time that night, the emptiness in Lucifer’s chest felt just a little less suffocating.
The whiskey was working its way through Lucifer’s veins, warm and treacherous. What started as reluctant small talk had somehow slipped into something deeper, something dangerously easy. He had told this stranger things he hadn’t voiced aloud in months, and the rapid intimacy of it all unsettled him. A strange flutter stirred in his stomach, such light, unwelcome butterflies that had no business appearing after everything he’d been through.
He stared at Alastor’s elegant hands as they wiped another glass, then at the sharp, charming smile that never seemed to leave the bartender’s face. The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
“Why do I feel like you’re flirting with me?”
Alastor paused mid-motion. Then a low, rich chuckle escaped him, warm and slightly amused. He set the glass down with deliberate grace and leaned forward on the bar, eyes gleaming with quiet delight under the golden lamplight.
“Ah, you’ve caught me,” he said, that smooth French accent curling around every syllable like smoke.
“Old habits, I’m afraid. When one works behind a bar in a place like this; surrounded by lonely souls and soft jazz; one learns to speak gently. To offer warmth. Most people come here seeking a little escape… and perhaps a little attention.”
He tilted his head, smile sharpening. “But I must confess… with you, it feels less like habit and more like instinct.”
Lucifer’s cheeks warmed. He looked down into his nearly empty glass, fingers tracing the rim. The butterflies only fluttered harder.
Alastor noticed. Of course he did. There was something undeniably interesting about this golden-haired man with the tired crimson eyes and sharp tongue. Behind the bitterness and heartbreak, there was fire. Vulnerability wrapped in pride. Alastor found himself wanting to peel back more layers.
“Another whiskey sour?” Alastor offered, already reaching for the shaker. “Or perhaps something sweeter tonight?”
Lucifer gave a small, reluctant smile. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” Alastor asked innocently, though the playful glint in his eyes betrayed him.
He shook the cocktail with elegant wrists, the ice clinking rhythmically. “Telling a beautiful man that his eyes look like embers in the firelight? Or noticing how the flush on your cheeks makes you even more captivating when you’re flustered?”
Lucifer let out a soft huff of laughter, half embarrassed, half intrigued. “You really don’t stop, do you?”
“Only if you truly want me to,” Alastor replied, sliding the fresh drink across the bar.
His voice dropped a little lower, smoother, more intimate. “But between you and me… I think you don’t entirely mind.”
The jazz quartet shifted into a slower, sultrier melody. The saxophone breathed low and longing through the hazy room as more couples drifted onto the small dance floor. Golden light danced across velvet booths and polished wood, making the entire bar feel like a private world detached from the cold city outside.
Lucifer took a sip of the new drink, the citrus bright on his tongue. He glanced up through his messy bangs.
“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, but there was the faintest hint of playfulness in his tone now.
“Smooth-talking bartender with a French accent… of course you are.”
Alastor’s laugh was soft and delighted. He rested his chin on his hand, gazing at Lucifer with open appreciation.
“And you, mon cher, are a beautiful disaster. Sitting here with heartbreak in your eyes and still managing to look like sin and starlight combined.”
He paused, letting the words settle. “Tell me… if I were to flirt with you properly but not out of habit, but because I find you genuinely fascinating, would you run away? Or would you let me see that lovely smile a little more?”
Lucifer didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he swirled his drink, the butterflies in his stomach now dancing wildly. He met Alastor’s sharp, magnetic gaze and gave the smallest, shyest smirk he’d worn all night.
“…You can try” he said quietly, voice barely louder than the saxophone.
“I might even flirt back. A little.”
Alastor’s smile widened, slow and predatory in its elegance.
“Oh, I do love a challenge.”
The air between them grew thicker, warmer, charged with something new and electric. Outside, the city remained cold and indifferent. But inside Midnight Velvet, under soft golden lights and slow jazz, Lucifer’s hollow night was slowly beginning to fill with something dangerously alive.
Without overthinking it, Lucifer reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and slid a crisp 100 dollar across the polished dark-wood counter.
“Here…” he mumbled, voice a little rough and awkward. “This is for you. A tip… for listening to my pathetic story all night.”
Alastor’s eyes widened slightly as he looked at the large bill. One hundred dollars for just four drinks was far too generous, almost absurdly so. He felt a hesitation wash over him. He didn’t want to embarrass Lucifer by pointing out how excessive it was, so he tried to refuse politely, a soft, flustered smile appearing on his face.
“Ah… that’s really too kind of you, mon cher” Alastor said gently, his voice soft and warm, one hand lightly touching the edge of the money but not taking it.
“I appreciate the thought more than you know, but I couldn’t possibly accept this…”
He paused, observing Lucifer’s flushed cheeks, glassy crimson eyes, and the way he swayed just a little on the stool. A fond but concerned look crossed his face.
“I think you’re drunk,” Alastor added quietly, almost teasing but with genuine care in his tone.
“You’ve had quite a few tonight. Perhaps we should slow down, yes?”
A sudden, impulsive spark ignited in Lucifer’s tipsy mind.
“Screw it.”
In one fluid, reckless motion, he snatched the money back, placed one end firmly between his teeth, and leaned far forward over the bar until his chest nearly pressed against the glossy wood.
He looked adorably ridiculous.
His face was burning crimson, heavy blush lines streaking across his cheeks. His lips were formed into a cute, embarrassed pout around the edge of the bill, eyebrows slightly furrowed in a mix of defiance and pure “what the hell am I doing” regret. His messy golden hair fell chaotically over his forehead, partially covering one glassy, half-lidded crimson eye. He tilted his head to the side in an awkward but strangely endearing way, offering the 100 dollar like a blushing, impulsive gift.
Alastor froze.
For several long seconds, the usually unflappable bartender simply stared, ears turning a visible, charming shade of red. Then, a slow, mischievous smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Instead of reaching out with his fingers, Alastor leaned in with deliberate, teasing grace. He closed the short distance between them until their faces were mere inches apart. Gently yet almost intimately he took the other end of the money between his own teeth.
Now they were connected by the thin strip of money, eyes locked in the intimate golden glow of the bar. Their breaths mingled warmly in the small space between them. Lucifer could feel the faint heat radiating from Alastor’s skin, could smell the subtle notes of his cologne — warm vanilla, aged wood, and something faintly spicy. The saxophone in the background played a low, sultry note that seemed to stretch the moment into something almost dreamlike.
Alastor’s sharp eyes sparkled with amusement and fluster. A soft, breathy chuckle vibrated around the bill still held between his teeth. He gave it a gentle, playful tug, pulling the money fully into his mouth before carefully transferring it to his long, elegant fingers.
He straightened up slowly, folding the slightly damp bill with exaggerated care and slipping it into the inner pocket of his vest, right over his heart. The flush on the tips of his ears refused to fade.
“…Well,” Alastor murmured, his tone thicker and huskier than usual, voice low enough that it felt like a secret meant only for Lucifer.
“I have received many tips in my time behind this bar… but never one delivered so boldly. And certainly never shared quite like that.”
He leaned forward again, resting his forearms on the counter, eyes half-lidded as he gazed at Lucifer’s flushed, pouty face with open fascination.
“You are full of delightful surprises tonight, mon cher. Impulsive… bold… and far too captivating for your own good.” His smile turned softer, almost shy for a brief second. “If this is how you express gratitude, I may have to start praying that more beautiful, heartbroken men stumble into Midnight Velvet.”
Lucifer grumbled, cheeks burning even hotter. He looked away, muttering under his breath, “Tch… You’re such a player. Smooth-talking charmer seducing every lonely fool who sits at your bar with that stupid accent and those lines. Bet you do this to everyone.”
Alastor chuckled softly, the sound rich and amused. He leaned in closer, one elegant hand reaching out to gently cup Lucifer’s chin. His long fingers tilted the blond man’s face upward, forcing their eyes to meet once again. The pad of his thumb slowly traced along Lucifer’s lower lip — slow, teasing, and intimately gentle.
“Oh, mon cher,” Alastor whispered, his thumb continuing its lazy caress across the soft skin of Lucifer’s lip.
“I was only joking. Truthfully…” His voice dropped even lower, warm and sincere, eyes half-lidded with quiet intensity.
“Maybe the only heartbroken man I want to stumble into here… is going to be you.”
The words settled between them like a secret. Alastor’s thumb lingered on Lucifer’s lower lip for a moment longer, gently pressing and tracing the curve before he finally pulled his hand back, though his fingers brushed tenderly along Lucifer’s jaw as they retreated.
The golden lights of the bar seemed to dim slightly around them, making the intimate space between the two men feel even smaller. The slow, sultry saxophone melody continued in the background, perfectly matching the heavy, fluttering tension in the air.
Lucifer’s breath caught in his throat. His heart hammered wildly as he stared at the charming bartender, the whiskey, the touch, and those dangerously soft words making it impossible to hide how affected he was.
“I… I should probably go home now,” he stammered, voice unsteady from both the whiskey and the overwhelming flutter in his chest. “It’s getting late and I’ve already… taken up too much of your time.”
Alastor’s expression softened with quiet disappointment. He didn’t move away from the bar, instead leaning a little closer, his voice dropping into a smooth, coaxing tone.
“Must you leave so soon, mon cher?” he asked gently, that rich French accent making the plea sound like music.
“The night is still young, and the music is at its best. Stay just a little longer… I’d hate to watch you walk back into that cold city alone.”
Lucifer hesitated, clearly torn. The temptation was strong, it was dangerously so but the last remaining shred of his caution made him shake his head slowly.
“I really should…”
Before he could finish, Alastor reached under the bar and pulled out a small notepad. He quickly wrote something down in elegant, flowing handwriting, then tore the page off and folded it neatly. He slid it across the counter toward Lucifer.
When Lucifer reached out to take it, Alastor caught his hand instead.
With deliberate tenderness, Alastor lifted Lucifer’s hand to his lips and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the back of it. The warmth of his mouth lingered on Lucifer’s skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and sincere under the golden lights.
“My number,” Alastor said quietly, nodding toward the folded paper still held in Lucifer’s fingers.
“If you ever feel like sitting on another bench… or if you simply want someone to talk to… or perhaps even dance with… call me.”
Lucifer stared at the piece of paper, then back up at Alastor, completely speechless. His hand still tingled where Alastor had kissed it.
“You don’t even know my name…” he said quietly, a mix of amusement and disbelief in his voice.
Alastor blinked, suddenly looking a little awkward. For the first time that night, the smooth-talking bartender seemed caught off guard. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, a faint blush returning to the tips of his ears as he searched for a clever reply but found none.
“Lucifer. Lucifer Morningstar… Remember that.”
Alastor’s awkward expression melted into a warm, genuinely charmed smile. He leaned forward, eyes sparkling under the golden lights.
“Go home safely, Lucifer. But I truly hope this won’t be the last time I see that adorable pout of yours.”
Lucifer grumbled under his breath, cheeks still flushed.
“…You’re not gonna let me know your name too, huh?”
Alastor let out a soft, warm chuckle, clearly charmed by Lucifer’s shy grumbling.
“Ah, forgive me,” he said, smiling gently. “That was quite rude of me. It’s Alastor.”
The soft jazz continued to play in the background as Lucifer finally walked out, legs a little unsteady. He clutched the paper tightly in his hand, heart full in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time. As he walked toward the door of Midnight Velvet, he glanced back one last time.
Alastor was still watching him, that gentle, captivating smile never fading.
For the first time since he sat on that rainy bench, Lucifer didn’t feel empty.