Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Los Angeles, 1989.

The air smells like cigarette smoke, rain on asphalt, and the faint metallic tang of something much worse. The kind of city that’ll chew you up, spit you out, and still expect you to say thank you.

Somewhere on Sunset, nestled between a psychic’s neon sign and a pawn shop that definitely fences more than stolen watches, sits a second-floor office with a crooked window and a flickering red light outside the door that reads:

LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR — PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

Inside: chaos.

Papers everywhere. A desk that’s seen better decades. An overflowing ashtray. Whiskey bottle half-empty (or half-full, depending on your mood). And dead center on that desk—staring back at him like a loaded gun—is a VHS tape.

No label. No markings. Just black plastic, heavy with implication.

Lucifer spins his lighter between long fingers, letting the flame kiss the end of his cigarette. His tie’s half undone, sleeves rolled up. He looks like sin in human form, if sin had good cheekbones and zero impulse control.

“Alright” he murmurs to no one, clicking the lighter shut. “Let’s see what secrets you’re hiding, darling.”

Fingers hover over the VCR. Play button inches away.

And then—

RIIIIIIING.

Of course.

He drags his free hand down his face, pinches the bridge of his nose like it might stop the oncoming migraine, then yanks the phone off the receiver.

“Lucifer Morningstar Investigations. If you’ve got money, I’ve got time.”

The voice on the other end is sharp. Cool. A razor wrapped in silk.

“Step away from the tape, Morningstar.”

Lucifer’s grin curls, lazy and immediate. “Detective Decker. To what do i owe this absolutely unwelcome interruption?”

“You know damn well. That tape it’s part of my case.”

“Oh, i must’ve missed the memo where corpses started issuing restraining orders on their belongings.” He reclines in his chair, flicking ash onto a plate that absolutely isn’t an ashtray but serves the purpose. “Remind me, darling… since when are you in the habit of tracking my every move?”

“Since someone decided to start sniffing around my investigation.”

Lucifer hums. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, sweetheart.”

“You don’t even believe in the law.”

“Correct. Which makes me a very effective private detective.”

A beat. Then—

“I’m serious, Lucifer. Stay out of it. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

“Oh, but that’s half the fun.”

“Don’t—” Her voice dips. Tightens. “Don’t press play. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Lucifer’s about to fire back some impossibly charming quip—probably something involving how he looks great even at his own funeral—when something catches at the corner of his eye.

Movement.

A shadow, flickering across the rooftop opposite his window.

His posture shifts, the lazy slouch tightening into something coiled. “Tell me” he says slowly, eyes narrowing, “Are you currently camped out across the street, peeking through my window?”

“What? No.”

Lucifer stands, pulling the blinds back with two fingers. Sharp gaze scanning the rooftop. “Are you sure? Because i swear i just saw something.”

“Not me.”

Another flicker. A glint—metal.

A camera.

“Bloody hell,” Lucifer hisses. “Was that…?”

The figure jolts, realizing they’ve been seen. They bolt—scrambling toward the fire escape.

“Lucifer, what’s happening?” Chloe’s voice jumps, urgent now.

“Gotta go, Detective.” He grabs his coat, already moving.

“Lucifer, don’t you dare hang—”

Dead line.

Chloe slams the receiver back into the cradle. “Damn it.”

She heard it. The thump. The rush of footsteps. That tense, brittle shift in his voice right before he cut the line.

“Idiot” she mutters, snatching her jacket off the chair. “Stupid, arrogant, insufferable—”

Her boots slap against the pavement as she heads to her car. It’s not like I care, she tells herself. He’s just… getting himself killed ruins my case. That’s all.

Right. Sure.

Lucifer’s office door is unlocked.

Lucifer is many things. Vain. Reckless. Impossible. But careless? No. Never careless. Not with something like this.

Chloe swallows, hard. Hand hovering over her holster. Breath slowing. Shoulders curling tight with the kind of instinct that doesn’t come from training—it comes from being hunted before.

The hallway yawns ahead. Dark. Quiet. Too quiet.

She makes it to his office door in six strides.

It’s hanging open.

Wider than it should be.

Her pulse thrashes.

One breath. Two. Then she pushes inside and freezes.

The room is chaos.

Desk overturned. Papers scattered like snowfall. A chair lying on its side, one leg cracked clean through. A cigarette burns itself out on the floor, a little coil of smoke twisting toward the ceiling. There’s a scuff mark across the far wall. Glass shattered beneath the window.

“Lucifer?” Her voice is sharp. But it warps strangely in the space—too loud against the silence.

No answer.

But then—a sound.

Behind her.

A creak. Floorboard. Heavy. Close.

Her body pivots—reflex, instinct—but not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough.

A sharp sting at her neck. Something small. Needle. Metal.

She gasps—half a breath—already too late. It feels like her blood turns to liquid lead on contact. Limbs folding in on themselves. Knees buckling.

“What—” Her fingers scrabble at her side, looking for balance, for her gun, for anything but the floor tilts sideways.

Vision fragments. The edges go soft, then black. Then softer still.

The last thing she feels is her own heartbeat, hammering against bone. Too loud. Too fast.

The last thing she thinks—right before the dark swallows her whole—

Goddammit.

Pain.

It’s the first thing. Sharp and ugly, splintering behind her eyes, radiating from the side of her neck down through her skull like someone jammed a live wire straight into her spine.

Her second thought is—fuck.

The third—move. Gotta move. Get up.

Except—she can’t.

Wrists pinned. Ankles, too. She tugs instinctively, feels the bite of coarse rope digging into her skin. It’s tight. Professional. Not the half-assed kind of knot some idiot would tie. Whoever did this knows exactly what they’re doing.

Her head lolls sideways before she can stop it.

There’s someone next to her.

Pressed close. Shoulder against hers.

Lucifer.

Of course it’s Lucifer.

“Fucking… perfect,” she mutters, groggy, blinking hard as the world comes into focus.

They’re tied together. Back to back. Hands lashed behind a steel support beam in the center of—

Chloe squints.

“What the actual…”

It’s—God. It’s a penthouse. Technically. A crime scene dressed up as a penthouse. Like if you fed the concept of wealth to a coke-fueled fever dream and told it to go nuts.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch wide enough to swallow the skyline. Neon signs buzz in pinks and blues outside. Black marble floors so polished she can see her own scowl in them. Walls lined with mirrors—every direction, endless reflections. A shag rug the size of her apartment, probably worth more than her yearly salary. Gold-framed paintings that should be illegal. Half of them are nudes. The other half are… also nudes. Just more abstract about it.

Then Lucifer groans.

A low, miserable thing, like someone just informed him the bar ran out of whiskey.

“Ohhh… well this is… suboptimal,” he rasps, head lolling back against hers.

“Yeah,” Chloe bites out. “Tell me about it.”

“Decker?”

“Still breathing.”

“Excellent. Would’ve hated to do this alone.”

“Do what exactly?” she snaps, yanking at the ropes. “Practice our Houdini routine?”

Before he can answer—

Footsteps.

Click. Click. Click. The distinct rhythm of someone walking like they own the entire goddamn planet.

A man steps into view.

Sixties, maybe. Bronze skin, silver hair slicked back. Sunglasses indoors, because of course. Silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a collection of gold chains tangled in wiry sunburned skin. He looks like the ghost of every sleazy music manager from the seventies. A man who’s absolutely buried a body in the desert before. Probably more than one.

And he’s smiling. Like they’re old friends meeting for coffee.

“Ahhh. There you are,” he croons. “Rise and shine.”

Chloe squints at him. And the recognition? Hits like a punch.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Her voice flattens. “It’s you.”

That grin stretches wider. All teeth. All menace. “That’s right, sweetheart.”

“You hired me.”

“Ding ding ding.” He clicks his fingers. “Took you long enough.”

“You—” She strains against the ropes, furious. “You kidnapped me.”

Lucifer corrects dryly, with a tilt of his head.

He waves a hand like she’s being dramatic. “Business tactic. Effective, isn’t it?”

Lucifer exhales a long-suffering sigh. “You know,” he says, dry as hell, “you could've just called me.”

The man shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m more of a face-to-face kind of guy.”

“We noticed.” Chloe deadpans, glancing at the ropes.

The man saunters closer, hands in his pockets, casual like he’s about to offer them a drink. “Here’s the deal. Someone’s killing my people. My producers. My directors. My investors. My cash cows.”

“Charming” Lucifer mutters.

“The cops won’t touch it. The studio’s pretending it’s nothing. But me?” He flashes them a grin sharp enough to cut glass. “I don’t have time for polite. I need results.”

“And that’s why you hired me.” Chloe glares. “Except—pro tip? Kidnapping your own PI isn’t exactly step one in How to Win Friends and Influence Detectives.”

“Yeah, well. Things got… complicated.” His gaze shifts, landing on Lucifer. “Didn’t plan on him. Nosy bastard showed up where he didn’t belong.”

“Guilty” Lucifer hums.

“But turns out?” The man shrugs. “He’s got a talent for sticking his fingers where they shouldn’t be and talking to the right people. So now—congratulations. You’re partners.”

Lucifer’s head snaps back like someone just slapped him. “Absolutely not.”

“Hard pass” Chloe fires.

The man clicks his tongue. “Tough.”

He jerks his chin toward the window. Twenty floors down. Pavement waiting.

“You work together. Or… You can leave” Doesn’t need to say the rest. The open balcony says it for him.

Lucifer groans. “Well. That’s certainly… one way to deliver a job offer.”

"I mean, yeah." Chloe mutters

“Welcome to the big leagues, kids.” The man spreads his arms, smiling like a game show host. “Try not to die.”

And then—like it’s the most normal thing in the world—he turns. Walks right out. Doesn’t even bother to shut the door behind him.

Just leaves them there. Tied. Pissed. Breathing each other’s frustration.

Lucifer lets his head fall back against hers with a thunk. “Well. This is cozy.”

“Shut up.” Chloe growls. “I swear to God, i will strangle you with my teeth if i have to.”

Lucifer smirks sideways. “Kinky.”

Before she can respond with something equally scathing—or violent—heavy footsteps thump against marble. The silver-haired man is back, a crooked grin stretching across his face like it’s made of leather.

Snapping his fingers, he nods toward the door. “Untie them.”

Two security guards enter—matching black suits, sunglasses, dead-eyed. One looks like he used to be a boxer; the other, a butcher. Maybe both.

The boxer crouches, slicing through Chloe’s ropes with a flick of his pocketknife. “Welcome to the team.” he grunts like it physically pains him to say it.

Lucifer’s bindings fall away next. He rolls his wrists, shaking out his hands. “I must say… you lot really know how to make a first impression.”

“Yeah” Chloe mutters, rubbing the raw skin at her wrists. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

The man—still nameless—laughs. “Sure, sweetheart. You do that.” He steps closer, gaze flickering between them, assessing. Calculating. “Listen close. ‘Cause i won’t say it twice.”

He leans against the mirrored pillar like it belongs to him—hell, maybe it does.

“This business… it’s dirtier than it looks. And it already looks like hell. People think Hollywood’s about cameras, lights, and red carpets. Nah. It’s about money. Leverage. Secrets. The right tape, the right photo, the right whisper… it’s worth more than gold out here. And someone’s trying to burn it all down. My people are dead. More will die. Unless you figure out who’s behind it.”

He tilts his head, lowering his sunglasses just enough to reveal eyes the color of gunmetal.

“Find out who’s gutting my industry. Fast. Because if they kill my business… next, they come for me. And if they come for me—” He clicks his tongue, tapping his chest. “—you’ll both be collateral.”

Lucifer folds his arms. “So comforting. Truly.”

The man pushes off the pillar, brushing imaginary lint off his silk shirt. “Giorgio’ll drive you. You’ll start where my last guy left off.” He eyes Chloe, smirk cutting sideways. “Your little ‘anonymous’ job? Wasn’t so anonymous after all. I’m the one who hired you.”

Her stomach sinks. “Why me?”

“Because cops are messy. And private eyes…” His gaze flicks to Lucifer. “Well. He fell into the net. But you? You’re good. You got a reputation for being stubborn enough to bite the hand that feeds you. I like that.”

Lucifer whistles, mock impressed. “Look at us. Detective Decker and the Devil.”

“Not your partner” Chloe snaps.

“Yet” he hums, grinning.

The man raises a hand, snapping again. The guards gesture toward the hallway. “Giorgio’s waiting outside. He’s got an address. Start there.” His voice drops, more gravel now. “And one more thing…”

Both turn.

“Don’t trust anyone. Not the cops. Not the studios. Not your shadows. And especially not each other.”

Lucifer arches a brow. “…Well, that’s not ominous at all.”

The man’s grin widens. “Hollywood's specialty.”

The elevator ride is dead silent.

Lucifer leans against the velvet-padded wall, arms crossed, watching Chloe like she might spontaneously combust.

Chloe stares at the numbers lighting up. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

His grin spreads. “True.”

Ding.

The doors slide open. Waiting at the curb is a black Cadillac Eldorado, polished so clean it reflects the neon from a liquor store sign across the street.

Giorgio stands beside it. Late fifties. Thick Italian accent. Aviators. Greased-back hair. White driving gloves. He opens the door without a word, as if this is just… Tuesday.

“Where are we going?” Chloe asks, sliding into the leather seat.

Giorgio doesn’t even glance back. “You’ll see.”

Lucifer plops in beside her, sprawling like he owns the car. “See? Already feels like a buddy cop movie.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying…” He tosses her a lazy look. “If we’re doing this, i demand to be the charming one.”

Chloe stares out the window, fists tightening in her lap. “This isn’t a partnership.”

“Of course not” he agrees smoothly. “It’s a… hostile collaboration.”

The Cadillac glides through Hollywood like a shark through water. Neon flickers against the windshield—pink, blue, sickly green. Billboards for movies that won’t age well flash by in streaks of light. Somewhere between the glitter and the gutter, Los Angeles breathes like something alive.

Giorgio’s gloved hands don’t falter once on the wheel. He doesn’t speak. Just drives like the road owes him rent.

“Right” Lucifer muses, stretching his legs as far as they’ll go. “So… where exactly are we going? Please say anywhere with decent whiskey.”

“You’ll like it” Giorgio answers, voice thick as motor oil. “People like you always do.”

The car pulls to a stop at the curb of a dimly lit corner. Above a cracked red awning, a flickering neon sign buzzes weakly:
“The Black Dahlia.”

It’s the kind of place that knows too much but charges double for pretending it doesn’t. A crooked bar for crooked people. Detectives. Fixers. Snitches. People who know the right kind of wrong.

Giorgio kills the engine, tipping his sunglasses down just enough to meet their eyes. “You didn’t hear it from me… but there's this guy, he was running his mouth about killing that one producer who showed up dead at his house. The guy was spotted here last night. Goes by Jimmy Two-Times. Name’s not a joke. You’ll figure it out.”

He unlocks the doors. “Figure it out quick. I don’t park in this neighborhood.”

Lucifer steps out first, adjusting his cuffs like the pavement’s dirty just looking at him. “Charming place. Smells like bad decisions and expired cologne.”

Chloe’s already scanning the sidewalk, purse slung high on her shoulder like a weapon. “Fits you perfectly.”

They push open the heavy door, stepping into the bar.

Inside, it’s cigarette smoke, sticky floors, and a jukebox that hasn’t worked right since ’84. A dartboard hangs crooked. A pinball machine wheezes somewhere in the back. The bar is horseshoe-shaped, worn smooth by a thousand elbows and a thousand regrets.

The crowd is exactly what you’d expect—men in bad suits, women in heels they regret, bartenders who look like ex-cons. A couple of guys play poker at a back table. Someone’s arguing over sports scores. Someone else is quietly crying into a gin.

Lucifer leans close, murmuring, “Alright, Detective. You work your angle, i’ll work mine.”

“Yeah, except we can’t look like we’re working. Half the rats in this place would sell us out for fifty bucks.”

A waitress swings by, side-eyeing them as if clocking whether they belong here.

His lips twitch. “Oh, i have an idea.”

Before she can object, he slips an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

“Pretend to be my furious wife" he whispers into her ear. “You’re excellent at pretending you hate me. Should come naturally.”

Chloe stiffens. “I’m not pretending.”

“Details.” His fingers tap lazily against her hip. “Listen. We ‘fight,’ cause a little scene, look drunk, harmless. Find Jimmy. Then, darling, you lure him somewhere private… and we have a chat.”

She sighs because—infuriatingly—it’s a solid plan. “Fine.”

Already, a few heads are turning. A couple at the bar glance over, waiting for the next bit of drama.

Lucifer grins wider. “Say something mean. Go on. You’re brilliant at that.”

Chloe rips his hand off her waist with a glare that could peel paint. “Oh, now you wanna talk about commitment? After what you pulled last night?”

A couple of heads swivel.

Lucifer throws his hands up. “For God’s sake, are we doing this here again?”

“You said you were done lying. I guess that lasted a whole twelve hours.”

“Please.” He scoffs. “If im the liar, then why’d you show up at my place at 2 AM wearing nothing but attitude and a bad idea?”

The bartender sighs like he’s seen this movie too many times. “Either buy a drink or take it outside.”

“Two whiskeys. Top shelf." Lucifer chirps, sliding onto a stool like he owns the joint. “She’s paying.”

Chloe rolls her eyes but orders anyway, slamming the money down on the counter.

They settle into the bar, leaning into the performance—bickering just enough, but not so loud they draw security-level attention. Just the kind of messy, dysfunctional couple this place expects to see.

Beneath it all, their eyes stay sharp, scanning.

Lucifer tips his glass toward the back. “Three o’clock. Slick hair. Pinstripe suit that hasn’t fit him since ’87. That’s Jimmy Two-Times. See him?”

She spots him without looking directly. Mid-fifties. Greasy hair slicked back with enough pomade to drown a cat. Picking at a bowl of pretzels like it’s fine dining. Jittery. Constantly looking over his shoulder but trying to act like he’s not.

“That him?”

“Oh, it’s him. No doubt. Man’s having a full-blown internal debate over whether to order onion rings or onion rings.”

“Subtle.”

“Never accused of it.”

But it’s clear from the way some of the regulars side-eye them that if they move too soon, they blow the whole thing.

So they settle in. Order another round. Make it look casual.

Chloe taps her glass, eyes still pretending not to watch. “He’s twitchy. If we walk straight up, he bolts.”

“Agreed.” Lucifer glances sideways, his smirk slipping into something sharper. “You thinking what i’m thinking?”

“Yeah.” She downs her whiskey. “It’s time.”

Lucifer grins. “Atta girl.”

She stands, smoothing her jacket, then unfastens one extra button. Just enough. Weaponize the assets. Tosses her hair like she’s not a detective but someone with much worse—or much better—intentions.

Lucifer leans back to watch, crossing one leg over the other, letting a lazy smile curl his mouth. “Oh, this will be fun.”

Chloe walks straight up to Jimmy’s table, hip cocked, confidence dialed to eleven. She leans on the back of an empty chair like gravity’s just a suggestion.

“Mind if i join you?” Voice low. Smoky. Dangerous in the right way.

Jimmy blinks, eyes sweeping her in a way that would get him slapped under any other circumstance. “Uh—well—i—i, yeah. Yeah, sure.” He wipes his palms on his pants. “Didn’t expect someone like you- you in a place like this.”

She smiles, slow. “Neither did i.” She leans closer, letting her fingers trace the rim of his glass. “But maybe it’s my lucky night.”

Jimmy laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah, maybe. You uh… you new around here?”

“Real new.” Her fingertips trail the edge of the table. “But i learn fast.”

Lucifer watches from the bar, practically vibrating with amused pride. His smile is wicked, but there’s something else under it—tight, possessive—as Chloe slides seamlessly into the role.

It doesn’t take long. Jimmy’s ego does most of the work.

She lets him ramble about his business, laughs at a joke that isn’t funny, casually drags her chair closer until she’s practically in his lap.

Then she lowers her voice, fingers lightly brushing his knee. “You know… it’s kinda loud out here. You wanna… find somewhere quieter?”

Jimmy’s eyes damn near fall out of his skull. “Yeah. Yeah. Absolutely. Sure.”

She stands, offering him a look that could burn wallpaper off a wall. “C’mon. Follow me.”

She leads him toward the back hallway, past the bathrooms, into that grimy little corridor where bad things happen—most of which don’t end up in police reports.

Jimmy glances back, grinning like the dumbest man alive. “Man, man, you’re really something—”

And that’s when Lucifer appears. Silent, sudden, leaning against the bathroom doorframe like he’s been waiting there all night.

“Hi jimmy jimmy” he says, flashing teeth that don’t look anything like a smile.

Jimmy startles, takes half a step back. “What the—”

Chloe grabs his collar, shoving him against the wall with surprising strength for her size. “We need to have a chat.”

Lucifer steps in close, looming with that lazy, terrifying calm. “Let’s discuss a murder.”

Jimmy’s eyes dart between them, realizing too late that he’s walked straight into a trap.

“Bathroom’s free” Chloe says, shoving open the door. “Get in.”

Jimmy stumbles inside. Lucifer follows, shutting the door behind them with a click that sounds a whole lot like game over.

The bathroom is a claustrophobic little box—flickering fluorescent light, cracked mirror, graffiti covering every inch of the stall doors. Smells like bleach and regret.

Jimmy stumbles inside, already sweating. “H-Hey, look, if this is about the thing, i don’t—i don’t know nothin’, alright?”

“Oh, darling Jimmy… you absolutely do.” Lucifer steps in after him, voice silk over steel

Chloe grabs him by the collar again, shoving him onto the closed toilet lid. “Sit down. Talk fast. And maybe—” she smile sharp as a blade “—maybe you leave here with your kneecaps intact.”

Jimmy’s eyes ping-pong between the two of them. “I don’t—i—what—what do you even want?!”

Lucifer folds his arms, leaning back against the sink like it’s a throne. “Let’s start with the obvious. We heard you been bragging about a producer who messed with the wrong people and now is dead. Names, Jimmy. Who you working for?”

“I—I dunno nothin’ about no—”

Chloe cuts him off with a slap—not hard enough to do real damage, but loud enough to make his ears ring. “Wrong answer.”

Jimmy gulps, a string of spit trailing from his bottom lip. “A-alright, alright—look, there’s been… people askin’ questions. Big people. I don’t got the whole picture but…” He swallows, glancing between them like a trapped rat. “I didn’t kill him. I just… I know a guy… who knows the guy… who did it.”

Chloe leans in, narrowing her eyes. “And you’ve been running your mouth about it just for fun?”

Jimmy shifts, shoulders curling in. “Look… Look, i got a reputation—or… i had one. But things’ve been gettin’ dark. Real dark.” His gaze drops to the filthy floor, like maybe he can fall into it. “There’s… lines even i don’t cross. I was just… tryna remind people I still got value. That I still got connections. I didn’t think it’d get… this kind of attention.”

Lucifer clicks his tongue. “Oh, Jimmy. If this is you not crossing lines… I do wonder what your red line actually looks like.”

Jimmy doesn’t answer. He looks like he’s trying not to remember something. Like some part of him already regrets surviving this long.

Jimmy wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, trembling. “Not, not much. Not really. Just that… he ain’t local. Doesn’t run with the usual crews. People say he’s… freelance. A fixer. Someone you call when you need a mess cleaned up that bleach won’t touch.”

Lucifer hums, pushing off the sink. “A contract killer.”

Jimmy flinches like the word itself burns. “Yeah. Yeah. But not the usual kind. Not some junkie with a gun. This guy’s… quiet. Surgical. Professional. People don’t even know his real name. They just call him ‘The Fixer.’”

Chloe’s eyes narrow. “Cute.”

“Yeah, well…” Jimmy scratches at the back of his neck, glancing toward the door like he’s praying someone will walk in and save him—or end it faster. “Rumor is, he don’t just kill. He produces it. Whole setups. Murders staged like accidents… or scenes outta movies. Real twisted shit.”

Lucifer exchanges a glance with Chloe, his brow ticking up. “How theatrical.”

Jimmy nods frantically. “Producers. Directors. Actors… all showing up dead lately? That’s him. That’s his calling card. It’s why people are scared. They think it’s a message. No one knows who’s next.”

“And who hired him?” Chloe presses. “Who’s pulling the strings?”

Jimmy throws his hands up. “I—I don’t know! I swear! That’s above my pay grade. I just heard whispers. Someone with the kinda money and balls to take out half the studio system if they felt like it.”

Lucifer kneels slightly, lowering himself to Jimmy’s eye level, voice dropping into something softer—more dangerous. “Jimmy, lying to me is the fastest way to get introduced to an entirely new category of regret.”

Jimmy’s breath stutters. “I swear! I swear, that’s all I got! I’m small time, man. I don’t ask questions.

Jimmy gulps. “There’s this guy—name’s Benny. Tall. Leather jacket. Scar down his left cheek. Works at Mirage Gate Films.”

Lucifer and Chloe exchange a glance. Solid lead.

But before Chloe can press further, a loud knock rattles the bathroom door.

“Yo. You guys done in there or what? This ain’t a honeymoon suite.”

Lucifer stiffens. Chloe mutters, “Shit.”

Jimmy panics, trying to bolt again—Lucifer steps in, delivers a clean uppercut to Jimmy’s jaw. He collapses against the wall, completely out cold now.

Another knock. Harder. “C’mon, open up! I got keys if you don’t—”

Lucifer looks at Chloe. Chloe looks at Lucifer.

“Think fast” she hisses.

Chloe scans the tiny room. “No windows. No vents. Fabulous.”

“Hide?”

“Where? Under Jimmy’s corpse?”

The jangle of keys outside sends panic straight to both their chests.

“Do something!” Chloe whisper-yells.

Lucifer doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Chloe by the waist, yanks her flush against him, and presses her up against the wall.

“Play along.”

“Wha—”

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

The burly bartender fills the doorway, arms crossed, scowling. His eyes sweep the scene.

Jimmy’s unconscious body slumped near the sink.

Lucifer has Chloe pinned against the wall, lips on her neck, one hand tangled in her hair, the other suspiciously low on her thigh. Chloe’s leg is half-hitched around him, her lipstick smeared, her expression dazed like she’s had five shots too many.

Lucifer looks over his shoulder with the laziest grin imaginable. “Evening.”

The bartender groans. “Are you kidding me?”

Chloe hiccups—actually hiccups—and slurs, “S-Sorry… he, uh… he drank too much… passed out…” She waves a hand vaguely at Jimmy’s body like it’s an unfortunate afterthought.

Lucifer leans in, nose brushing Chloe’s cheek, murmuring just loud enough, “Brilliant, Detective. You’re a natural.”

She pinches his side in retaliation but doesn’t break character.

The bartender sighs, already done with this. “This ain’t a goddamn motel. Get your drunk asses outta here. I’ll deal with him.” He jerks a thumb at Jimmy.

Lucifer raises a brow. “Oh, truly? Well, that’s very hospitable of you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just scram. Before i call someone to toss you both.”

Lucifer turns back to Chloe, smile still lazy and drunk. “C’mon, love. Let’s go… finish what we started.” He winks, pulling her hand, and together they stumble out of the bathroom like a pair of lovesick disasters.

They weave toward the door, laughing too loudly, hanging off each other like they can barely walk straight. Lucifer presses a hand against the wall for balance, his shirt askew. Chloe leans into him, pretending to trip, catching herself on his chest.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.” she mutters under her breath.

“Immensely.”

They’re just feet from the exit when—

BOOM.

A shotgun blast explodes from the bathroom behind them. The sound punches through the bar like a thunderclap—windows rattle, conversations shatter, poker chips fly everywhere.

The entire room freezes.

Someone screams. Glass breaks.

Lucifer’s hand clamps around Chloe’s wrist instantly, spinning them behind a support beam. His voice drops into something cold. “That came from the bathroom.”

“No shit.”

The bartender who’d just told them to leave?

Nowhere to be seen.

Chaos stirs as some patrons dive for cover. Others bolt for the back exit.

Lucifer pulls Chloe close, murmuring at her temple, “Whatever game’s being played here… it just changed.”

“Yeah,” Chloe grits, fingers locking around his wrist. “We’re not sticking around to be the next splatter pattern.” She drags him toward the door, half-running, half-towing him. “Thank God he bought the drunk act… otherwise we’d be the ones painted across the bathroom walls.”

“Thank me!” Lucifer deadpans, practically tripping over a fallen barstool as they crash through the exit.

The second they’re outside, cold air slaps their faces. Giorgio’s already behind the wheel, eyes bugging out, gripping the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline. “I heard that. What the—what the fuck just happened?”

“Don’t ask. Drive!” Chloe pants, yanking open the back door, shoving Lucifer in ahead of her. “Go, Giorgio. Now.”

Giorgio doesn’t argue. Tires screech, engine howls, and they’re gone—spitting gravel and smoke behind them, the bar shrinking in the rearview mirror.

For a moment, the car’s just filled with the sound of the engine—Giorgio cursing in Italian under his breath—and both of them realizing, at the exact same time…

They’re in way deeper than they thought.

Lucifer slouches back, a lazy smirk curling on his lips. “Well, that went sideways faster than expected.”

Chloe’s eyes stay on the street, voice clipped. “Yeah, no kidding. Not exactly my idea of a quiet night.”

He watches her—really watches her—and for a flicker, something softer flickers in his gaze. “You alright?”

She swallows hard, the weight of everything pressing down, but she nods. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

He glances at her, amusement flickering beneath the surface. “This is your world, right? Hollywood drama and gunshots?”

Her jaw tightens. "You know what i think about hollywood.”

The silence thickens between them—charged, brittle.

Lucifer’s smirk deepens, voice low. "You in, or are you backing out?”

"I'm it's either that or a no parachute fly out of that guy's penthouse"

He nods, eyes gleaming with that dangerous mix of challenge and reluctant respect. “Good. Wouldn’t want to do this without that pretty face of yours.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn't hold the smile.

Chapter Text

Los Angeles spills sunlight across the blinds in slats of pale gold, slicing through the leftover smoke from last night’s adrenaline. The city hums distantly outside—a car alarm somewhere, a siren far off, a dog barking like it knows a secret.

Inside Chloe’s apartment, it’s still.

On the couch: a tangle of limbs and denim. Her head on his shoulder. His hand curled beneath her knee. A shared blanket stretched unevenly across their bodies like it tried its best but gave up halfway.

They don’t wake all at once—more like drift into it. One breath. Then another. Then a low groan.

Lucifer shifts first, wincing like the world itself is somehow too loud. “Oh, bloody hell.” His voice is sandpaper and smoke. “Is your couch actually made of vengeance?”

Chloe blinks up at him, still half-dreaming, one cheek pressed against the warm line of his chest. Then she remembers.

Giorgio dropped them at her place. They were still shaky from the bar, still hyped from the blast, and too wired to sleep. So they cracked open the bottle of ancient bourbon Chloe had forgotten she even owned.

Lucifer tried to toast to their “burgeoning partnership,” and she almost threw the bottle at his head. “It’s not a partnership if I’m forced into it,” she snapped. He grinned like she’d just kissed him.

Then they laughed. About the kidnapping. The bathroom. Jimmy Two-Times slumped over like a drunk mannequin. They laughed until their ribs hurt, until it was so stupid it circled back around to terrifying, and then they made calls. Found a few leads. Confirmed that Benny—the man with the scar—was real. Was dangerous. Was probably watching them, even now.

Somewhere between fighting and laughing like they used to—like before everything went to hell—they passed out. Fully clothed. Half-drunk. Shared body heat the only truce they didn’t bother to question.

Chloe exhales through her nose, brushing off the warmth of familiarity before it settles too deep in her chest. The air still smells like him—cologne, smoke, something darker.

“Thougt I must say, your couch has matured nicely since our last encounter. Bit more forgiving. Must be the leather.”

“I hate you.”

“Only in the mornings.

She stirs when he shifts, groaning softly as she stretches and turns toward him. Their faces are close—closer than exes usually are in the morning. There’s a beat of quiet, neither of them sure who’s supposed to speak first.

Chloe blinks. “We… fell asleep.”

Lucifer just grins lazily beneath the blanket. “Well. Technically we passed out from emotional exhaustion and cheese overload, but yes. We slept.”

“Together.”

“Yes, and somehow the Earth still turns.” He yawns, he adds smoothly, stretching out like a cat who owns the place, “You snorted, by the way.”

She huffs. “And you drooled on my couch.”

He smirks without looking at her. “That’s not drool, Detective. That’s charm. It leaks when I’m unconscious.”

She throws a pillow at his face. He catches it one-handed, the bastard.

The weirdness—that sudden too-aware silence—flickers between them for a breath.

But then Lucifer smirks, and she rolls her eyes, and just like that, it’s gone. Back to normal. Or… whatever this is.

She stands, stretching, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled from sleep and stress and everything in between. “Alright. We need a plan.”

“Ah yes, Benny.” His voice sharpens slightly, cutting through the softness of the morning. “Tall, scar-faced, Mirage Gate Films. The kind of man who makes his suits scream and his cigarettes tremble.”

Chloe starts rifling through papers on her kitchen counter—notes from the case, photos from crime scenes. She’s already shifting back into work mode, and the spell of the morning begins to crack.

Lucifer watches her, unreadable for a beat. Then: “May I use your shower?”

She glances at him. “You know where everything’s at.”

Her tone is clipped, but there’s something else behind it—familiarity wrapped in a barb. A private little history folded between syllables.

Lucifer tips his head, grinning. “Indeed I do.”

“Try not to flood the place.”

“No promises.”

She throws a dish towel at the doorframe. It misses. Damn him.

"If you hear singing, don’t panic. Just me communing with Bowie.” He says before disappear down the hallway like he owns it. Like he used to.

And for a brief second, standing in the quiet of her kitchen, Chloe lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

She moves.

Pulls ingredients from the fridge, sets eggs to crack, bacon to sizzle. The smell starts to fill the apartment—warm, familiar, real. Something domestic in a way she doesn’t let herself indulge in anymore. But the motions are muscle memory. A ritual. A thing she used to do when he stayed over too late chasing some case neither of them had business caring about.

By the time he returns, he’s already dressed again, hair damp, sleeves rolled again. But his collar’s open and his smile’s easy, like maybe—for a second—he forgot they’re in the middle of a murder conspiracy that could get them both killed.

Chloe slides a plate his way. “Eat before you start philosophizing.”

He bows slightly, settling across from her. “Detective Decker, you are as generous as you are terrifying.”

They eat.

And for a little while, the world narrows to something almost domestic. Her foot nudging his under the table. His fingers stealing her toast when she’s not looking.

“Okay,” she says, handing him coffee. “Benny. You said you’ve heard of him?”

Lucifer sips. “Not personally. But I know the type. Studio-adjacent muscle with a side hustle in making problems disappear.”

Chloe nods. “I made a few calls last night. He’s been spotted outside a place on Wilcox. Some kind of private post-production house. Low profile. Back entrance. Smells like a front.”

Lucifer’s already grinning. “The kind of place where dirty business happens, my kind of place.”

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Don’t get excited. We’re not going there, it would be too risky to go around asking questions, and we're not going to get kidnapped again.”

“No promises.”

“Benny's,” she says ten minutes later, flipping through notes while playing with a toast. "Tied to Jimmy’s mystery man, maybe even the Fixer himself. Think he’ll be stupid enough to still be at Mirage today?”

“Hope springs eternal,” Lucifer muses from her dining table, shirt now unbuttoned halfway and sleeves rolled up with criminal charm. “Nothing says ‘criminal mastermind’ like punching a timecard on a Monday.”

Chloe flips an omelet. “Maybe he’s just the middleman. Doesn’t take much brainpower to be dangerous in this town.”

Lucifer arches a brow. “Do we think Mirage Gate is stupid enough to keep him on payroll?”

Chloe takes a long sip of coffee, eyes narrowing over the rim. “They kept Jimmy Two-Times around. Guy couldn’t pick a side dish without a panic attack. I’m not ruling anything out.”

Lucifer laughs—really laughs—and for a second it’s all teeth and warmth and the kind of joy that makes you forget things like dead bodies and assassination plots.

Lucifer leans back, watching her with a look that walks the line between admiration and nostalgia.

He forks a bite, eyes fluttering dramatically. “Detective, are you sure you weren’t a chef in a past life?”

“In a past life I had better taste in men.”

“Ouch,” he pouts. “You wound me.”

She sits beside him, sipping coffee from a chipped mug. “You’ll live.”

Lucifer’s grin fades into something softer. “Thanks. For the breakfast. And the bourbon. And the… couch.”

“You’ve slept on worse.”

He tilts his head. “And better.”

Chloe laughs despite herself. But then—she notices.

She sets her mug down harder than necessary. The smile’s gone. Just like that.

Lucifer notices. Of course he does.

“Something wrong?” he asks, tone carefully neutral.

Chloe rises too quickly, avoiding his gaze. “I’m taking a shower.”

She disappears down the hall without looking back.

Lucifer calls after her, trying for lightness. “Do try not to condemn the water pressure, Detective. Your plumbing has… rustic charm.”

No answer. Just the quiet click of the bathroom door.

He exhales, long and low, staring at the space she left behind. Then, with a flicker of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, he nicks a piece of bacon from her plate.
“Still the best damn bacon in L.A.”

She returns twenty minutes later, towel-drying her hair, dressed in jeans and a black tee, the detective armor back in place.

Lucifer doesn’t mention the shift. Just finishes his coffee and tosses her a file folder.

“Got this off one of my less reputable friends while you were making scrambled heaven.”

She opens it. Photocopied headshots. A list of contacts. A highlighted name: Benny Morales. Stunt coordinator. Former army. Known for “accidents” on set.

“Guess we know who’s next on our meet-and-greet tour,” she says.

Lucifer leans back in his chair. “You think he’s the Fixer?”

“No.” She closes the file. “But I think he knows who is.”

Lucifer watches her a moment, head tilted, lips parted like he might say something—really say something. But then he thinks better of it.

“Shall we, partner?” he asks instead.

Chloe grabs her badge and her gun. Doesn’t look at him.

“This isn’t a partnership,” she mutters, brushing past him.

But she doesn’t stop him from following her out the door.

And he doesn’t stop smiling.

The Mirage Gate lot used to be something.

Chloe remembers driving past it as a kid — tall white gates, gold-trimmed sign, palm trees swaying like they knew they belonged to something eternal. It was a dream factory once. Now it’s a rotting shell of broken glass and unpaid rent.

Lucifer whistles low as Giorgio rolls them through the entrance. “Charming. Reminds me of a mausoleum I once visited in Paris. Only that one had less asbestos.”

Chloe grips the edge of her seat. “This place was hot in the sevenhties. Slasher flicks. Low-budget erotica. Vampires on roller skates.”

“Ah, the classics.”

“They burned through money like gasoline. Then someone OD’d in a soundstage and the whole operation crumbled.”

Giorgio idles the Cadillac outside the chain-link fence.

“This your stop?” he asks without turning around.

Lucifer grins “Charming as always, Giorgio.”

Chloe pushes open the door. “If we’re not out in twenty minutes—”

“—I can come in,” Giorgio finishes. “Yeah. Heard you the first three times.”

They slip through a loose gap in the fence. No security, no cameras, just sun-bleached posters for movies no one remembers and the stink of failure trapped under the LA heat.

Lucifer follows, casual as ever, adjusting his cuffs like he’s about to walk into a matinee, not a crime scene. “I do hope Benny is the type who appreciates good tailoring. It’s terribly hard to threaten a man when he’s admiring your lapels.”

Chloe ignores him. They step through shattered glass doors into a reception room layered in dust, sunbeams slicing through cracks in the boarded-up windows.

The air smells like rot, metal, and memory.

Inside, the studio is quiet. Not empty — never empty — but still in that way that makes your neck itch.

They find the office marked Production. Glass door, film posters peeling on the walls, a typewriter gathering dust behind a desk no one used.

A voice, behind them:
“You’re early.”

Chloe turns fast, gun already halfway drawn.

Benny stands in the hall, leaning against a doorframe like he owns the place. Scar across the cheek. Grease-stained leather jacket. A cigarette pinched between two fingers, unmoving. Watching them with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Lucifer hums. “Mr. Benny. You’ve been a very naughty boy.”

Benny cocks his head. “And you’ve been asking about me. That’s dangerous.”

Chloe steps forward. “We just want to talk.”

“Funny. So did the last two guys. Now they’re both dead.” He laughs

He nods toward a side hallway. “If you’re gonna shoot me, do it in the editing room. The acoustics are better.”

Lucifer raises a brow. “Did he just offer to be murdered more aesthetically?”

Chloe lowers her gun—slightly. “We’re not here to kill you.”

Benny eyes Chloe. “You must be the cop.”

“Detective.”

“You got a badge?”

She flashes it. Just enough to be real. Just enough to let him know she’s not here to play.

“Cute,” Benny says. “You two still playing house?”

Lucifer steps forward with that theatrical ease, coat swinging at his heels like stage curtains. “We’re playing justice. Perhaps you remember it? Long legs, carries a big stick, has a dreadful attitude problem.” His smile cuts sharp. “Rather like you, come to think of it.”

Benny doesn’t laugh. His eyes darken, jaw flexing. “You don’t scare me, Morningstar.”

Lucifer’s voice drops smooth as whiskey. “Good. Fear makes conversation so dreary.”

Chloe folds her arms, her stance all business. “Let’s cut it. We know you worked for Frank Adams and Tony Lee. Both dead. We want to know what you know.”

Benny rolls the cigarette between his fingers, smoke tracing lazy circles. “I’m freelance. I get called when things get messy, I clean them up, I get paid, I go home. Simple as that.”

“Like Jimmy Two-Times?” Chloe presses.

For the first time, Benny’s jaw ticks. Barely a crack in the armor, but she sees it. “Never liked that guy.”

Lucifer tilts his head, sharp as a predator catching scent. “And yet, you killed him.”

Benny shakes his head, grinning without humor. “No. Could’ve, sure. But didn’t. The bastard wasn’t worth my bullet. The big guys wanted him gone, so I let my man Stu handle it.” He laughs, spits into an ashtray, then raises his finger and mimics an explosion at his temple. “Stu hated him more than I did. Blew his brains out all over the wall. Beautiful mess.”

Lucifer claps once, slow and mocking. “Bravo. Jimmy was insufferable. But your… ‘guy’”—he wiggles his fingers in air quotes—“made quite the error, didn’t he? Terrorized a whole bar and left a message in the bloody restroom. Amateurs.”

Benny leans forward, grin widening. “No, he didn’t. I couldn’t care less about the body. Pigs clean up corpses for a living, let them play connect-the-dots with skull fragments. Stu’s only mistake was not blowing you two into the walls.” He mocks Lucifer’s accent on “bloody,” dragging it out like a taunt.

The room shifts. The air thickens like wet cement. For a second, silence hums louder than words.

Chloe’s voice cuts it, cold and sharp as glass. “Why would you?”

Benny shrugs, casual, but his eyes glitter mean. “Because you made noise, stirred shit you shouldn’t. Someone up top doesn’t like noise.”

“Who?” Lucifer’s voice is velvet over iron, dangerous. “Give us a name.”

“I don’t know their names,” Benny rasped, cigarette dangling from his lips, “but they sure as hell know yours. All my guys heard it—an ex-detective and her little play-cop boyfriend, running errands for one of the bigs. That ring a bell?”

Lucifer leaned back, expression all lazy disdain. “Sounds like a man with a complex.”

Benny smirked around the cigarette. “Sounds like a man with a vision.” He tapped ash into a crystal tray, eyes sharp despite the wooziness. “You want to find him? Follow the money.”

Chloe’s brow furrowed. “Whose money?”

Slowly, almost theatrically, Benny pushed himself to his feet, rolling the cigarette between his fingers like it was a coin trick. “Ever heard of Eleanor Lux?”

Lucifer went very still.
Chloe’s head snapped up.

“She owns half the city’s studios,” Benny continued, savoring the reveal. “But no one’s seen her in public in years. Word is, she bankrolls the cleaners of this city. Lets them wipe the mess, so her empire stays squeaky clean.”

Chloe’s stomach turned. It sounded too neat. Too perfect. Like a setup waiting to spring.

“Why tell us?” she asked, suspicion heavy in her voice. “Why now?”

Benny exhaled smoke toward the gold-leaf ceiling, a bitter laugh tucked in the drag. “Because someone’s cleaning house again. And it ain’t my team.” His gaze flicked between them, sharp despite the sweat. “Don’t get me wrong—the Fixer, whatever his real name is? I respect him. Word is, his work’s a goddamn masterpiece.“But my boss doesn’t like him. He doesn’t like you. Doesn’t like your boss. But the Fixer?” His grin cracked wider, meaner. “He fucking hates the Fixer.”

“Don’t mind us. You have your boss, we have ours,” Chloe said.

Benny threw his head back and barked out a laugh.
“I don’t have a guy. I’ve got me, and that’s it. You think some rich asshole cares about you? You two are idiots.”

His grin widened, ugly and knowing.
“Doesn’t matter which side you’re on—Jimmy, the Fixer, whoever. You work for someone, you’re just a tool with a pulse. A qualified body. And your so-called guy—” he lifted his fingers to sketch mocking air quotes—“he’s not protecting you. He’s feeding you a nice, cozy lie. A placebo. That’s all.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping into a venomous rhythm.
“Let’s say you make it through tonight. Let’s say you even solve the whole damn thing. You really think your ‘guy’ is gonna let you walk away? Two witnesses? Two liabilities? Come on. It’s just a matter of time until you—”

And that’s when the window behind him shatters, glass exploding inward like a storm.

Gunfire.

Lucifer grabs Chloe, pulls her down behind the desk as bullets scream through the office. Benny dives the other way. Glass rains down. Paper explodes from a filing cabinet. The whole room becomes smoke and panic and muscle memory.

Lucifer grabs Chloe and tackles her behind the editing table.

“Nice to know your instincts haven’t dulled,” she mutters.

Lucifer grins. “I always catch falling women.”

Chloe shoves him off. “Shut up and shoot back.”

“Sniper?” Lucifer shouts.

“Rooftop maybe,” Chloe says, heart pounding, gun in hand.

Lucifer peeks through the shattered window. “They’ve got terrible aim. Luckily.”

They crawl to cover as Giorgio’s voice crackles over Chloe’s comm:
“Sniper—west wing! Two more on the roof!”

Lucifer swears. “Looks like the Fixer sent a message.”

“Let’s send one back,” Chloe growls, cocking her gun.

Chloe darts through the editing room, gun raised, kicking over an old projector for cover. Bullets slam into the wall behind her like angry punctuation.

Lucifer hurls a film canister like a frisbee, knocking one attacker off balance. “Oscar-worthy performance!” he yells.

They fight like they used to. In sync. Back to back. Like muscle memory.

Benny groans from the corner. Blood. Not fatal, but enough to slow him.

Lucifer leans over. “Still feeling confident?”

Benny spits blood. “They don’t miss twice.”

“We’re not giving them a second chance.”

Chloe grabs Lucifer’s arm. “Go. Now.”

Giorgio crashes through a side entrance, gun drawn, firing clean and fast. “We’re leaving!”

They run.

They haul Benny up between them and half-carry, half-drag him to the car.

They don’t speak until the shotting stop and everything get silent, what makes it worse.

Giorgio doesn’t blink. “This city’s not subtle anymore, huh?”

“No,” Chloe mutters, slamming the door. “It’s just loud and bloody.”

"Let's take him to a place where he can heal without being killed, at least not now" Lucifer says.

They patched Benny up in the boss’s penthouse, or at least tried to.

Blood still seeped through the bandage pressed tight against his abdomen, but he was alive—barely. Woozy, half-conscious, his head lolled against the couch cushion as he muttered names in a broken, drunken loop: Whitmore. Cross. Calloway.

Chloe crouched beside him, scribbling them down in her notebook, jaw tight. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the sharp scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke that clung to the penthouse like wallpaper.

Across the room, Lucifer poured himself a drink.

“I thought you were sober,” Chloe said without looking up.

“I am,” he replied smoothly, though his eyes betrayed the exhaustion in him. He lifted the glass, studied the amber light flickering through it. “This is strictly medicinal, Detective. For composure. And—” his mouth twisted wryly, “—for old habit, of course.”

He poured a second and extended it to her. She hesitated. Then took it.

They ended up on opposite ends of the long leather couch. Close enough to share the silence, far enough that the distance became its own presence between them. The room hummed with it—the tension, the weariness, the strange warmth of being alive together when they very nearly weren’t.

Chloe lifted her glass. “You saved me today.”

Lucifer’s smile was faint, tired. “You saved me first.”

That pulled a short laugh from her, quiet and incredulous. She shook her head. “What the hell are we doing?”

He shrugged, eyes distant, lost somewhere she couldn’t reach. “Trying not to die. Somehow succeeding at that, yet failing spectacularly at everything else.”

Her throat tightened. She sipped her drink instead of answering.

Lucifer turned his head, and for the first time in too long, really looked at her. His voice was softer now, dangerous in its honesty. “I missed failing with you.”

Chloe didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

The elevator chimed.

“Okay, what the fuck is so important you dragged me out of my pool party—” The boss strode in, shirtless, water still dripping from his hair, towel slung over his shoulders. His irritation faltered the moment his eyes landed on the scene: Benny slumped against his pristine Italian leather sofa, bleeding all over it.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Not my couch.” He grimaced, running a hand down his face. “Who the hell is this?”

“The answer to some of our questions,” Lucifer said, his voice a low drawl but his eyes heavy, haunted.

“Some?” The boss stalked closer, drying his head with the towel as casually as if this were all routine. His gaze flicked to Benny, unimpressed. “What do you mean, some? Hasn’t he told you everything?”

“He has, but—” Chloe started, the words barely past her lips when the boss raised his gun and fired.

The shot cracked through the room like a whip.

Benny’s muttering stopped. A neat hole bloomed in the center of his forehead. For a moment, it was so clean it didn’t feel real—until a thin river of blood slid down, staining the couch, soaking into the seam where leather met stitching.

“FUCK!” Chloe and Lucifer shouted in unison. Not because it was the first time they’d watched someone die—it wasn’t—but because the absurdity of dragging Benny from the brink, fighting to keep him alive, only for this. This.

The boss sighed like a man inconvenienced by traffic, not fresh blood dripping onto Italian leather. His gun dangled from two careless fingers. He rubbed his forehead with the barrel as if it were nothing more than a stress ball, unconcerned with the smear of blood he’d pressed into his own skin.

“So,” he drawled, “we’re done here?”

Chloe’s mouth went dry. Her stomach flipped cold. She opened her lips—“Uh—hum”—but the sound was thin, pathetic, and she knew it. Saying something wasn’t better than silence. Not now.

“No,” Lucifer snapped. The word cracked through the room like a second shot. His eyes were wild, pupils blown, eyebrows drawn tight in fury that had nowhere to land. He stood, hands flexing at his sides, his entire body a taut wire. “No, absolutely not! We almost died to bring this man to you. Died, in case you missed that part. He was bleeding out, had nothing left to lose, and maybe—just maybe—he would’ve given us more if you’d let him breathe another five fucking minutes.” His voice broke around the edges, more raw honesty than polish.

The boss cocked his head, amused, as if watching a dog bark at thunder. “I saw a problem. I asked a question. Your partner said yes. So I solved it.” He made little shapes in the air with his hand, illustrating neat boxes: problem, solution, done. “That’s what I pay you for. Not to drag some rat in here and redecorate my couch in arterial red. Not to yank me from my pool party for this circus.” His voice climbed, cracking the air with heat.

Lucifer barked a laugh that was nothing like amusement. “Guess you didn’t hear me say we almost died. Guess you didn’t notice the shooters on our backs while we hauled him through the city. This penthouse was the safest place we could think of. So, yes—terribly sorry for interrupting your pool party with our fucking survival.”

The boss didn’t argue. He just raised the gun again and pulled the trigger.

The shot landed somewhere in Benny’s already ruined body. It hardly mattered where. Too much blood, too much ruin. This time Chloe didn’t even flinch. Neither did Lucifer. The first shot had taught them a lesson: in this room, shock was wasted energy.

The boss strolled to the bar, unbothered, poured something deep and brown. He drank like it was water. Then he returned, lowering himself into the opposite couch with the ease of a king who knew the crown would never slip.

“Let’s start again.” He crossed one ankle over his knee, the picture of relaxation, and gestured loosely with his glass. “I can’t and won’t fight with you without killing you, and I’d rather not redecorate a second couch tonight. So. What did you find out?”

The silence was thick enough to choke on. Chloe felt every ounce of it in her chest. The names burned on her tongue—Whitmore, Cross, Calloway—and she could still hear Benny’s weak, slurred voice muttering them like a prayer no one bothered to answer. She glanced at Lucifer. He hadn’t sat back down. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw set, the fire in him dimming only to something sharper, more dangerous.

Chloe spoke first, because someone had to. “Whitmore. Cross. Calloway.” Her voice was steady, even though her hand around her glass wasn’t. “Not just hired guns. Connected. Same funding. Same cover companies.”

The boss’s eyes flicked to her, curious now, the kind of interest that could be mistaken for kindness if you were stupid. “Go on.”

Lucifer finally sat, but he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. “It’s bigger than one rat with a bullet hole. Bigger than the shooters at our backs. Someone’s paying for silence, for muscle, for chaos. Benny wasn’t the beginning, and he wasn’t the end.”

The boss smiled, thin and cruel, like a man who’d just been handed a key. “Now we’re talking.”

Chloe’s fingers itched for her pen, but she didn’t move. Because the truth was—they weren’t talking. Not really. They were bleeding, in the ways that mattered. They were standing on the edge of something that might swallow them whole, and the man with the gun and the drink and the ruined couch had just decided they were worth keeping alive for another round.

She caught Lucifer’s gaze. He didn’t smile. Neither did she. But the air between them felt like a promise they’d both already broken once, and would break again.

"In Benny's words, the fixer is one of Eleanor Lux's cleaners, he also said he didn't killed Jimmy yesterday in the bar but he ordered it."
Chloe said almost in one breath.
"And that's the reason we didn't die in that bathroom, the guy who did didn't knew us, so he choose let us go when we faked being drunk, but he also said some people already know about the detectives working for you, us"

“In Benny’s words,” Chloe said, almost in a rush, words tumbling over each other, “the fixer—he’s one of Eleanor Lux’s cleaners. He didn’t actually kill Jimmy yesterday at the bar… but he ordered it.”

Lucifer leaned back slightly, letting that sink in.

“And that’s why we didn’t die in that bathroom,” Chloe continued, voice tight, low. “The guy who did it… he didn’t know us. He let us go when we faked being drunk. But—” She swallowed, shaking her head, “he also said some people already know about the detectives working for you. About… us.”

The weight of her words hung in the air like smoke. For a moment, neither of them moved. The room felt smaller, the threat closer. It wasn’t just the blood on the couch anymore; it was the world outside, pressing in, ready to catch them if they slipped.

He didn’t speak right away. Just sat there in his bloodstained penthouse, sipping the last of his whiskey while the silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, its smoke curling lazily upward. The ashtray beside him was already overflowing.

Chloe tried not to look at the body still slumped on the other couch. Tried not to breathe too deeply, because the room reeked of iron and smoke and cologne.

Then the boss slammed his glass down on the table. The sound cracked through the quiet like another gunshot.

“I can’t have you two being recognized out there.”

Chloe stiffened. The words chilled her more than the corpse bleeding into Italian leather two feet away.

Lucifer arched a brow, his voice sharp but measured. “Forgive me, but wasn’t that the point of dragging us back into this circus? Letting us parade through your dirty business, take the bullets so you don’t have to?”

“This can fuck everything up,” the boss snapped, leaning forward, eyes bright with sudden heat. “You two show your faces, and the cops start sniffing. Journalists get curious. My enemies start taking bets on how long until you turn.”

Chloe lifted her chin. She was tired of being spoken about like an inconvenience, like she wasn’t even in the room. “So what do you want us to do? Disappear?”

The boss’s grin returned, lazy and dangerous. “No. Worse.”

He stood, fixing his open shirt, shaking out the towel that still clung damply to his shoulders. He looked them over like a tailor sizing up fabric. “I want you to become famous.”

They both blinked at him.

“…Excuse me?” Chloe asked flatly.

“Famous.” He nodded, as if the idea had been waiting for him all along. “I’ll put my confidence team on it. New names. New faces. We slap a movie deal on top, spin you into the next it-couple. Walk carpets. Smile for cameras. That way you’re rubbing shoulders with players at every table, and no one questions why you’re there.”

Lucifer’s expression flickered, equal parts disdain and reluctant comprehension. “You’re turning us into bait.”

The boss smirked, pleased with himself. “I’m turning you into stars. Learn the difference.”

His gaze landed on Lucifer first. “British actor. You could fake your way through anything. Hell, you already do.”

Then Chloe. “And you… I know the name Decker. Used to mean something on studio lots. Let’s make it mean something again.”

Before either of them could argue, he tipped his head back and shouted: “Baby!”

The sharp staccato of heels against marble echoed from the hallway, and a woman appeared—legs, perfume, panic barely masked by a shaky smile. She was still tugging her top into place when she answered, breathless: “Yes, daddy?”

“Grab my telephone,” the boss ordered, already striding toward the back rooms, his cigarette trailing smoke in his wake. “I’ve got calls to make.”

“Yes, daddy,” she repeated quickly, hurrying after him.

From somewhere deeper in the penthouse, his voice carried back to them, sharp and casual all at once. "Make yourselves at home. This’ll take a minute.”

“Can you believe this?” Chloe muttered. “He wants us to… go Hollywood.”

Lucifer tilted his head, watching her with that lazy, dangerous amusement. “Could be worse. He could’ve asked us to fake our deaths.”

Chloe’s glare cut sharper than any blade. “This isn’t a game. Cameras, paparazzi, fans… they’ll know who we are.”

He smirked. “Speak for yourself. I like the idea of adoring fans. Maybe I’ll even scandalize a few of them.”

Chloe grabbed a throw pillow and hurled it at him. He caught it effortlessly, examining it like a trophy.

And then—something flickered inside her. Not fear. Not annoyance. Recognition.

This was how it used to be—him lounging, her taut and alert, him smirking, her eyes sharp. They fit too easily together, and that scared her more than any sniper.

A few moments later, Brittany appeared, cordless phone clutched between manicured fingers, moving like she was performing.

“Daddy says a stylist’s coming in an hour, then a screen test director. Also, he wants to know if you want separate rooms… or one.”

Lucifer leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled. “Tell Daddy one room’s fine. We work better when we share.”

Chloe opened her mouth, but the words got caught somewhere behind her teeth. Brittany flounced off, heels clicking against marble, leaving the two of them in a sudden, decadent silence.

Chloe turned to him. “One bed.”

Lucifer raised a brow. “I keep forgetting were not patners.”

She didn’t answer—but she didn’t correct him either.

They sat side by side on a ridiculous faux-leather couch shaped like a mouth. Once again, ignoring the body.

“So,” Lucifer said finally, low and measured, “we’re doing this.”

Chloe didn’t answer. He watched her—the way her jaw tensed, her shoulders curling inward, small and closed off. He softened, just a little.

“You okay?”

She shrugged, honest. “We used to dream about disappearing together.”

Lucifer’s smile was sharp, humorless. “Now we’re getting a spotlight instead.”

They sat like that for a moment, suspended between history and what came next.

Then Chloe stood. “I need a shower.”

He raised his glass, teasing again. “Careful. Wouldn’t want to ruin your future Oscar-winning hair.”

She rolled her eyes, muttered something that sounded like a curse, and left.

Lucifer watched her walk away, quiet, thoughtful. The girl with the badge and the heartbreak. The man with the charm and the chaos.

Stars in the making. Or ghosts waiting to be exposed.

Either way, the city was watching.

Chapter Text

The shower was the first thing all day that hadn’t felt like a trap. Chloe stood under the water until her skin flushed pink, until steam blurred the corners of the mirror, until she could almost imagine she’d scrubbed the blood and gunpowder from her pores. Almost.

When she finally shut it off, she lingered with the towel wrapped tight around her body. The silence in the room pressed in. No sirens, no gunshots, no yelling. Just the faint hum of the penthouse air conditioning and her own pulse in her ears.

Stepping back into the bedroom felt jarring.

Lucifer was sprawled across the king-sized bed like he owned it, still dressed, shoes and all, half-watching some muted program flickering on the flat screen. He looked infuriatingly at ease.

“Comfortable?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Terribly,” he replied, not looking away from the TV. “I ordered us something. Thought you might be hungry.”

Her stomach betrayed her first, twisting low and sharp. She hadn’t eaten since—hell, she couldn’t even remember. “Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “Good call.”

Lucifer smirked, like her agreement was a personal victory. He tossed the remote aside and rose smoothly, every movement deliberate. “My turn,” he said, and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving a trail of expensive cologne and smugness behind.

The room was too quiet without him.

That’s when she noticed the clothes. Neatly folded across the armchair by the window: a simple black dress in her size, a soft shirt and sweater-cut pants for him. Nothing extravagant, but clean, comfortable. Someone had thought about them—maybe the Boss, maybe his girl. Either way, it felt like a twisted kind of courtesy.

She slipped the dress on. It fit better than she wanted to admit, hugging her waist, falling loose enough at the knees to breathe. She stared at herself in the mirror above the minibar for a long second. Not a detective. Not a cop. Not even herself. Just a figure dressed for someone else’s stage.

A knock interrupted the thought.

She opened the door to find a maid in a crisp uniform, pushing a polished food cart. Silver domes gleamed like a hotel suite’s, as though they weren’t standing in a penthouse that had hosted a murder only hours earlier.

“The Boss says to eat,” the maid said softly, rolling the cart inside. Her voice carried a trace of sympathy, like she knew what Chloe had seen, what she was being asked to endure. Before she left, she added, “When you’re finished, he wants you both in the living room. The stylist has arrived.”

Chloe’s pulse spiked. Stylist. Not a bluff. Not a threat. A plan already moving without her.

She barely had time to process it before the bathroom door opened.

Lucifer emerged barefoot, towel wrapped low around his hips, hair dripping in dark curls. He looked infuriatingly at home, like this wasn’t borrowed space, like nothing about today had touched him.

Chloe’s throat tightened. She forced herself to look away, to focus on the food cart instead. “The stylist’s here,” she said, sharper than she meant.

“Excellent.” He didn’t miss a beat, crossing to the cart, lifting one of the silver lids. His face lit up with a ridiculous kind of delight. “Sandwiches! Remarkably decent looking.” He took one in hand and bit into it, holding his towel with the other like it was an afterthought.

She shook her head, fighting a smile she refused to give him. “You’re impossible.”

“Yes,” he said through another mouthful. “Impossibly hungry.”

It was both grounding and maddening, how easily he shifted the weight of the room. Benny’s body, the Boss’s orders, the tightening noose—it all loosened just slightly with his offhand charm. And maybe that was why she didn’t snap. Maybe that was why she let the silence stretch, only broken by the clink of silverware and the faint hiss of the shower still dripping behind the bathroom door.

For the first time all night, she wasn’t running.

When Lucifer finally traded the towel for the clothes laid out for him, he looked frustratingly unbothered. The shirt clung in all the right ways, the pants made him look like he’d wandered straight out of a glossy ad campaign. He ran a hand through his damp hair and grinned, as though the entire setup had been made for him.

Chloe almost told him so. She didn’t.

Together, they walked down the hall to the living room.

The space had been transformed.

Where Benny’s blood had soaked into Italian leather only hours earlier, now a pristine new couch sat, a rug perfectly centered beneath it, like nothing had happened. Racks of clothing lined the walls—rows of jackets and dresses in careful gradients, shoes displayed like museum pieces, trays of cosmetics and accessories glittering under the too-bright lights.

The Boss sat in his usual place, his girl, Candy curled across his lap, sipping something with a straw and giggling at whatever he murmured against her hair.

But all eyes were on the woman in the center.

The stylist.

She was in her forties, maybe, her short hair slicked back, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose despite being indoors at night. Her outfit was a riot of mismatched prints—houndstooth, leopard, stripes—that should have clashed but didn’t. Confidence radiated off her like perfume. Two assistants flanked her: one tall, androgynous, sharp in tailored black; the other softer, in a suit cut deliberately feminine, carrying a clipboard like a weapon.

Chloe’s eyes darted across the room, the air smelled faintly of perfume, polish, and something rich, expensive, intoxicating. She pressed her palms to her thighs, trying to ground herself, but the pulse in her ears betrayed her nerves.

Lucifer, on the other hand, seemed untouched. He leaned casually against one of the racks, long fingers brushing over the edges of velvet jackets as though he were already a part of this curated chaos. His gaze followed Miranda as she circled, and Chloe had the briefest flash of envy—he was so at ease, so entirely himself, even when under scrutiny.

“Lovely,” the stylist breathed, stepping forward. Her gaze swept Chloe up and down, precise as a scalpel. “You must be Chloe.”

Then she turned to Lucifer, her eyes widening. “Oh. They wasn’t exaggerating. You’ll be a dream to work with.”

Lucifer smirked, soaking up the attention like a cat in sunlight.

Chloe’s stomach twisted.

The stylist's eyes flicked up and down Chloe with the precision of a scalpel. “Your angles will need softening,” she said, voice brisk, clipped. “Hair lifted here, jawline emphasized there. You’ll want wardrobe that conveys strength, but hints at vulnerability. Mystery without menace.” She paused, then added with a note of amusement, “You’ll thank me later.”

Chloe folded her arms, a small instinctive defense. “We’re not models.”

She smile didn’t waver. “You’re whatever your boss and I need you to be.”

The voice of the boss drew Chloe’s attention. He had moved closer to the woman, his presence magnetic, casual, like the air itself bent around him. “That’s why I love you, Miranda. You know that, right?”

Miranda’s lips quirked in a sarcastic half-smile. “You love me because I solve your problems. That’s why.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “That too.”

“You heard her,” he said, turning to Chloe and Lucifer. “You’ll be whatever we need you to be. Don’t worry—Miranda is one of my trusted ones. She’s seen and done a lot, so she knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Miranda inclined her head, and Chloe caught the glimmer of approval in her assistants’ expressions—an almost imperceptible nod that confirmed this was a well-oiled machine, a choreography of power and influence.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” Miranda continued, her pace rapid and unrelenting, like a river that refuses to slow. “We have the whole night to work on you. Set the vision. Your stories—as individuals and as a couple. Give you two a makeover. Find clothes for you in here, everything from casual to red-carpet ready. By morning, you two will leave for the hotel I’ve arranged, fully prepared.”

Chloe felt her chest tighten. “Couple?” she thought bitterly. She and Lucifer weren’t a couple. Not really. And yet, Miranda didn’t wait for objections. The words were already in motion, shaping the night to come.

Lucifer’s hand brushed hers lightly—not a touch of intimacy, but enough to anchor her. “So… where do we start?” he said, his voice even, trying to mask the edge of uncertainty she sensed lurking beneath his effortless cool.

“Let’s start with you,” the stylist said, addressing Chloe first. She circled slowly, hands steepled in front of her, eyes flicking like laser scanners over Chloe’s frame. “Height, posture, the tension in your shoulders… we’ll need to soften some lines, emphasize others. You’re strong, but approachable. Dangerous, but… human. Can you do human?”

Chloe blinked, startled. “I… I think so,” she said cautiously, unsure if that was a joke or a challenge.

The stylist’s assistants immediately moved into motion. One pulled a tape measure and began tracing her waist, hips, and shoulders with precision, murmuring numbers and notes. The other began laying fabrics across nearby surfaces, swatches in bold patterns and muted tones.

“Lucifer, you’ll want to relax—this will be sensory overload, and not everyone can handle it.”

Lucifer’s brow arched, amusement sparking in his gaze. “Sensory overload, is it? I thrive on it.” His smirk carried its usual charm, but Chloe caught the faint twitch of his jaw, a small tell betraying the truth. He wasn’t invincible. Not anymore.

The studio around them buzzed with low chaos—fabric rustling, assistants scurrying, hangers clinking together in hurried rhythm. Lights blazed overhead, too bright, too sharp, the heat of them already prickling against the skin. Even Chloe, who was no stranger to pressure, felt the atmosphere threatening to swallow her whole.

Lucifer, though, refused to let it show. He leaned with deliberate ease against a towering rack of designer jackets, eyes half-lidded, posture decadent and careless. His smirk played at his lips as his gaze drifted lazily over the room. “I feel like I’m being measured like a vintage car,” he drawled, voice low and velvety. “Admired for the shine, evaluated for the horsepower. Dreadful, isn’t it?”

The assistants stilled, momentarily unsure if he was mocking them or flattering himself. Chloe sighed. Typical. The smirk was teasing, but she knew that beneath it, he was bracing himself—trying not to reveal how much the sensory assault pressed against his very human limits.

“You’re not a vintage car,” Chloe muttered, arms folded, her tone dry but laced with fondness. “You’re more like a high-maintenance import. Expensive. Flashy. Temperamental. Breaks down if you push too hard.”

Lucifer’s eyes flicked to her, and for a beat, the smirk melted into something softer—something almost vulnerable. Then, as always, he masked it with a chuckle. “Touché, Detective. Though I assure you, when I run, I purr.”

Chloe rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

Lucifer reclined, letting one of the assistants—an angular, androgynous figure—assess his grooming needs. He let the stylist adjust the collar of his shirt, tug the sweater pants for a sleeker line, and arrange his hair. Every small adjustment felt deliberate, choreographed, purposeful.

Chloe couldn’t stop herself from glancing at him. There was something hypnotic in how effortlessly he adapted to attention, to critique, to transformation. She hated that she was drawn to him, and simultaneously hated herself for noticing how good he looked when Miranda ran her hands through his hair, made notes on his posture, or whispered directions about subtle changes.

“Breathe,” Miranda instructed, almost sharply, catching Chloe’s stiff inhale. “You’ll want to look alive.”

Chloe bristles, but Lucifer steps in before she can snap. “Careful, darling. The Detective bites when provoked.”

The stylist sniffs, unimpressed. “Then let her bite. A good headline needs teeth.”

Lucifer grins. “Oh, I like you.”

Chloe doesn’t.

Chloe forced herself to relax her shoulders, guided by Miranda’s calm but commanding presence.

Lucifer’s voice cut through, low and teasing. “Careful—you’re starting to look too perfect.”

Chloe narrowed her eyes. “I’m not here to impress you,” she muttered, though a part of her trembled with something she didn’t quite name.

“You’re here to survive,” he replied, smirking, brushing a strand of hair from his own forehead. “Everything else is secondary.”

They spent the next hour circling the room, trying on pieces, adjusting angles, hair curled, hair pinned back, shoes swapped for heels that tested her balance. Chloe stumbled more than once, wine-red lipstick smudging her carefully cleaned jawline. Lucifer teased her mercilessly, leaning over with an eyebrow raised, whispering sarcastic commentary under the stylist’s sharp gaze.

“Careful,” she hissed at him once, trying to maintain composure. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m helping you,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Every stumble makes you more… interesting. More real.”

She blinked at him, but before she could reply, the stylist’s assistant clapped their hands. “Ready for the final look?”

Chloe froze. Her reflection stared back from a wall of mirrors, every angle adjusted, every line curated. She didn’t recognize herself fully, and yet… she did. The eyes were hers. The hands. The curve of her shoulders. But the armor, the polish, the story woven into the fabric—it was someone else’s narrative now. Someone who could survive under any gaze.

Lucifer stepped behind her, smirking as he adjusted the collar of his own newly tailored shirt, sweater pants swapped for something sleeker, sharper. “We make quite the team,” he murmured.

Chloe wanted to argue. Wanted to say they weren’t a team. Wanted to remind him that they were just… two people caught in someone else’s game. But her throat tightened. She only nodded, because the truth was, in some way she couldn’t fully admit—she needed him here. Needed his presence as an anchor, as proof that she could navigate the chaos.

“Good,” Miranda clapped her hands, signaling the next phase. “Now, onto accessories. Shoes, jewelry, small details that scream power without saying a word. You’ll walk into any room and everyone will notice… and remember you.”

Chloe’s pulse hammered in her chest as she reached for the first pair of heels, feeling the subtle click of them on the polished floor. Lucifer was beside her, hands brushing hers as he grabbed a jacket—too casually, almost like a predator marking territory, though she knew he wouldn’t.

They exchanged quick, charged glances, words unnecessary, yet electric with tension. This wasn’t just styling. This was exposure. And neither of them could hide.

Miranda circled again, taking in the tableau with a practised eye. “By the end of this night, cameras, audiences, anyone who looks at you—they’ll see the story we’re telling. They’ll remember it. And you’ll be unforgettable.”

Chloe swallowed hard. Unforgettable. The word echoed in her mind, alongside the subtle thrill of power, the pressure of performance, and the awareness that every inch of her, every glance and gesture, would be judged, curated, transformed. And Lucifer… was right there, equal parts anchor and wildfire.

Her stomach twisted in anticipation and apprehension. This was the beginning. The night was long, and every moment was a step into a version of herself she hadn’t yet met.

By four in the morning, the penthouse felt like a mausoleum dressed in velvet.

The Boss and his baby-doll Candy had long since vanished into their private room, leaving the rest of them to work in the cavernous living space. The music had stopped, the air smelled faintly of stale smoke and champagne, and the silence pressed heavy.

Assistants packed quietly, like ghosts, sliding shoes into bags, folding shimmering gowns into garment racks. Every so often the elevator chimed with someone leaving—hair stylists, makeup artists, a photographer yawning into his sleeve. What had started as chaos was finally winding down into fatigue.

Miranda dropped onto the couch as if gravity had finally won. Her back hit the cushions, sunglasses sliding down her nose, and for a single second—just one—she allowed her eyes to close. Then, as though catching herself in the sin of rest, she sat straighter, eyes sharp again.

In front of her, Chloe and Lucifer stood waiting.
The final products.
Three suitcases each at their feet, all zipped tight with everything they might need—clothes that weren’t theirs, tools that weren’t theirs, lives that weren’t theirs.

“Drew,” Miranda said without opening her eyes, “go fetch me some lemonade before I collapse.”

Her assistant scampered off, leaving the three of them in the low light. Miranda finally gestured, two fingers flicking lazily at the armchairs opposite her. “You two. Sit.”

Lucifer sprawled across an armchair without hesitation, as though he’d been waiting for the invitation. Chloe perched on the edge of hers, spine straight, fingers knotted together.

Miranda pulled her sunglasses off and tossed them onto the coffee table. Without them, her face looked different—older, sharper, lined with exhaustion. But her voice stayed crisp.

Listen,” she said. “You look beautiful. Honestly, it was one of the easiest jobs I’ve ever done. You’re both handsome, photogenic, and you don’t trip over each other when you walk side by side. That’s half the battle in this world. But—” She leaned forward, elbows braced on knees. “—beauty isn’t enough. You’ve got the wardrobe, the visuals. My job’s almost done. Now it’s your turn. You need to become them.”

Lucifer smirked faintly, but for once didn’t interrupt. Chloe felt her jaw clench, like she’d been waiting for this lecture all night.

Miranda’s gaze cut to him first. “You. You’re Samael Ellis Veyl. A British actor—washed-up, technically, but no one’s allowed to say it out loud. You’ve been off the screens for a while, but you still know how to charm the cameras. You’re a public fuckboy with a private life that looks enviably romantic. The tabloids call you trouble, but the cameras love you. And you…” She let her eyes sweep him, appraising. “You love the cameras right back. That’s your game.”

Lucifer tilted his head, amused. “Washed-up actor, fuckboy, still devastatingly handsome. Sounds autobiographical.”

Chloe shot him a warning glance, but Miranda ignored him.

Miranda ignored him and turned to Chloe. “You are Cherry Jane Rockwell. Actress. Model. The kind of woman who gets photographed at airports because people assume you’re someone important even if they can’t place you. You’ve worked worldwide, a few film cameos, a few campaigns. You and Samael met at a gala in Singapore three years ago, and you’ve been inseparable since. To the world, you are the couple. Tragic, glamorous, untouchable. Understand?”

Chloe blinked, the name catching in her throat. Jane. She hated how easily it fit, like a dress she didn’t want but could already feel against her skin.

“Simple,” Miranda said briskly, as Drew returned and placed a sweating glass of lemonade at her elbow. She didn’t miss a beat, just nodded thanks and sipped. “You wear these names like second skins. Samael and Jane are your alter egos now. You use them. You protect yourselves with them. Be charming. Be vicious. Be adored. Whatever keeps the attention away from who you really are.”

Lucifer’s grin was sharp. “I do adore a stage name.”

Miranda didn’t smile. “Don’t mistake me. This isn’t theatre. This is survival. You’re about to swim in circles where predators watch every move. If you don’t convince them, you’ll drown. My advice? Don’t trust anyone but each other.”

Silence pressed heavy.

Chloe’s hands twisted tighter in her lap. Lucifer raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

Miranda leaned back, composure restored, sunglasses back in hand. “Money, hotels, flights—handled. I’ll surface as your manager when needed. Otherwise, I’m background. If I need to communicate, we’ll use codes. Nothing obvious. Nothing that can be traced. Are we clear?”

Chloe nodded. Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose, a faint groan escaping him.

“Good,” Miranda said, rising to her feet. The assistants straightened instantly, as if her movement pulled strings they were all attached to. She looked at Chloe, then Lucifer, and for the first time all night, her smile softened.

“Welcome to your new lives,” she said, her tone flicking between amused and deadly serious. “Don’t make me regret spending my time with you. Oh, and please… don’t die.”

They exchanged a glance and laughed, though the sound was shaky, almost unfunny. She meant it. They both knew it.

“Now, go get some sleep. You leave at nine. That gives my team just enough time to plant you in the morning papers,” she added, already moving toward the elevator.

She paused mid-step. “Drew, have you spoken to L.A. Everyday about the couple?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Drew replied immediately, hurrying to match her stride.

Miranda gave a last glance over her shoulder at Chloe and Lucifer. “Remember, you're Samael and Jane. Everything else is just… noise.”

Then the elevator doors closed, leaving Chloe and Lucifer in the suddenly quiet, impossibly clean penthouse.

Chloe let out a slow exhale, feeling the weight of the night press down on her shoulders. “Sleep,” she muttered, her voice almost a whisper, but Lucifer smirked.

“Sleep?” he drawled, stretching languidly. “We’ve been turned into celebrities, given alter egos, and suddenly we’re supposed to nap like ordinary humans?”

Chloe shot him a look, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself. “Apparently, yes. Ordinary humans. Try to keep up, superstar.”

Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose dramatically, groaning. “Oh, the indignity. I suppose I’ll settle for a few hours of mortal rest before I conquer Singapore.”

She rolled her eyes, tugging at her suitcase handle. “Conquer Singapore or not, I’m not sleeping in another hotel tonight just to look like a model. I’ll survive on three hours if I have to.”

“Admirable. Brave. Slightly masochistic. My kind of woman,” he replied, tone teasing, though she caught the faintest edge of exhaustion in his eyes.

Drew returned from escorting Miranda, moving quickly but keeping his head down. “Everything’s set, ma’am. L.A. Everyday has been briefed. Photos and press releases are ready to go for morning.”

“Good,” Miranda called back from the elevator. “If the world thinks you’re anyone but Chloe and Lucifer, that’s our success. Oh, and remember—keep it believable. People can smell fear and uncertainty. You don’t want the wrong kind of headlines before you even land.”

Lucifer slumped onto the sofa, running a hand through his damp hair. “So, my dear Jane,” he said, lounging like a man who had rehearsed this title in the mirror, “are we the picture-perfect couple who met in Singapore three years ago, or the barely coherent humans faking it for survival?”

Chloe let out a small laugh, tugging her suitcase closer. “I guess we’re both. Half celebrity, half desperate spy.”

He chuckled, leaning back with one arm draped along the sofa. “I suppose if we’re going to be fake, we might as well be convincing. And you… Jane, you make it disturbingly easy.”

Chloe’s stomach flipped. She refused to comment, merely brushing her fingers over the edge of her suitcase, feeling the weight of outfits, shoes, and accessories meant to transform her into someone else entirely.

“Alright,” Lucifer said, sitting up abruptly. “If we’re leaving at nine, we should at least rest… in theory. But not too much. Wouldn’t want to appear lazy on our first day as high-profile stars.”

Chloe smirked. “High-profile stars with no idea what we’re doing.”

“Exactly. Improvisation is key.”

They moved toward the bedroom, the quiet of the penthouse suddenly heavier after the chaos of the night. Chloe paused by the doorway, glancing back at the racks of clothing, the discarded shoes, the echoes of Miranda’s sharp commands.

“Do you ever feel like we’re… actually living in a movie?” she asked quietly.

Lucifer’s eyes twinkled in the dim light. “Every day, darling. Every day. But tonight, it’s less a movie and more a trap disguised as couture. We survive. We thrive. And hopefully, we look damn good doing it.”

Chloe shook her head, smiling despite herself. “One thing at a time, Samael.”

Lucifer held up his hand in mock salute. “As you wish, Jane. Now, let’s try to sleep before the paparazzi wake us.”

Chapter Text

A soft knock stirred Lucifer from the warm haze of sleep. He blinked, disoriented for a heartbeat before his eyes adjusted to the hotel’s muted morning light. Chloe was on the opposite side of the bed, facing away, a clean line of distance between them. Excellent, he thought dryly. She’d no doubt take silent victory in the fact they hadn’t woken up tangled together again.

The knock came again, firmer this time. Lucifer dragged a hand over his face. “Come in,” he called.

The door opened, and a maid wheeled in a polished breakfast cart. Her smile was practiced but bright.

“Good morning,” she said, chipper in a way only paid professionals could be at such an hour.

“Morning,” Lucifer returned, voice still rough with sleep. He stretched lazily, letting the sheets slip lower than strictly necessary.

“I brought breakfast. My boss couldn’t be here, but he insisted you enjoy it.” She lifted the first dome with a flourish. A tower of pancakes gleamed under the light, the syrupy jelly spelling out Samael & Jane inside a heart.

Lucifer huffed a laugh, quiet enough not to wake Chloe—though he doubted anything about him was ever truly quiet.

The maid unveiled the rest—bacon, eggs, strong coffee, fresh juice—and then produced a heavy brown envelope. She held it out with both hands.

“Oh, and my boss asked me to give you this. Giorgio will be waiting downstairs at nine.”

Lucifer plucked it from her, weighing it in his palm, already guessing its contents. “Thank you, luv,” he said smoothly.

Her cheeks pinked, and she dipped a quick nod before retreating. The door clicked shut.

Lucifer padded over to the cart, plucked up a strip of bacon, and was halfway through savoring it when a groggy voice cut through the quiet.

“Luv?” Chloe murmured from the bed. “Should I be worried?”

He turned, finding her propped up on one elbow, hair tousled, eyes narrowed in half-playful suspicion. The sight tugged at him in ways he refused to name.

“Morning, Detective,” he said with a grin. “I knew you were eavesdropping.”

“How couldn’t I? You laugh loud enough to wake the dead.”

Lucifer chuckled, unbothered. “You’ll laugh too when you see this.” He gestured toward the cart. Chloe dragged herself upright, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Her gaze landed on the pancake message, and she blinked once before snorting.

“Oh, God.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, but laughter slipped through anyway. “I was hoping I’d dreamed all this alter ego nonsense.”

Lucifer, leaning on the cart, let himself enjoy the sight of her unguarded. “You’re unusually cheerful for this hour. Care to explain?”

Chloe smirked. “I got four solid hours of sleep. That’s a luxury these days.”

“Ah,” he said, plucking another piece of bacon. “Though I suspect it has less to do with the hours and more with my presence. I am rather soothing, after all.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure, Lucifer. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Instead of arguing, he casually tossed the brown envelope onto her side of the bed.

Her brows knit. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Must be,” he said around a mouthful of bacon. “Better be.”

Chloe hesitated before opening it, peeling back the flap to reveal thick stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills. Fresh ink and paper practically scented the air.

Lucifer’s eyes gleamed. “Now we’re talking.”

Chloe flipped through the money, lips parting in a half-disbelieving smile. “He could’ve started with this part.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Lucifer sprawled back on the bed, sipping from a cup of coffee he’d poured without asking. “A touch of mystery keeps the blood pumping.”

She shook her head, but amusement softened the disbelief in her features. “Well, at least surviving our ‘new lives’ just got a little easier.”

Lucifer raised his cup toward her, eyes glittering with that dangerous charm. “To surviving, darling… and thriving.”

Chloe slid the thick envelope into one of the sleek leather bags Miranda’s people had left the night before, the zipper closing with a muted hiss. Just like that, the weight of cash was out of sight—but not out of mind. She lingered a moment, palm pressed to the cool leather, before finally pushing herself off the bed and padding barefoot across the carpet to where Lucifer was perched, already eating like the world hadn’t been turned upside down.

“You’re shameless,” she muttered, stealing a strip of bacon off his plate.

He smirked, unbothered. “And you’re late to the party. Breakfast waits for no one."

Chloe took a piece of toast, still warm. “You’d eat without me anyway.”

“True,” he drawled, sliding the plate toward her. “But breakfast is far less satisfying without annoying you, detective.”

“Former Detective,” she corrected dryly, chewing the bacon.

“Former nothing. Once a detective, always a detective.” He leaned back, watching her with that infuriating sparkle in his eye. “Though now you’re also a dazzling jet-setter named Jane. Congratulations.”

"You can’t be normal, not even at breakfast?” she muttered, shaking her head.

“Normal is so tediously overrated.” He reached for the coffee again, holding it like a chalice, and gave her a pointed once-over. “You, on the other hand, should work on your presentation. Giorgio will expect Samael and Jane, not Detective and Devil. We must look the part.”

Chloe raised a brow. “So what—you’re my stylist now?”

“I could be.” He smirked. “Though I dare say I’d enjoy it far too much.”

“Finally,” Lucifer said, springing up from the chair with a flourish. “Let’s play dress-up.”

The racks loomed like silent judges against the far wall, gleaming under the soft morning light. Row upon row of hand-selected fabrics—silks, cashmeres, tailored suits and gowns, shoes lined like soldiers. He prowled the dresses like a cat stalking prey. At last, he plucked free a deep red silk slip that shimmered as it caught the light. He draped it across his arm, then snagged a fur coat and a pair of black stilettos to complete the set. Turning, he presented the ensemble with an expression hovering between pride and mischief.

“For you, darling Jane,” he said smoothly, holding it out like an offering. “Danger, elegance, allure. The sort of woman no one questions, because they’re too busy being dazzled.”

Chloe hesitated, eyes flicking from the fabric to his face. The choice was… good. Too good. She hated that he knew it. Finally, she rolled her eyes and snatched it from his hand. “Fine. But if I trip in those heels, I’m blaming you.”

“I’ll catch you,” he said, and for once, it sounded less like flirtation and more like a promise.

She smirked, shaking her head. “Alright. My turn. Let me pick yours.”

Chloe approached cautiously, fingers brushing along velvet and silk as if they might burn her. Lucifer, naturally, dove in headfirst, sweeping hangers aside until he landed on something that made him pause.

Chloe, however, was faster. She plucked a navy blue three-piece suit from the rack and held it up to him with a decisive nod. “This. Sharp. Clean. Not too flashy, but… controlled. Less ‘Lucifer Morningstar, menace to society’ and more ‘Samael, serious actor with a dark past.’”

Lucifer cocked an eyebrow, lips quirking. “So you do want me to look devastating.”

“Professional,” she shot back.

He accepted the hanger with a theatrical bow. “Professional devastation, then. Point taken.”

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, snatching it from him.

“And yet irresistible,” he countered without missing a beat.

By the time they dressed, the transformation was unsettling. Chloe curled her hair into soft waves, the silk slipping like liquid over her frame, the fur settling over her shoulders with decadent weight. Beside her, Lucifer adjusted his cufflinks, the navy suit sculpted to him as though it had been waiting for this very morning. His shoes gleamed. His smirk deepened. And then, as if to crown the look, he slipped on a pair of sleek black sunglasses.

“Feels right,” he murmured, studying their reflection in the mirror.

Chloe stepped up beside him. Jane and Samael stared back—untouchable, enviable, the kind of couple gossip columns salivate over. Her chest tightened, because she knew what it meant: Chloe and Lucifer were already fading into the background.

“The only time we’ll get to be ourselves,” she said quietly, “is when it’s just us.”

Lucifer tilted his glasses down, meeting her gaze. For a fleeting second, the playfulness slipped, revealing something sharper, more serious. “Then we’d better not waste those moments, Chloe.”

She swallowed hard. “Jane.”

“Jane,” he corrected softly, sliding the mask back into place with a grin. “Always Jane.”

A knock at the door broke the spell.

“Half past eight,” came a muffled voice. “Car will be downstairs soon.”

Lucifer straightened, grabbing his jacket. Chloe grabbed her purse—Jane’s purse now, feeling the unfamiliar weight of luxury leather.

She caught his eye, nerves sparking for the first time since she’d woken. “Ready?”

He nodded with a smile.

The living room had changed again. Where last night had been chaos and blood, and later a stage for Miranda’s empire of fabrics, now it looked like any luxury penthouse—neutral tones, polished glass, tasteful art. Too normal. Almost eerie. If you stared at the rug too long, you could almost see the ghost of a stain.

Neither of them lingered.

The elevator ride down was quiet, but not comfortable. Every floor they passed felt like another step into the story they’d been forced to live. When the doors slid open, the city’s cool morning light spilled in—and with it, the sight of suited men loading their luggage into the trunk of a sleek black limousine.

Chloe froze for half a beat, exchanging a look with Lucifer. Limousines. Security teams. Staged lives. This was them now.

Lucifer, of course, recovered first. He tugged lightly at his cuff, as though he’d been born for this. “Well. At least we’re traveling in style.”

“Yeah,” Chloe muttered, still trying to adjust.

They approached the car. One of the guards opened the door with a crisp nod, and inside, waiting at the wheel, was Giorgio. His uniform was immaculate: black suit, bow tie, white gloves, posture precise as if plucked from a film.

“Good morning,” he greeted warmly, his smile surprisingly genuine.

Lucifer slid into the seat first, grinning like a man who’d been given a stage. “Well, aren’t you a picture. Good morning, Giorgio.”

Chloe followed, settling carefully beside him. “Morning.”

The driver inclined his head. “Sit back, relax. The hotel’s expecting you.”

The limousine purred smoothly through the streets, the city stretching wider and brighter as they drew closer to the hotel. Chloe leaned back against the leather seat, finally letting her shoulders drop. Then she spotted it: a gleaming bottle of champagne nestled in silver ice.

Lucifer followed her gaze, and his grin lit instantly. “Well, well. The universe does provide.”

He plucked the bottle free, working the cork with theatrical flair. It popped with a satisfying crack, and he poured two flutes, handing one to her with a mock bow. “To new lives, new names, and new sins.”

Chloe clinked her glass against his. “To not dying in the middle of all this.”

They both drank, the bubbles sharp and celebratory on their tongues. For a moment, it almost felt… fun.

But then Lucifer’s eye caught something folded on the side table: a crisp newspaper, fresh ink. He reached for it, flipping to the entertainment page. His brow arched. “Oh, bloody hell. Miranda wasn’t kidding about her people and their way with media.”

He passed the paper to Chloe.

Her eyes ran across the bold headline: “Famous couple Jane Rockwell and Samael Ellis arrive in L.A. this morning for awards season and vacation.”

Her mouth dropped. “Gosh. We’re the couple she was talking about.” She looked up at him, half-shocked, half-amused. “That’s crazy. Does that mean… there’ll be people waiting for us? Paparazzi?”

Lucifer leaned back, newspaper dangling between his fingers. A smile curved his lips, caught somewhere between thrill and disbelief. “I don’t know. But we must assume yes. And prepare for anything.”

Chloe took a long sip of champagne, thinking. Her nerves fluttered, but an idea sharpened through the fog. “Then we give them something to work with. A scene. A story. If they’re already watching, we should control the narrative.”

He waved a hand. “Darling, I’m Lucifer Morning—”

“Samael Ellis,” she cut in sharply. “And if you keep saying your real name, we’re screwed.”

That got his attention. He arched a brow, curious. “Alright, Detective. What’s the play?”

“Play drunk. We’re good at it.”

He tilted his head, intrigued. “This could work…”

“So,” she continued, warming to the idea, “we walk inside, we don’t stop for photos or answer questions if there are reporters. We act like we’ve partied all night—ragged, tipsy. Then inside, I ‘accidentally’ trip, you cause a little scene, I play along. Boom. instant headlines. People will have something to talk about, and we’ll start with a foot in the door.”

Lucifer laughed, shaking his head in genuine admiration. “You missed your calling as a PR strategist.”

"Thanks" She rolled her eyes, though her lips curved. “But serious, if they’re going to make a circus out of us, we may as well write the script.”

Lucifer lifted the bottle, swirling what was left. “Well, if we’re going to play drunk…” His grin spread. “…we’d better commit.”

Chloe hesitated, eyeing him, then the bottle. Finally, she grabbed it from his hand and drank straight from it, bubbles fizzing against her throat. She coughed once, laughed, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“That’s what I’m talking about.” He clapped once, delighted.

For the next few minutes, they drank and laughed in the back of the limo, practicing their disheveled smiles, swapping ideas on how to lean on each other without looking too rehearsed. The champagne softened the edges of their nerves, turning fear into
something reckless and sparkling.

The limousine slowed, then stopped in front of the building. Chloe’s breath caught before she could stop it. The place was more than just grand—it was ostentatious, designed to dazzle and intimidate. Towering glass facades reflected the city’s glow, and the fountain out front wasn’t just decorative; it was a spectacle, water lit from below so it shimmered like liquid crystal. If the tinted windows hadn’t been so dark, the world outside would’ve seen her wide-eyed wonder.

“So…” Lucifer’s smooth voice slid into her ear, pulling her back from her thoughts. He was sprawled beside her, casual as ever, the devil at ease in any palace. “Here we are. Are you ready?”

Chloe blinked, grounding herself. “Ready?” She reached into the pocket of her fur coat, producing a compact mirror and a deep red lipstick. She leaned closer to the glass, touching up her mouth with steady precision. Her reflection hardened, transforming from sleepy Chloe Decker into Jane—the model, the actress, the woman who belonged in places like this.

Then, before Lucifer could add some smug remark, she turned to him. Her hand landed on his chest, and she pressed her mouth to his.

Lucifer’s eyes widened as she kissed him fiercely, fingers slipping under his shirt to rip at the buttons until they popped. His breath caught when her hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until his carefully laid composure burned away. For a moment, the world shrank to heat, mouths, and the taste of her lipstick.

And then, just as abruptly, she pulled back. Chloe leaned into her mirror again, calmly reapplying the smudged lipstick as if nothing had happened.

Lucifer sat there, shirt torn open, tie askew, chest rising and falling. “I’m not complaining,” he managed, voice rough, “but… what exactly was that?”

Without glancing at him, Chloe dabbed at the corner of her lip. “You asked if I was ready.” A sly smile tugged at her mouth. “I was. You weren’t. So I fixed it. You’re welcome.”

Lucifer tilted his head, torn between outrage and delight. “Fixed it? You’ve left me looking—”

“Exactly like you’ve just had the best sex of your life in a limo.” Chloe snapped the mirror shut, finally turning her gaze on him. Her satisfaction glimmered. “Which is the point. Shall we?”

“Don’t you want to—”

She cut him off, leaning close again, her breath hot against his lips. “I know you’re hard, Lucifer. That’s part of the fix.” She winked, her smile bright and wicked. “Now come on, we’re going to be late, Mr. Ellis.”

Before he could reply, Chloe opened the limo door and stepped out into the dazzling lights of the entrance. Heads turned instantly. The red silk dress, the fur coat, the lipstick kiss still glowing on her mouth—she didn’t look like she’d arrived. She looked like she’d happened to the place, and the place was lucky for it.

Shouts slammed into her from every direction.
“Jane! Jane, over here!”
“Samael, look this way!”
“How long are you staying in L.A.?”
“Are the engagement rumors true?”

The flashbulbs blinded her. Chloe squinted, letting her lips curve into the faint, tipsy smile she’d practiced. Her heels clicked on the pavement, one hand clutching her clutch bag like it was the only thing holding her together.

Lucifer emerged right after, shirt barely buttoned, lips smudged with her lipstick, collar tugged open as though she’d dragged him out of bed seconds ago. He even shielded his eyes from the flashes, hissing dramatically like the sun itself offended him. The crowd ate it up.

He gave Chloe a sidelong glance, wickedly amused. She’d played him—and yet, somehow, he looked exactly like Samael was supposed to: untamed, magnetic, a man who’d spent the morning in pleasures too decadent to be named.

Chloe—Jane—didn’t even look back. She only adjusted her coat on her shoulders, chin tilted high, owning every step as though the red carpet had been rolled out for her.

Security swarmed immediately, cutting a path through the chaos. Their bodies were shields against the crush of paparazzi, but the flashes still pierced through, relentless, white-hot stars exploding in every direction.

Samael’s hand closed firmly around hers, grounding and possessive all at once. They moved together, fluid, ignoring every shouted question:

They moved fast, hand-in-hand, ignoring every question. Chloe tilted her head, hair falling like she’d barely managed to fix it in the car. The cameras snapped, desperate to capture the chaos of two people who looked like they belonged in a scandal column.

They swept into the hotel lobby like chaos incarnate, leaving a storm of questions and flashing bulbs in their wake. By the time the revolving doors spun shut, Chloe’s pulse was a drumbeat in her ears.

Inside, it was a whole different world. The chaos of flashing cameras was replaced by a cavernous lobby bathed in warm golden light. Greek columns stretched toward the ceiling, intricate carvings glimmering under chandeliers that dripped crystal like falling stars. The space hummed with quiet wealth—men in tailored suits lounging in leather chairs, women in pearls murmuring into brick-sized telephones. The silence was deliberate, curated, a stark contrast to the circus outside.

“You okay?” one of the security guards asked, lingering at their side.

“We’re fine,” Lucifer replied, his voice dripping with snobbery. He didn’t even look at the man.

“Thank you,” Chloe added quickly, genuine gratitude slipping past her mask. The guard gave a polite nod before retreating outside, leaving them alone under the weight of curious eyes.

Because they were being watched. Everyone in the lobby had paused just slightly—enough for Chloe to feel it. To see it. The too-casual glances, the whispers behind champagne glasses, the small swivels of heads that tracked them as they moved. They wanted to know who this glittering disaster of a couple was.

Lucifer guided them forward, but Chloe suddenly slowed, adding a deliberate sway to her step. A wobble. Then—without warning—she let herself collapse, sprawling dramatically onto the plush carpet.

Gasps fluttered through the lobby. For a beat, silence. And then—

Chloe started laughing. Loud. Unrestrained. A laugh that didn’t belong in such a polished place. Lucifer crouched beside her and laughed too, shoulders shaking until his eyes watered. Their joy filled the vaulted room, drowning out the hush of moneyed voices.

A man in a crisp hotel uniform appeared almost instantly. “Let me help you, miss,” he said, offering his hand.

“Oh, my hero,” Chloe gasped between laughs, clutching his hand as he hauled her upright. She squinted at the gleaming pin on his chest. “Daniel, Manager.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Daniel the Manager. My savior from this treacherous… carpet.” She flung an accusing finger at the floor as if it were a villain.

Lucifer staggered up beside her, wiping tears from his eyes. “Indeed! The foulest rug I’ve ever encountered. Nearly devoured my poor Jane whole!” He gasped, then laughed anew, clutching Chloe’s waist dramatically as if saving her from being swallowed again.

Daniel attempted a laugh, dry and managerial. The sharp tang of champagne wafted off them. Drunk, he decided at once. Hollywood drunk.

Daniel cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Sir, ma’am… if there’s anything you need—anything at all—please let me know. Perhaps a complimentary drink while we resolve… this situation?”

Chloe leaned in, eyes narrowing mischievously, her lips curving with playful intent.

like a golden curtain over one shoulder. “A drink, you say?” she purred, her voice velvety and sly. “Why, Daniel, I don’t see how we could possibly refuse.”

Lucifer leaned close to her, lips brushing her ear. “Remember, darling, you’re Jane Rockwell. Every gesture counts.”

Chloe winked at him, savoring the thrill. “Of course. Jane always knows exactly what to do… when she wants to.”

Daniel handed them each a flute of champagne, hands trembling slightly as he tried to maintain his professional composure. Chloe took hers with exaggerated care, tilting the glass, swirling it, and letting a single drop escape to catch the light like liquid gold.

“Ah,” she sighed dramatically, “nothing like the effervescence of life—and privilege—on the first sip.”

Lucifer chuckled, lifting his glass. “To new lives, Daniel, and the treacherous carpets that almost claimed Jane.”

Daniel blinked, unsure whether to laugh or take cover. Chloe raised her glass higher, tipping her head back in mock solemnity.

Then—suddenly—she let herself collapse again, sprawled across the floor like a fallen star, arms wide, hair splayed perfectly around her head. Gasps erupted from the few onlookers brave enough to watch, and Daniel’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

Lucifer didn’t hesitate. He dove to the floor beside her, catching her in a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Fear not! Jane has survived!” he proclaimed, flourishing one hand toward the heavens like a Shakespearean hero.

Chloe laughed uncontrollably, the sound ringing through the lobby like a bell. “Oh, Daniel, my hero! You saved me from this murderous rug!”

Daniel’s professional mask cracked into a twitch of a smile. “Sir… ma’am… perhaps we should—”

“Fear not, Daniel!” Lucifer interrupted, still holding her aloft. “We are perfectly… perfectly… fine! Marvel at our grace, our composure, our sheer star power!”

Chloe wiggled free, rolling onto her side with practiced elegance. She placed a hand dramatically on her chest, gasping for air in mock horror. “The humanity! The drama! Oh, how the universe tests us, Daniel!”

Daniel coughed politely, clearly unsure if he was witnessing a disaster or a Broadway performance. “Yes… well… if there’s anything you require in your suite—”

Lucifer straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his tailored suit. “Merely a chaise longue suitable for one so exquisitely fragile, and a decanter of the finest champagne you have. The rest, Daniel, is mere trifle.”

Chloe clapped her hands, gleeful. “And perhaps a mirror, Daniel! One that can truly capture the magnificence that is Jane Rockwell.”

Daniel’s jaw tightened a fraction. “Your suite is ready. I’ll handle check-in immediately.”

“Perfect,” Lucifer said Chloe still in his arms.

Daniel gestured toward a roped-off lounge, lush and private. “If you would wait there, I’ll be with you shortly.”

“You are an angel, Daniel the Manager,” Chloe purred, swaying toward the lounge as if she were gliding down a catwalk.

"Just my job." Daniel muttered stiffly, though the whole lobby was still watching them, whispering feverishly as the scandal walked away.

Lucifer eased Chloe into a chair with a flourish, letting his hands linger just long enough to make the moment theatrical. “What was that?” he asked, eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Chloe tilted her head, feigning innocence while suppressing another laugh. “That, my dear Samael, was an artful demonstration of human frailty. And style. And a little chaos for good measure.”

He leaned back against the arm of the chair, one leg crossed over the other, studying her as if she were both a puzzle and a prize. “Chaos, yes. But darling, you made it exquisite. A performance worthy of a standing ovation… though Daniel seemed… less than impressed.”

Chloe rolled her eyes, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Oh, Daniel the Manager? He’s too young to appreciate true brilliance. Or perhaps he fears it. Either way, he’s irrelevant to our grandeur.”

Lucifer chuckled, tapping the side of his nose with one finger. “Exactly. Let the mortals stew in their confusion. We, my dear Jane, are untouchable. Now—champagne. And mirrors. We have work to do.”

Daniel returned swiftly, posture military, paperwork in perfect order. He set the leather folder down on the polished counter as if presenting evidence before a court. “Mr. Ellis, Ms. Rockwell. Everything is prepared. The suite is yours.”

Lucifer plucked the pen with a flourish, scribbling Samael Ellis in looping, exaggerated letters that nearly tore through the page. Chloe leaned over, draping herself against him with mock intimacy, her terrible accent spilling forth again.

“Darling, do make it legible. They’ll think you’re some kind of degenerate artist.”

Lucifer chuckled, signed with a dramatic flick, and handed the pen back like a dagger to a defeated opponent.

Daniel cleared his throat. “The penthouse suite. Top floor. Your bags are already being delivered. If there’s anything you require—”

“Oh, don’t tempt him,” Chloe muttered, loud enough for nearby guests to hear. The murmurs spread.

Lucifer bowed his head toward Daniel, eyes glinting wickedly. “Thank you, good man. You’ve kept us from death by carpet. We owe you our very lives.”

Daniel gave the tightest smile imaginable and motioned toward the elevators. “This way, please.”

The walk across the lobby was theater. Lucifer draped his arm lazily over Chloe’s shoulders, whispering something that made her laugh again—loud, ringing, careless. The sound bounced against golden walls. Every head turned. They weren’t people anymore; they were headlines.

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime.

And just like that, the curtain dropped.

Silence. Only the faint hum of machinery as they began to rise.

Chloe pressed her back against the wall, sighing hard. “God. I feel like I just ran a marathon.”

Lucifer’s grin softened, the playboy mask slipping. “You were magnificent. A truly committed performance. I daresay even I was impressed.”

Chloe shot him a look, half amused, half exasperated. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Of course I am,” he admitted, straightening his jacket at last, buttoning what she’d left undone. “All eyes, all whispers, all wondering who we are… it’s practically foreplay.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging her lips. “Well, let’s hope it’s worth it.”

The elevator chimed again. The doors slid open to reveal a private hallway, lined in velvet and gold, leading to their suite.

Lucifer extended his hand like a gallant knight. “Shall we, Mrs. Ellis?”

She swatted his arm lightly, muttering, “Don’t push it.” But she took his hand anyway.

Together, they walked toward the double doors at the end of the hall—the stage waiting for its next act.

Chloe lifted her chin, brushing her hair back with a languid flick of her fingers, letting the illusion settle into place. “Why does every hotel look like a palace?” she murmured, more to herself than anyone.

Lucifer leaned closer, whispering theatrically, “Because in our world, Jane, palaces are standard. Mortals call them luxury; we call them scenery.”

She glanced at him, eyebrows raised, lips twitching with a smile. “And you, dear Samael, are the star who owns the scenery.”

He gave her a slow, exaggerated bow, lips curling into that signature smirk. “Indeed. But even stars need an audience—and I suspect the next scene is about to begin.”

At the end of the hallway, their suite doors loomed like velvet curtains. Lucifer pressed the handle with a dramatic flourish and pushed the doors open. Light spilled into the hall, shimmering gold and deep crimson, casting them in a surreal, cinematic glow.

Inside, the suite was everything the lobby promised and more: high ceilings, sweeping views of the city, plush furniture that seemed to invite decadent lounging, and a quiet hum of anticipation in the air.

Chloe—still fully in character—slid off her coat and let it fall to the floor like a costume piece discarded for the moment. She turned to him with a playful tilt of her head. “So… behind closed doors, do we take off the masks, or is this another act?”

Lucifer strolled past, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the room as if critiquing a stage set. “Ah, my dear Jane, the masks are what keep the show alive. But perhaps… here, behind these curtains, we allow ourselves a scene unscripted.”

Chloe’s lips curved into a half-smile, half-smirk. “Unsuspected, but brief, yes?”

“Exactly,” he said, finally letting his guard drop just enough to brush her hand lightly, a spark of contact that was real, not performance. “Brief… and necessary.”

They moved toward the suite’s window, overlooking the city skyline, lights twinkling like a thousand tiny spotlights trained on them. Chloe reached for her purse, checking her reflection in the glass, adjusting just enough to maintain the illusion of casual elegance.

Lucifer pulled his glasses down low, letting them perch on the bridge of his nose, the only concession to calm inside the storm of attention outside. “ But now, back to Chloe—” Lucifer drawled, his tone almost lazy, but his eyes razor-sharp. “Was it you who kissed the hell out of me in the limousine… or was it Jane?”

She didn’t turn. Just reapplied her lipstick in the mirror with infuriating calm. “I don’t know,” she murmured, voice soft, teasing. “Who do you think it was?”

His smile deepened, dangerous. “I’ll bet… Miss Jane.”

Chloe finally spun, her smirk sharp enough to cut. “Think you’re right.” She shrugged, careless. “But as I said—it was a helping hand.”

Lucifer leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes burning into her. “Well… I hope she decides to help me again. Any other day.”

Chloe’s gaze dipped, slow, deliberate, tracing the line of his chest, the loosened tie, until it landed, unashamed, on the obvious tension in his trousers. Her lips curved into something wicked. “Well, she might. But…” her eyes flicked back to his face, dark with suggestion, “there are some things I believe she can’t help you with.”

Lucifer followed her gaze, realized what she meant, and—of course—didn’t blush. Instead, he snapped his legs shut with a smirk, covering himself with zero shame. “Oh, don’t mind this.” His grin was pure devil. “I’d wager Samael can figure something out with his… so-called fiancée.”

Chloe’s smirk didn’t falter. “Oh, I’m sure Samael has plenty of tricks. But fiancées… they usually don’t like to share.”

Lucifer tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he’d already solved but didn’t want to stop playing with. “Depends on the fiancée,” he murmured, voice dipping into something low, sinful. “Some of them enjoy… the performance.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t back down. Instead, she stood, deliberately slow, and crossed the room toward him. The click of her heels against the marble floor echoed in the silence.

She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume mixed with champagne. Her fingers brushed the lapel of his half-buttoned shirt, straightening it as if she were fixing a costume before a stage entrance.

“You know what your problem is?” she whispered, eyes locked on his.

Lucifer leaned in, lips curved in a predator’s smile. “Enlighten me.”

“You don’t know when the show ends.”

For a beat, they just stared at each other, heat thickening the air between them like smoke in a sealed room. Neither moved, neither blinked. It was a game of who would break first.

Chloe was the one to pull away—if only by inches. She flicked his collar flat with a sharp, dismissive gesture, then stepped back, turning on her heel. The crisp click of her stilettos across the marble floor rang out like a curtain call.

“Now,” she said, her voice brisk, businesslike, as though the last thirty seconds hadn’t been charged with barely contained fire. “We should find something to do until we receive instructions for what comes next.”

Lucifer’s gaze lingered on her, the corner of his mouth curving with that infuriating, knowing grin. “Oh, Detective,” he purred, his tone wicked velvet, “I do love a good rehearsal.”

She didn’t look back, but he saw her shoulders stiffen—just enough for him to know his words landed. And that knowledge was enough to keep his grin alive all the way to the waiting suite.

The evening stretched before them like a canvas waiting to be painted. In the privacy of their suite, Chloe and Lucifer moved with deliberate precision, each gesture rehearsed yet natural, as though preparing for a performance the world would never see.

Chloe’s hairdresser worked with gentle efficiency, twisting and pinning strands of blonde and caramel into an intricate updo. Soft curls were teased into volume, coiling atop her head with a textured elegance. A few tendrils escaped, framing her face with a delicate softness that belied the sophistication of the style. She watched in the mirror as the reflection slowly transformed from tired Chloe Decker into Jane Rockwell, the woman who belonged in spotlights, chandeliers, and whispered admiration.

Her dress waited, draped across the chaise like a promise. Soft blue silk, sleeveless and backless, it clung and flowed in all the right places. Pearls graced her neck and ears, a subtle echo of refinement, and her white scarpin heels glimmered against the carpet. She slid into the gown with careful grace, feeling the weight of elegance settle onto her shoulders. A soft exhale left her lips. She looked… dangerous. Beautiful. Untouchable.

Lucifer, naturally, didn’t need help to look perfect. He strode over, black suit sharp enough to slice the air, Louboutins glinting with each step. The red soles were a signature, a declaration, and as always, they made him impossible to ignore.

“You do know,” he murmured, eyes scanning her in a way that could have been flattery or a verdict, “that you’re about to steal the scene before it even begins?”

Chloe tried not to smile, though the small smirk betraying her amusement softened the edge. “Try to keep up, Mr. Ellis.”

He feigned a bow, dramatic and deliberate. “Always a pleasure to follow you into danger—or the spotlight, in this case.”

They lingered a moment longer in the suite, adjusting cufflinks, smoothing hems, and ensuring every hair and crease was in place. It wasn’t vanity; it was strategy. Every detail mattered. First impressions could define the evening, and in their new lives, nothing could be left to chance.

When at last they were ready, Chloe tucked the final pearl earring into place and studied herself in the mirror. She saw Jane—not the woman who solved murders, but the actress, the socialite, the creation of perception and poise. It was a strange sensation, inhabiting someone else’s skin so fully that even the reflection felt unfamiliar.

Lucifer’s voice cut through the quiet, low and amused. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” she said softly, sliding her hand into his. Together, they descended the hotel stairs, the polished lobby stretching wide before them.

The streets outside were quiet tonight—no crowds, no flashes, no chaos. Lucifer allowed a theatrical sigh. “I must admit… I miss them." he said, glancing at Chloe with a grin that suggested he half-meant it.

Chloe laughed. “Lucky for you, they’re saving themselves for tonight.”

Giorgio, impeccable as always, guided them to the waiting car. The quiet hum of the engine, the smooth glide through Los Angeles streets, felt like a calm before the storm.

They didn’t speak much, not because they were uncomfortable, but because both were aware of the tension coiled beneath the surface. Tonight was their first public test, the first time the world would see Jane Rockwell and Samael Ellis. Every step, every gesture, every glance mattered. And yet, sitting side by side, the calm before the storm, they allowed themselves a moment of shared ease.

Chloe’s fingers brushed against his, a small, unspoken reassurance, a reminder that no matter how complex the performance, they weren’t alone in it.

The car stopped at the museum’s grand entrance, the red carpet stretching like a ribbon of anticipation beneath the gleaming lights. Outside, the night was alive: photographers crouched and jostled, flashes punctuating the darkness like fireworks, voices shouting names and questions. The air was electric, buzzing with expectation for celebrities they hadn’t even met.

Lucifer’s grin widened. “Ah, the stage is set. Shall we make an entrance worthy of history—or at least the tabloids?”

Chloe laughed softly, letting go of his hand to adjust her skirt. “Let’s just survive it first, then we can make history.”

Lucifer opened his door first, his hand extended with a flourish, a devilish grin playing at his lips. “After you, Jane,” he said, his tone equal parts tease and command.

Chloe stepped onto the carpet, heels clicking with precision against the hard surface, silk brushing around her ankles. The moment her dress caught the light, the crowd erupted into a chorus of shouts and camera clicks. She held her head high, a practiced smile in place, letting the thrill of the performance wash over her.

Samael—Lucifer—followed, shoulders back, suit impeccable, red soles gleaming dangerously with each step. The crowd reacted as if he had already walked out of their dreams, and in a way, he had: a crafted persona, magnetic and untouchable.

They posed for photographs, the flashes creating halos around them, each click a tiny drumbeat counting down the minutes until they became the story everyone would tell tomorrow. Chloe adjusted her pearls, tilting her chin just enough to catch the light. Lucifer, naturally, smirked at every lens pointed his way, the apex of confidence incarnate.

“Hey, Jane! Hey, Samael! Nice to meet you!” a reporter’s voice called out, pulling them forward.

Chloe’s lips curved in a shy smile. “Hey,” she said softly.

“Hi,” Samael replied, smooth and easy, stepping to her side, hand brushing briefly against hers.

“So, you two here in L.A. after a few years out—how are you feeling?”

“Feeling good, really,” Chloe answered, letting a small laugh escape. “I didn’t remember how hot it was here.”

Lucifer’s grin widened, eyes scanning the throng of fans and photographers. “Yes, hot,” he drawled, “both for the weather and for our admirers.” He waved casually, eliciting screams and cheers. “They’re the best,” he added, turning back toward the cameras.

The reporter laughed, undeterred by the chaos. “Samael, let me ask you: you’re in L.A. for awards season. Does that mean we might see you nominated in some category?”

Lucifer tilted his head, smirk never fading. “I don’t know,” he admitted smoothly. “I’m confident in my recent work and wouldn’t mind a nod, but no—that’s not why we came.”

“Good to know. We’ll be cheering for you anyway,” the reporter said.

“And now,” she continued, leaning forward slightly, “I have to ask what everyone wants to know. I did my research but couldn’t find anything, so I had to come straight to the fountain. Jane… how did you two meet?”

Chloe froze for a heartbeat. The story she’d been instructed to tell—the Singapore love story—flickered in her mind, but her instincts resisted. Instead, she let her thoughts drift back: the way she had first encountered Lucifer, in the dark corners of Los Angeles, in 1984. The moment felt alive, vivid, unpolished, and unready for the stage.

Chloe froze for the barest second. The rehearsed story—the Singapore love affair—flitted through her mind, but instinct pulled her elsewhere. She thought instead of the first time she had met Lucifer.

Los Angeles, 1984.

Chapter Text

Los angeles, 1984.

The hum of the fluorescent lights was just loud enough to be irritating. Chloe Decker stood behind the one-way glass, arms crossed, coffee in hand, watching the man inside the room make himself comfortable.

He sat perfectly relaxed, one ankle resting on his knee, hands cuffed but posture regal — like the cuffs were jewelry, not restraint.

Lucifer Morningstar.
No record. No address. Just a custom-made suit and a smirk that didn’t belong in a murder scene.

Her captain came up beside her.

"He was caught inside the museum after hours, no forced entry. Claims he was ‘investigating.’ Whatever that means.”

Chloe’s eyes didn’t leave the man. “Right, and you want me to handle it?”

“You’re the only one who won’t punch him after five minutes,” the captain replied with a shrug. “Plus, you’re a woman. Do your thing—he’ll talk.”

Chloe almost rolled her eyes. Of course. He didn’t trust her because she was the precinct’s sharpest detective, he trusted her because she was a woman with a certain… charm. She ignored the jab and focused.

“He said he’s a ‘consultant.’ or something like it.” Capitan said with disdain

Chloe arched a brow. “Consultant for who?”

“Hell if I know. He’s been hanging around our crime scenes for weeks. Your turn to deal with him.”

“Be nice,” her captain said. “He’s got information we might actually use. You’re up, Decker.”

The door clicked shut behind her. The air inside was colder.

Lucifer’s eyes found her immediately — blue-gray and wicked, like he already knew every thought in her head.

“Detective Decker,” he said, voice smooth enough to pour over ice. “Finally, someone competent.”

She blinked at him. “You’re really opening with that?”

“Well,” he said, grinning, “I was going to say ‘beautiful,’ but I thought that might be too forward, but anyway, glad you're here i was beginning to think you’d left me here to rot.”

Chloe set the file down and sat across from him. “You were found trespassing at an active crime scene. That’s not exactly rotting, Mr. Morningstar.”

“Lucifer,” he corrected, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “And I wasn’t trespassing. I was working. I walked in. Someone left the security system off. I took it as an invitation.”

“Right,” she said, flat. “And you were just investigating?”

“Yes! I’m a private investigator, love. I was hired to find out who’s been stealing priceless art from bored rich people. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

She squinted at him. “You expect me to believe that?” Chloe flipped through the file. “You don’t have a PI license registered in California.”

He smiled, leaning back. “Oh, Detective, I don’t need a license to notice things your officers miss.”

She looked up sharply. “Such as?”

He tilted his head, eyes glittering with mischief. “Such as the fact that your killer wasn’t after the art. He wanted the safe behind the Monet. Which, by the way, you haven’t found yet.”

She froze for half a second.
There was a safe behind that painting — a detail that hadn’t been released to the public.

“How do you know that?” she asked, sharp now.

Lucifer smiled, slow and satisfied. “Because I was there before your team showed up. Observing. Trying to help, if we’re being generous.”

She crossed her arms, unimpressed. “You mean tampering with a crime scene.”

He tilted his head, unbothered. “Tomato, tomahto, the point is I’m very good at noticing what others miss.”

She leaned back, crossing her arms. “And I’m very good at spotting liars. Which one of us do you think wins this game?”

Lucifer’s grin deepened, that dangerous, amused tilt that made it impossible to look away. “Ah, I do love a woman who plays to win. Shame, though… I can’t join this round. I don’t lie.”

She looked up, unimpressed. “Yeah, sure. And you expect me to believe that’s your real name?”

He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle. “You’d be surprised what people choose to believe, Detective.”

Chloe leaned in, voice low. “Look, either you’re helping the thief or you’re playing detective in a very stupid way. Which one is it?”

Lucifer’s eyes dropped to her lips for just a second — enough for her to notice.
He smiled like he knew she noticed. “Why not both?”

Her jaw tightened. “You think this is funny?”

“Not at all, Detective. Just… delightfully inconvenient.” he said.

She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “God.”

A pause. The room felt smaller somehow, charged. She didn’t look away. He didn’t either.

“Alright,” she said, voice even. “Let’s say I believe you. You still broke in. You still tampered with a crime scene. Why shouldn’t I book you for obstruction?”

He smiled wider. “Because, Detective Decker, I can help you solve your case.”

The silence stretched — thick, electric. She hated that he was good-looking, that his voice sounded like smoke and sin, that a small, traitorous part of her didn’t want to look away.

Finally, she stood. “You’re not going anywhere until I talk to my captain.”

“Take your time,” Lucifer said, reclining again. “I’m rather enjoying the view.”

“Of course you are.” She shot him a glare

“Absolutely not.”

That was Chloe’s first sentence the moment her captain brought up the idea. She didn’t even sit down.

“Decker,” he sighed, rubbing his temples. “You said it yourself — he knows things. Things we haven’t made public. He’s either our guy, or he’s our best shot at catching him.”

“He’s a narcissistic lunatic who thinks police procedure is a suggestion.”

“Which makes him perfect for this case,” the captain said, ignoring her glare. “We need someone who can talk to those black-market collectors without getting laughed out of the room. Morningstar can.”

“He’s a menace in designer shoes,” she shot back. “He’s reckless, insufferable, and he flirts with everybody—including me, which, by the way, is wildly inappropriate when he’s technically under arrest.”

“That’s rich,” the captain muttered, signing off on something. “You’re the one who got him to talk. The others didn’t stand a chance.”

Chloe’s mouth opened, then closed again. Damn it, he wasn’t wrong.
Lucifer Morningstar had been in her interrogation room for two hours, and somehow she was the one who left flustered.

“Sir, this guy’s not police material.”

“He’s not police, Decker. He’s a PI. You’ll babysit him, make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.”

“Babysit?”

“Yeah. Congratulations, you’ve been promoted.”

Chloe folded her arms. “You’re seriously suggesting I work with him?”

“‘Suggesting’ implies you have a choice.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Look,” he said, holding up a hand. “He’ll stay out of custody. You’ll keep him on a leash. In exchange, he shares whatever intel he has and helps you close the case. Win-win.”

“Win-win,” she repeated flatly. “Until he decides to seduce a witness or set a crime scene on fire.”

The captain smirked. “You’ll manage. You always do.”

She found him in the hallway, leaning casually against the wall as if the LAPD building was a five-star lounge.

He grinned when he saw her. “Ah, my favorite interrogator. Have you come to confess your undying admiration?”

“I came to tell you you’re being released,” she said. “Under supervision.”

“Supervision,” he echoed, straightening. “Sounds kinky.”

She didn’t even blink. “It’s not. You’re working with me until we close this case. You give me everything you know, no detours, no flirting with suspects, no breaking into anywhere ever again.”

Lucifer tilted his head. “Define ‘flirting.’”

She sighed. “You know what? Don’t.”

He smiled, stepping closer, too close. “Detective, I must say, you give orders with such delicious authority. It’s almost—”

“One more word,” she cut in, “and I’ll throw you back in holding.”

He raised both hands in surrender, though the smirk didn’t fade. “As you wish, Detective.”

They walked out together — her purposeful and fast, him sauntering like he owned the pavement.

At the car, he slid into the passenger seat without waiting for an invitation.
She shot him a look. “You always this entitled?”

“Always this irresistible,” he said, fastening his seatbelt.

She started the engine, muttering, “God, give me strength.”

“Oh, He won’t help you with me, love.”

The first few hours of partnership were chaos disguised as work.
He charmed witnesses into oversharing.
He “accidentally” stole her coffee.
He kept calling her Detective Delightful until she threatened to shoot him.

And yet… he was good. Annoyingly good.
He noticed details she missed, connected dots she hadn’t seen.
At one point, he walked her through a suspect’s gallery, pointing out that one of the stolen frames had been replaced with an almost perfect replica — the kind of detail only someone obsessive or brilliant would catch.

“See?” he said softly, standing beside her, too close again. “We make quite the team.”

She hated that her pulse jumped at that.
She hated even more that he was right.

By the time the sun set over Los Angeles, they were standing outside a dingy bar in Hollywood — their next lead.

“Alright,” Chloe said, checking her notes. “The bartender here moves stolen art for half the city. Keep your mouth shut and let me—”

Lucifer was already halfway to the door. “Come now, Detective. Where’s the fun in that?”

“Lucifer—”

Too late. He pushed through the doors, grin sharp as sin.

She followed, muttering to herself, “This is going to be a nightmare.”

“Let me get this straight,” Chloe said, hands on her hips as she scanned the dim, upscale restaurant from the car. “We’re posing as a couple to bait a suspect who frequents this place?”

Lucifer looked positively delighted. “Precisely! Finally, a sensible assignment. Candlelight, champagne, a little roleplay — my specialty.”

“This isn’t a date,” she said flatly, turning to face him.

He tilted his head, a wicked smile tugging at his mouth. “Then why are you wearing that dress, Detective?”

Chloe froze.
She had put a little more effort in — not for him, of course. She just didn’t want to stand out. The navy silk fit her too well, her hair softer around her face.

“Focus, Morningstar,” she muttered, unbuckling her seatbelt. “We’re here for Vincent Grey. He shows up every Friday at eight. We sit, we watch, and when he meets his contact, we move.”

“Understood,” Lucifer said, though his tone made it clear he hadn’t listened to a word after we sit.

Inside, the restaurant was dim and humming — low jazz, flicker of candlelight, the faint murmur of conversations. Lucifer guided her through the crowd with a hand at the small of her back, all casual charm and deliberate proximity.

“Hands off,” she murmured through a tight smile.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, though his hand didn’t move. “Wouldn’t want to ruin our cover, would we?”

He was insufferable. He was infuriating.
And he looked devastatingly good in black.

They were seated in the corner, near the bar, a perfect view of their target’s usual table. Lucifer poured them both wine before she could protest.

“To justice,” he said, raising his glass.

Chloe sighed. “To not strangling you before dessert.”

He clinked her glass anyway. “I’ll drink to that.”

An hour passed. Vincent Grey still hadn’t appeared, and Chloe’s irritation had softened into reluctant amusement.
Lucifer had somehow managed to charm both the waiter and the live pianist, slipping between jokes and deductions like it was nothing.

She shouldn’t be smiling. She shouldn’t be enjoying this. But she was.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice low, a smirk playing at his lips.

“I’m making sure you don’t order another bottle of wine,” she said quickly.

“Mm. Of course.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, gaze intent. “You do know, Detective, you’re rather terrible at lying.”

Her throat went dry. “I’m not lying.”

“Then you’re looking at me like that for what reason exactly?”

Chloe blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you want to know what I’d do if this were a real date.”

For a heartbeat, the air between them shifted — slower, heavier, charged.
Chloe should have looked away. She didn’t.

Lucifer’s smile softened, just barely. “Relax, Detective. I’ll behave.”

“You never behave.”

He grinned, leaning back in his chair. “True.”

A sudden buzz on her phone snapped the moment in half.
Vincent Grey — spotted entering through the back.

Chloe stood, all business again. “Target’s here. Let’s move.”

Lucifer followed, smirk returning. “Pity. I was starting to enjoy our little charade.”

She rolled her eyes, but her heart was still racing as they slipped into the alley after their suspect.

The case was what brought them here.
But as they moved in sync — her steady, him reckless — Chloe realized something she didn’t want to admit:
She wasn’t sure where the act ended anymore.

The suspect’s warehouse sat like a forgotten skeleton at the edge of downtown — half-lit, half-abandoned, reeking faintly of oil and damp concrete.

It was well past midnight. The LAPD backup team had gone quiet hours ago, leaving only Chloe and Lucifer in the unmarked car, parked under a flickering streetlight.

Chloe leaned back, watching the entrance through binoculars. “You can stop sighing every five seconds. It’s distracting.”

Lucifer shifted dramatically in the passenger seat. “Forgive me for not being enthralled by the romance of sitting in a metal box watching a door that hasn’t opened since ten o’clock.”

“That’s what police work is — waiting.”

He glanced at her sideways, smirking. “Waiting’s only tolerable when there’s good company.”

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched. “You really can’t turn it off, can you?”

“Turn what off?”

“The… charm act.”

He feigned offense. “Charm act? Detective, that’s like telling the sun to dim a little. It’s not a performance, it’s nature.”

“Nature can be annoying,” she muttered, adjusting her binoculars.

He chuckled under his breath, stretching his legs out. The motion made his shirt pull just enough for her to catch a glimpse of the gun holster beneath — the glint of silver against black fabric.

She looked away too quickly.

Half an hour later, the silence between them had grown strangely comfortable.
Lucifer had abandoned his complaints and was now humming softly along to some old soul song playing on the radio.

Chloe fought the urge to comment — and lost.
“You actually have decent taste in music.”

He grinned without looking at her. “I’ll take that as high praise from the ever-serious Detective Decker.”

“I’m not serious.”

“Oh, you are. Delightfully so. You carry it like armor.”

She frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said, voice dropping softer, “that you use rules and routines and perfectly pressed shirts to keep the world from getting too close.”

Her jaw tightened. “And what about you? What’s your armor?”

He turned to her then, eyes glinting in the dim car light. “Mine? Charm, wit, and a perfectly tailored suit.”

She laughed — quiet, involuntary, real.

Hours blurred. The night got colder. The city quieted around them.
Somewhere between one breath and the next, Chloe’s shoulders slumped. “God, I’m exhausted.”

“Sleep, then,” he said softly. “I’ll keep watch.”

She shot him a look. “You? Stay quiet for more than five minutes?”

“I can be disciplined when necessary.”

“Sure you can.”

She still leaned back anyway, eyes fluttering closed. The low hum of his voice — faintly humming an old song she didn’t recognize — pulled her under.

When she woke again, the sun was only a faint orange line over the skyline. Lucifer was still beside her, jacket draped over her shoulders, head tilted back against the window.

She blinked, disoriented. “Did anything happen?”

“Only your very unflattering snore,” he murmured without opening his eyes.

“I don’t snore.”

“You do. Adorably so.”

She hit his arm — gently. He caught her wrist, eyes open now, smile lazy and soft.

Something changed in that small movement. The teasing stopped. The air grew warm, electric.

Lucifer’s voice dipped, quiet but deliberate. “You know, Detective… if this were a real stakeout date, I’d say this is the part where I kiss you.”

Her pulse jumped. “It’s not.”

“Shame.”

But he didn’t move — not until she did.
And when she finally did — leaning in, just enough for his breath to catch — the kiss was slow, unhurried, inevitable.

When they pulled apart, the world was pink with dawn.

Chloe exhaled, eyes still half-closed. “We’re going to regret that.”

Lucifer smiled faintly. “Undoubtedly.”

And then he leaned in, brushing one last kiss against her mouth. “But not yet.”

“So… about this third date,” she said, trying to sound casual while her pulse decided to do its own version of jazz.

Lucifer tilted his head, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. “Third date. That was your suggestion.”

“Yes, well,” she cleared her throat, “it’s going to be a real one this time. No pretending to stakeout a criminal, no car-humming music sessions, no…” She waved vaguely, “whatever that was last night.”

“That,” he said, leaning forward, the ghost of a smile on his lips, “was chemistry, Detective. That cannot be faked.”

Chloe rolled her eyes, but there was no mistaking the warmth creeping into her cheeks. “Anyway, it’s… dinner at my place. I’m cooking. If you ruin it, you’re banned.”

He laughed softly, low and amused. “Banned? From dinner? Detective, I assure you, I am nothing if not persuasive. But I accept your terms… for now.”

She narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t some game, Morningstar. I’m not inviting you over so you can flirt and steal my silverware.”

“Oh,” he said, mock affronted, hand over his chest, “so it’s serious. I should adjust my expectations… perhaps wear something less distracting than my usual suit?”

Chloe smirked despite herself. “Yes, wear something less distracting. And maybe leave the charm at the door, too.”

He leaned back, giving her a look that was all trouble and heat. “You wound me, Detective. I was planning to leave only half of it at the door.”

She shook her head, smiling, trying to hide the way her stomach fluttered at the corner of his lips tugging into a grin. “Fine. Half is acceptable. But no dramatic declarations, no singing, and absolutely no—”

“—staking out my neighbor?” He interrupted, grinning wider.

Chloe huffed. “Exactly.”

The city lights stretched out below her backyard like a carpet of tiny, restless stars, flickering through the gaps in the trees. Inside the quiet warmth of her home, Chloe barely noticed them. Her focus was on the rapid rhythm of her own heartbeat — and the soft scrape of Lucifer’s shoes on the polished hardwood as he followed her through the living room.

Lucifer’s voice broke the quiet. “You make that house look dangerous and cozy all at once. I can’t decide if I should feel safe… or terrified.”

Chloe rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “It’s a living space, not a crime scene. And I’d like to think I’m more competent than that.”

He grinned, stepping closer. “You are competent. Exceptionally so. But even the best detective can’t predict this.”

He waved a hand at the air between them, and Chloe felt that invisible tension, like static. The air hummed. She fought the urge to step back — but she didn’t.

Instead, she pulled the bottle of wine from the counter, uncorked it, and poured two glasses. “We could drink,” she suggested, trying to sound casual.

“Or we could pretend we’re adults and talk.”

Chloe smirked. “Pretending, I excel at. You, too?”

He laughed softly, rich and warm, and it wrapped around her like a low tide. “I’d like to think so.”

They sipped wine in silence for a moment, letting the city hum around them. But silence, Chloe realized, was never truly silent with Lucifer.

“You know,” he began, voice low, “I’ve spent the past few weeks trying to figure out why the city has this… pull on me. And now I think I’m starting to understand.”

Chloe tilted her head. “Oh?”

He leaned closer, eyes glinting in the dim light. “It’s not the streets. Not the glamour, not the danger. It’s… moments like this. Simple. Human. You.”

Her pulse stuttered. She tried to reply, but words failed her.

Instead, she set her glass down, letting her fingers brush against his. His hand enveloped hers, warm, steady.

“You’re impossible,” she whispered.

“Only for the right reasons,” he said, voice softer now, almost reverent.

Chloe leaned up, letting her lips meet his again. This kiss was different — slower, deeper, unhurried. They explored each other’s mouths with that same curiosity that had marked their first stakeout kiss, but now without fear or restraint.

When he pulled back just enough to look at her, she could see the way his gaze lingered on her, on every curve, every expression, as if memorizing her.

“Third date,” she murmured, breathless, “and we’re already breaking all rules.”

“Rules are meant to be broken,” he countered, lowering his lips to her neck.

________________________

The kitchen smelled like garlic and olive oil, something simple simmering on the stove.

Chloe moved with restless energy, chopping vegetables as if she could cut down the whole day into manageable slices. It was only their third date, and she was still pretending this was normal—she was normal. That Lucifer was just a man, not a hurricane of charm and danger and whatever this was between them.

She frowned, wiping her hands on a towel before answering.
“Hello?”

“Detective Decker? Oh, dear—Chloe?” The voice was warm, trembling, familiar. Ms. Julia, her mother’s neighbor.

Chloe’s stomach dropped. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I don’t want to scare you, sweetheart, but I haven’t seen your mother in a few days.The curtains are drawn, the lights come on at night, but no one answers the door…” Julia hesitated, her breath uneven. “I think she’s in there. I think she’s… not well.”

The words hit Chloe like ice water. Her hand clenched on the counter. “Right. Okay. I’ll go check on her. Thank you for letting me know.”

She hung up before Julia could say more. Her heart pounding, she turned toward the table where Lucifer sat, a vision of casual decadence—wine glass cradled in long fingers. His smile faltered the instant he saw her face.

“Something’s happened.” Not a question.

“My mom. I—I have to go. Dinner—” she gestured at the stove, uselessly, “—forget dinner. This isn’t—”

Lucifer stood, setting his glass down untouched. “I’ll drive you.”

"No.” Chloe shook her head, already reaching for her coat. “This is family stuff. Messy. You don’t need—”

“Lucifer, I can’t—” She shook her head, frustrated. “This isn’t… you don’t need to get involved.”

He straightened, his smirk softening into something more dangerous: sincerity. “Nonsense. I’ll drive. You’re far too rattled to get behind a wheel.”

“I don’t—”

“Chloe.” His tone was calm but firm, cutting through her panic. “Let me help.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Against her better judgment—against every instinct she had to keep people away from this part of her life—she nodded.

The drive was silent, the kind that hummed with unspoken tension. Chloe stared out the window, her jaw tight. Lucifer didn’t fill the silence with quips this time; he only glanced at her once in a while, watching the storm building behind her eyes.

The neighborhood was quiet, almost eerily so. A suburban street, the houses looked frozen in time—perfect lawns, trimmed hedges, the kind of neighborhood meant to hide secrets behind lace curtains. Lucifer pulled up to the curb outside Penelope Decker’s house.

Chloe’s hand hovered over the car door handle. She turned to him. “Stay here.”

His brows arched. “Stay?”

“Yes. This is— I’ll be quick.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Lucifer leaned back, studying her as if debating how far he’d let her push him away. Then, with a lazy wave, he conceded. “As you wish, Detective. But I do reserve the right to come rescue you should you take longer than five minutes.”

Chloe exhaled and hurried up the walk, fishing out the spare key.

But barely a minute later, Lucifer’s instincts betrayed him. He followed.

The door wasn’t locked. That alone set Chloe’s stomach twisting. She stepped inside, her heels clicking on the hardwood, and froze at the smell—wine, stale and sour, cut with something acrid.

“Penelope?” she called.

No answer.

She moved into the living room, and her heart sank.

She stepped into the living room and froze.

Penelope Decker lay slumped on the couch, her elegant frame now just a fragile shadow. Empty bottles littered the carpet, an upturned glass bleeding red into the rug. On the floor nearby was a dark, half-dried pool of vomit.

“Mom—” Chloe whispered, rushing forward, dropping to her knees. She pressed trembling fingers to her mother’s throat, relief crashing through her when she found a pulse.

“You're breathing. Okay. You're breathing.”

Chloe exhaled a trembling laugh, brushing hair from her face, not realizing her movements had been watched.

Lucifer leaned silently in the doorway, his usual smirk gone. He took in the scene without a word, his eyes narrowing—not in judgment, but in something closer to protectiveness.

Chloe, unaware of him, tied her hair into a hasty bun. She slipped her arms under her mother, trying to haul her upright.

It was almost comical—Chloe, trained and strong, but dwarfed by the awkward deadweight of a drunken body. Penelope stirred, murmuring something unintelligible. Chloe grunted, nearly dropping her when her mother slumped harder against her.

“God, Mom—” Chloe puffed, one arm hooked around Penelope’s neck, the other bracing her hip. “You’re—so much heavier than you look.”

Behind her, a floorboard creaked.

Chloe jumped, startled at the sound behind her. She twisted her head and found Lucifer standing there, his eyes unreadable.

“How long—” she began. “I told you to wait in the car,” she snapped, voice breaking despite herself.

“Long enough.”He didn’t flinch, didn’t even look guilty. He stepped closer, rolling his cuffs back with calm precision, his cologne cutting through the sour smell of wine. “Now, do stop trying to wrestle her like a sack of potatoes. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“You’ve done enough today,” Chloe snapped, struggling to keep Penelope upright. “Go home. I can deal with this.”

Lucifer’s gaze flicked over the woman half-asleep in Chloe’s arms. “You can’t carry her. She’s your size—or bigger. And I’m not asking.” His voice softened, though his jaw set. “I’ll help you.”

Chloe breathed out through her nose, fighting the sting of pride. At last she let him take over. In seconds, Penelope was in his arms, weightless in comparison.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Here. Follow me.”

Her voice was tight, almost annoyed, though beneath it he could hear the thread of gratitude she couldn’t quite swallow. In seconds, he’d done what would have cost her minutes of back-breaking struggle.

Chloe led him into the small guest bathroom and stepped into the shower stall herself.

“Here. Put her on the floor.” Chloe said, stepping into the shower stall and pulling her mother with her. She shut the glass door, flicked on the water, and let it cascade—soaking her own clothes, her hair, everything—because it wasn’t about her.

“Penelope,” Chloe murmured, holding her mother upright against the slick wall. “Hey, Penelope.” She tapped her cheeks gently, then harder. “Mom!”

Penelope stirred, her eyes fluttering, her words slurred.

“Hey, it’s me. Chloe.” Chloe cupped her mother’s face, washing the water over her pale skin. “Look, you need to sober up. I’m worried about you.”

“There’s… nothing to worry about,” Penelope mumbled, her words thick, dissolving into a laugh.

“Okay…” Chloe swallowed hard. “But you need to throw up—at least enough so you don’t have to go to the hospital for a stomach pump.”

“It’s fine.” Penelope laughed, a high, broken sound. “I’ll wait for John to come home. He’ll take care of me.”

Chloe’s breath hitched. The lump in her throat threatened to choke her, but she forced herself to answer. “I’ll take care of you until he comes home. All right?”

“Fine.” Penelope’s laugh was jagged, too loud in the tiled bathroom. “You—you don’t have to treat me like a kid, you know that, Chloe?”

“I’m not, Mom.” Chloe rinsed her mother’s face again, pushing damp strands of hair away.

“Yes, you are.” Penelope’s arm jerked weakly, trying to shove Chloe back. The gesture was clumsy, powerless, but venom sharpened her words.

“Mom, stop.” Chloe’s hands steadied, firm but gentle as she massaged shampoo into her mother’s hair, the smell of alcohol thick even under the scent of soap.

Penelope’s head rolled against the wall. Her voice dropped, ugly and deliberate. “Or… or what, monkey? What are you going to do? Be a…” She paused, eyes narrowing as though savoring the thought. “A disappointment. To me. To your father. Like you already are.”

The words sliced clean through Chloe. Her hands stilled. Heat rushed behind her eyes.

"Penelope—stop!” Chloe snapped, too loud, her voice ricocheting against the tiles. She turned, breath ragged, and caught sight of Lucifer in the doorway. His face was unreadable, but her eyes pleaded anyway. Don’t watch this. Please.

He closed the door without a word.

“Fuck,” Chloe whispered, twisting the shower handle until silence filled the small room. Her wet clothes clinging to her as she knelt with her mother on the floor.

Her mother’s eyes opened just enough to glimmer with spite. “There she is. The little bitch I raised.”

Chloe’s jaw locked, her throat burning.

“The little bitch,” she said evenly, “is the only person who cares enough to come help you in the middle of the night, Penelope.”

“Oh, thank you,” Penelope sneered, a faint smile ghosting her soaked face. “Is that what you want? Gratitude?”

Chloe didn’t answer. She knew her too well—every cruel jab, every drunken performance, every weaponized word meant to pierce. She knew if she spoke, her voice would break.

Without a word, she helped Penelope out of her soaked clothes, offering a towel. The older woman leaned on her reluctantly, trusting her despite herself. Chloe guided her through the bathroom doorway, each step careful, methodical, silent. Once in the bedroom, Penelope eased onto the bed, pulling the covers up around her, finally still.

The room settled into a heavy, almost morbid silence. Chloe, drenched and weary, stripped out of her own wet clothes and shrugged into a shirt that had belonged to her father, the sleeves too long, the cotton soft and comforting, and a pair of random shorts she had found. She felt the weight of memory and fatigue press down on her.

“Are you better now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she approached the bed.

Penelope nodded once, then rolled onto her side, facing the mirror. Her eyes still caught Chloe’s reflection, and Chloe could see her, clear and sharp even in the low light.

“This was one of his favorite shirts,” Penelope said softly, the edge of her earlier venom gone, replaced by a fragility that made Chloe’s chest tighten.

“I know,” Chloe replied quietly. “Mine too.”

Another pause. The quiet was heavy, but not uncomfortable this time. Just the two of them, sharing an unspoken memory across the space of years and regrets.

“Since you’re okay, I better be going,” Chloe said finally, the words hesitant, unsure if they would be heard as gratitude or dismissal.

Penelope nodded again. Chloe didn’t expect another word, so she set a headache remedy on the nightstand and turned toward the door.

“Thank you, Chloe.”

Chloe smiled faintly, didn’t turn back.

“And thank your friend too.”

The words floated after her just as she closed the door. She froze for a heartbeat—Lucifer. She had almost forgotten him.

Chloe walked back into the living room and blinked. The scene that greeted her was almost surreal. No scattered bottles, no crumpled packages, no sticky remnants of vomit on the carpet. The space was pristine, orderly, as if nothing had happened.

Lucifer rose from the couch as she entered, his expression calm but with an edge of worry she recognized immediately.

“How is she?” he asked, his voice low, careful. She could tell he genuinely cared.

“Better,” she said, offering a small smile.

She let her eyes wander around the room again. “Can’t believe you cleaned all this.”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied casually, as if it were nothing. “It wasn’t that dirty.”

Chloe turned to him, warmth in her chest. “Thank you. Really.”

“It was nothing,” he replied, but there was warmth in his tone that made her chest lift.

“So… hmm… can we leave now, or are you planning to stay here indefinitely?” He glanced at her freshly changed outfit, a teasing edge in his voice.

She noticed and tilted her head, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, no, I’m not staying. I just changed because… well… my clothes were wet.”

He smirked. “So… shall we?”

“Yeah,” she replied, “I mean, you don’t have to worry. I can take a cab.”

“No, not at all. It’s dangerous out here, and besides, I was the one who brought you, so let me return you to your home.” There was an ease in his tone, but also an unspoken insistence.

She didn’t argue. Part of her didn’t want to leave just yet. She wanted a few more moments with him, just the two of them.

The drive back was quiet, comfortable in its familiarity. The soft crackle of a jazz station filled the car, notes curling around them like a warm embrace. Neither spoke much, yet neither felt the need to. In the silence, there was an unspoken understanding: some things didn’t require words.

They pulled up in front of Chloe’s apartment, the street quiet, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight.

“Here we are, madam,” Lucifer said, turning off the engine and glancing at her.

“Thank you so much, Lucifer,” Chloe said, offering a small, genuine smile. Around him, she could do nothing else but soften, her usual defenses slipping. “Look… I’m sorry you had to see all that. And I’m sorry I was rude… I know it’s a lot for a third date.”

Lucifer chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Really. This could happen to anyone. I know what it’s like… dealing with parents. Trust me. And you handled it great, by the way.”

Chloe’s lips curved. “Thanks… she thanks you too.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, leaning slightly to press a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. Her cheeks warmed immediately, and she realized she hadn’t been ready for that small, gallant gesture.

They lingered in a comfortable silence for a moment, each looking at the other, words unnecessary

Finally, Chloe spoke, her voice lighter this time.
“Don’t you want to come in?”

Lucifer tilted his head, giving her a small, teasing smile. “It’s late… shouldn’t you be asleep?”

She laughed softly. “Nope. Haven’t slept before three a.m. since I was thirteen. And… besides, you still owe me at least thirty minutes of date time anyway.”

He grinned, a gleam of amusement and something softer in his eyes. “Alright, then.”

They stepped out of the car, and together they walked up the short path to her front door. In the stillness, the night felt intimate, suspended between the chaos of earlier and the tentative, unspoken connection blooming between them.

Chloe unlocked the door and held it open for him. “After you,” she said, a teasing lilt to her tone.

Lucifer’s gaze softened as he stepped inside. “Lead the way, madam,” he said, his usual charm understated, almost private in the dim light.

She closed the door behind them, the click of the lock sealing away the outside world.

Lucifer hesitated for just a second before crossing the threshold. “Ah, back to date,” he murmured, the warmth in his tone disguising the fatigue behind his eyes.

The city buzzed faintly outside—distant sirens, car horns, life continuing—but inside, it was still. Safe.

Chloe slipped off her jacket, exhaling. “I forgot how good it feels to just… stop,” she said, running a hand through her hair.

Lucifer watched her quietly, that rare, unguarded expression passing over his face. “People have an oddly endearing way of finding peace in exhaustion.”

She turned to face him, brow raised. “And what do you find peace in, huh?”

He smirked faintly, but his eyes stayed soft. “At the moment? This.”

For a second, she didn’t answer. The space between them hummed—familiar and fragile.

Then Chloe smiled, almost shyly. “You want a drink?”

Lucifer tilted his head, the corners of his mouth curving into that devilish, knowing smile. “Only if you’re pouring.”

She walked past him toward the kitchen, brushing lightly against his shoulder as she did. “Then sit down, Morningstar."

Lucifer watched her move toward the kitchen, the low light catching in her hair. “So,” he called after her, voice smooth, “are we starting this date over—or continuing from where we left off?”

Chloe chuckled softly as she reached for two glasses. “Your choice. I’m not really hungry.”

He smiled, eyes glinting. “Then let’s pick up exactly where we left off.”

She turned, holding out his glass with a softened smile. “Okay.”

Their fingers brushed as she passed him the glass. A quiet spark. The kind that didn’t need to be acknowledged to be felt.

They moved to the couch, a comfortable hush settling between them—easy, unforced.

The conversation started lightly, teasing, gossiping about cases they’d crossed paths on moments neither would ever admit were funny if anyone else heard.

The bottles disappeared faster than either realized, the night softening around them until everything felt warm, familiar, almost perfect.

Chloe leaned into him as another laugh escaped her, her head brushing his shoulder. Lucifer’s eyes lingered on her, his smile gentling into something quieter, deeper.

Their laughter faded, leaving only the faint hum of the city beyond the window. Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, the space between them disappeared.

They paused, faces close now, breaths mingling, eyes locked in a quiet challenge. The electricity between them was undeniable, thrumming in the space where words should have been.

Chloe leaned in slowly, pressing her lips to his in a slow, irreverent kiss. Her breath was warm against his mouth, their hands exploring each other, teasing, feeling. She slid her lips down to his neck; he let out a low, deep breath, his hands roaming her ribs and thighs.

He shifted, pinning her gently beneath him, lips trailing from her neck to her chest—but never going where she wanted him most. When he returned to her lips, it was with a hungry, almost feral intensity.

“Your lips… magic,” he whispered, hot and low against her mouth.

“And so are yours,” she murmured, biting his bottom lip.

His growing hardness pressed against her, sending heat rushing through her, and she slid her hands across his chest, tugging at the bottom of his shirt. He caught her hands, looked at her with that intense, questioning gaze.

“You sure you want this?” he asked, voice rough.

“I’m sure I want you,” she whispered into his ear, biting it lightly.

He released her hands, returning to her neck, kissing and nipping, and she helped him with his shirt, sliding her fingers over his skin freely. She traced the line of his chest, eliciting low moans from him as she kissed near his nipples.

“Humm,” he murmured, hands sliding from her hips down to the waistband of her shorts. “Aren’t you a little too dressed?”

She nodded, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he slid the shorts down, leaving her in just her red lace panties. His eyes drank her in, the sight making her cheeks flush crimson.

“You look… so good,” he growled, kissing her more roughly now, pressing his body just enough so she could feel the hardness straining against him. She bit her lip to hold back a moan, the friction against her panties sending heat pulsing through her.

“Take these off,” she commanded, pointing to his pants.

With one swift movement, he obeyed, leaving his boxers behind, and returned to her side. “May I… take this off?” he asked, nodding toward her shirt.

“Yes,” she whispered, breathless.

He removed it in a motion that was both deliberate and impossibly sensual. Her breasts were finally free, exposed in the dim light. He kissed them, squeezing her gently at first, eliciting a moan that was muffled by his lips.

A smile tugged at his mouth as he lowered further, licking one nipple while holding her gaze, watching her reaction. Her moan was sharp, needy, deliberate—pleasure and teasing all in one. He switched, alternating between the two, savoring each sound, each tremble.

She arched against him, moaning deliberately, like she was enjoying the power she had over him. And he smiled, because he was utterly captivated, entirely fueled by the sound.

Slowly, deliberately, he kissed his way down her stomach, teasing, nipping, until he was kneeling between her legs. The anticipation coiled tight, electric, every inch of her responding to him, every nerve alive.

He lifted his gaze, searching hers as if asking for permission. When she tugged gently at his hair, he understood.

Hunger radiated from him, raw and unrestrained, as though he had been starving for this moment and didn’t know where to begin. His tongue traced through the delicate lace of her panties, and she arched back, lost in the sensation, her hips pressing instinctively against him. He held her close, steadying her shivers as he explored, teasing her until she shivered again.

With careful, deliberate hands, he moved the fabric aside and finally let himself taste what he had been craving. Their breaths mingled, ragged and urgent, and the sound of their moans filled the room. He moved over her with an intensity that was almost reverent, back and forth, as if worshipping the body beneath his lips. When he glanced up, he caught her hands roaming her own curves, fingers teasing her nipples. The sight made his own desire spike, a sharp pulse of need that was impossible to ignore.

He cupped himself through his boxers, feeling the rhythm of his pulse, the heat of want pressing against him.

Chloe’s moan, sharp and breathless, broke through his focus, pulling a low groan from deep in his chest. She could feel it—his need—and it made her body quake all over again.

“Lucifer,” she breathed, and he didn’t hesitate. His mouth found her instantly, urgent and hungry. Her fingers curled into his hair, tugging him up, and their lips met in a deep, messy kiss, tasting herself on him, tasting him on herself.

“I want you to fuck me,” she whispered, eyes glinting with a heat that made his chest tighten.

He felt the pull, that raw hunger that always struck when she wanted him like this. He positioned her, pulled off his boxers, and let his fingers trace her entrance, teasing her just enough to hear her soft moan. Her hips pressed against him, inviting, desperate, and he couldn’t wait any longer.

He aligned himself with her, pressing into her warmth, and kissed her again.
“What do you want me to do?” he murmured, voice rough with need.

Her gaze locked with his, sharp and knowing. She held him close, letting her lips brush his ear, slow and deliberate.
“I. want. you. to. fuck. me.”

Then she looked up at him, eyes dark with desire, a slow smile playing on her lips.
“Hard.”

That was all he needed. He drove into her with a force that made her bite his shoulder to hold back a scream. He hissed, pulling back just enough to thrust again, and their moans collided, echoing through the room.

“Oh my… ah!” she cried, gripping him like she needed to anchor herself to something solid.

“Ah! Hnng! You feel so good, babe,” he groaned, voice thick and rough.

“Babe?” she thought, surprise flashing through her for a heartbeat—but there was no time to linger on it. His hands and his body left no room for distraction; he moved faster, harder, every stroke driving them both toward a fevered edge, minds scattered, hearts racing, and nothing else mattered in that moment except each other.

“Shit! Oh! Don’t stop,” she gasped, every word ragged with need, hips pressing insistently against him.

“Not until you come, darling,” he murmured, voice low and rough, picking up the pace.

She met him, moving with him, rocking her hips in rhythm with his, driving each thrust deeper, harder, hotter. He could feel himself teetering on the edge, every nerve screaming, but he refused to go first. Not yet. Not until she did.

His hand slid down, fingers teasing her clit, adding sparks that made her gasp and arch.

“Oh! Fuck! Lucifer, I’m gonna—” she cried, voice raw, urgent.

“You’re going to make—uh!” He cut himself off with a groan, the sound escaping before he could think. “The neighbors jealous if you keep screaming like that.”

“I don’t care,” she panted, heat and defiance in her voice.

“Yeah?” His lips curled into a wicked, predatory smile, hands gripping her hips as he drove into her harder, faster.

She froze, wrapping her legs around him, a quiet, secret smile curving her lips. It made his brow crease, pulse spiking. And then she clenched, deliberate, controlled.

Lucifer’s breath caught, sharp and ragged. “Bloody hell…”

Chloe’s smile widened, teasing, slow, purposeful. Each pulse of her muscles drew him in, held him, demanded him, breaking the careful control he’d tried to maintain. His arms trembled where they caged her, every nerve ending alight with pleasure and need.

“You—” His voice cracked, velvet stripped raw, urgent and rough. “Chloe, what on earth are you—”

Another pulse, and his words dissolved into a guttural moan he couldn’t stop, lost entirely to the sensation of her.

She tightened around him again, slow and deliberate, and the grip, the heat, the way she shivered beneath him, broke the last thread of his restraint. He groaned, deep and ragged, thrusting harder, faster, matching the rhythm her body demanded.

“Oh… Lucifer!” Her cry was urgent, raw, and it pushed him over the edge. Every nerve was alight, every sense consumed by her.

Her legs wrapped around him tighter, pulling him impossibly close, and he could feel her pulse, her heartbeat thundering against his chest. The sight of her, the feel of her, the sound of her moans—everything collided inside him, and he lost control completely.

He drove into her with a shuddering, relentless rhythm, her tightening, clenching, calling him closer with every movement. “Chloe… oh… fuck…” His voice was ragged, broken, spilling into the charged air between them.

And then she came—hard, trembling, arching, letting out a cry that made him hiss and give himself over entirely. He followed her moments later, every movement shattering as he fell apart inside her, groaning her name, lost in the chaos of pleasure and heat.

For a long moment, they clung together, breaths heavy, hearts racing, sweat glistening on skin, foreheads pressed together. He kissed her temple, slow and reverent, and she smiled, still trembling in his arms, the quiet aftershock of what they’d shared settling over them like a warm, intoxicating haze.

“Babe…” he murmured softly, voice low and tender now, a word heavier with feeling than it had been before.

She laughed, small and breathless, nuzzling him. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Babe.”

“I don’t believe—and honestly don’t care—about all this God and Bible nonsense,” he said, brushing a messy strand of hair behind her ear. “But I do believe you’re heaven-sent.”

She smiled, a little shy, a little soft, and tilted her head.
“You think?”

He nodded, eyes warm.

“Well, thank you. You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, teasing.

He pretended to be offended, then pounced, fingers finding her sides.

She exploded into laughter, loud and uncontrollable, and he laughed with her, chest shaking against hers.

“Okay, okay, stop!” she gasped, still giggling, but he was already on top of her again.

“I’m sorry,” She murmured, voice low and playful. “You’re quite the piece of an angel.”

“If you insist,” he said, smiling up at her, eyes sparkling. “But I do like hearing your laugh.”

That was all it took. He attacked her sides again, and she surrendered completely to laughter, her hands clutching his arms, breathless, and he laughed right along with her, the room alive with warmth and joy.

He finally stopped moving and lay back on the bed, letting out a long, contented breath. She curled up against his chest, her cheek resting on him, and he glanced at the clock. 3:15 AM.

“Hey… it’s past your bedtime,” he murmured, a teasing edge in his voice.

She lifted her eyes to the clock, then back to him, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
“I was… busy,” she said softly.

“Yeah, i know, but you need to rest,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You had a hell of a day.” He started to shift, trying to get up.

“Yeah… but so did you,” she said, tightening her arms around him. “You’re not going anywhere. Stay.”

He looked down at her, her soft warmth pressed to him, and let out a quiet sigh.
“I don’t know… I think I could get used to this life.”

He kissed her softly, lips barely brushing hers, slow and tender, and she melted into him, hugging him tighter. She didn’t say it aloud—but she could have, if she’d wanted to. She could stay like this forever.

After that one night they become inseparable, all they needed was each other, at the work, in life, in the dificults and in the greatness.

They still had to figure how to solve the galery case but now it was better, no competition, just them as partners.

The things in the precinct wasn't better, it was the other way around actually, the rumors about her and lucifer began and once again she was seen as wrong since she was a woman in a mens feld.

Lucifer even quit helping her there, she said to the captain she had free him since he had nothing new to help with, when he was actually helping her out there.

Everything was fine, nothing could go wrong. If wasn't for that one night. It was past midnight, they were working at chloe's when it all came together, they knew where they needed to go to catch the guys.
It didn't sound bad them going there, just on pistol 5 buletts, they could do it, just until the LAPD come and they would have save the day, make the galery save almost 1 million in pieces and chloe would have her reconize moment.

But it never came, not cause lucifer in a tentative to not let a guy grab chloe ended up being the one grabed, the guy held a gun pointed to his head.

Chloe tried to negotiate and she was almost making it, but just when he was about to release lucifer. The guy heard the police coming, In a mix of things happening all at once, a shotgun was heard, the guy shot chloe in the arm, she instinctively shot back and it hit lucifer thigh, the guy was shot by the police, almost at the same time they all fell.

After that night, they became inseparable. Not just at work — in life, in the chaos and in the quiet victories — they were a single unit. The gallery case, once a looming headache, became theirs to solve together. No competition, no mistrust. Just Chloe and Lucifer, a team that worked without question.

The precinct, though… that was another story. Whispers followed them like shadows, each one cutting sharper because Chloe was a woman in a man’s world. And Lucifer, ever the shadow and ever the protector, quietly stepped back. Chloe told the captain he was free — he had nothing new to offer, she said. The truth was darker: he had been helping her all along, unseen, untouchable, a safety net she didn’t even know she had.

Everything seemed… fine. Nothing could go wrong.

But it did.

It was past midnight. Chloe’s apartment was littered with files, maps, and notes, the city outside blanketed in silence. Finally, they had it — the location, the timing, the escape routes. Simple, calculated: five bullets each, hold until LAPD arrived, recover nearly a million dollars in stolen art, and Chloe would finally get her moment, the recognition she had earned.

But fate had other plans.

The moment they entered the warehouse, the world tilted. A man lunged at Chloe, and without hesitation, Lucifer shoved her out of the way — and took the gun aimed at him.

“Get back!” Chloe shouted, heart hammering.

Lucifer’s eyes met hers, calm and slightly teasing, even in the face of danger. But the man pressed harder, gun trembling in his hand.

Chloe tried to negotiate, her voice steady, every word calculated. She was almost there — almost — when the sound of sirens pierced the night.

Everything erupted.

A shotgun blast. Pain seared Chloe’s arm. Reflex took over. She fired.

And hit Lucifer.

The world exploded into chaos: the gunman fell, the police stormed in, flashes of lights, shouts, commands. Blood, fear, adrenaline. Chloe barely registered it all as she knelt beside him, his leg bleeding, his hand gripping hers, eyes wide with shock — and maybe something else, something unspoken between the chaos.

They had saved the gallery. The city’s treasures were safe. But in that moment, everything else — their plans, their lives, their future — shattered into shards.

At the hospital, Chloe held herself together, but inside she was crumbling. She had shot the man she cared about most, and the weight of it pressed down like an iron fist.

The fallout was swift and merciless. Her captain questioned her judgment. Rumors spread through the precinct faster than wildfire. The whispers in the locker rooms and hallways weren’t just about the case—they were about her. About her recklessness. About her failure. Her career, her hard-earned reputation, everything she had built as a detective in a man’s world, crumbled overnight.

And Lucifer…

Lucifer didn’t say much. He tried to shoulder some of the blame, tried to tell her it wasn’t her fault, but she could see the truth in his eyes: he knew this night would change everything. She could not forgive herself. Every glance, every touch, every shared laugh now carried the weight of that bullet.

And the guilt poisoned everything between them.

Their partnership, once electric and unstoppable, fractured. Every argument, every moment of silence, every decision was tinged with resentment and blame. Chloe couldn’t stop herself from blaming him — for being there, for being reckless, for being… Lucifer. And he, knowing the truth but powerless to change it, withdrew in quiet frustration.

The break was inevitable.

No shouting. No dramatic declarations. Just a quiet, mutual recognition that the world had shifted irreparably. She walked away, and so did he, leaving behind not only a partnership but a connection that had burned brighter than either of them could admit.

The case was closed. The thief caught. The gallery saved. But the cost was more than a bullet wound. It was everything they had — trust, hope, and maybe even love — reduced to ash.

The first time they met again, it was unexpected. Chloe had just wrapped up a stakeout in a grimy warehouse district, the neon glow of a liquor store flickering in the distance. She was tired, tense, replaying the night’s evidence in her head, when a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

“Well, well… if it isn’t my favorite ex-detective.”

Chloe froze mid-step. The voice was smooth, teasing, impossibly familiar. She turned, and there he was: Lucifer Morningstar, leaning casually against the side of a rusted delivery truck, dark suit perfectly crisp despite the city grime. That smirk. The glint in his eyes. It was like the world had stopped for a heartbeat.

“Morningstar,” she said, her tone flat, controlled. “You’re… not supposed to be here.”

“Oh, I’m everywhere, Detective Decker,” he said, taking a step closer, hands casually in his pockets. “You just don’t notice me until it’s inconvenient.”

“Convenient or not, I’m working.”

“Always so serious,” he said, eyes flicking to the evidence bag she carried. “Still chasing bad guys, still saving the world, one misfiled bullet at a time?”

Chloe rolled her eyes, but the tight knot in her chest loosened slightly. She didn’t reply, didn’t want to. She had learned the hard way that any interaction with him came with complications she wasn’t ready to revisit.

He straightened, smirk softening just a fraction. “Look… I’m not here to make things harder. Just… curious how my favorite ex-partner is surviving in the wild.”

She narrowed her eyes, hesitating, and then allowed herself the smallest smile. “Surviving,” she said. “But I don’t need help.”

“Of course not,” he said, voice warm now. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And just like that, with the faintest trace of tension still hanging between them, they parted ways. She went back to her work, he disappeared into the shadows of the alley, but something had shifted.

It was the first step back into a pattern neither of them fully admitted to: the dance of frienemies. Sharp words, teasing glances, unspoken history—but underneath it all, a magnetic pull that neither could resist.

From there, their encounters continued—sometimes coincidental, sometimes necessary for work—and they slowly rebuilt that fragile, teasing, unsteady partnership.

Los Angeles, 1989.

It was late—well past midnight—and the only light in Chloe’s house came from the warm glow of her desk lamp. Her office, tucked into a corner of the living room, smelled strongly of coffee, a blend of bitter beans and faint cream lingering in the air.

Stacks of case files, folders marked with scribbled notes, and an open typewriter cluttered the desk. Chloe leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples, eyes straining from hours of reading reports. The soft hum of the radiator and the occasional drip from the kitchen sink were the only sounds, aside from the scratch of her pen as she annotated the margins.

A half-empty mug sat near her elbow, the coffee long since gone cold, but she hadn’t cared. Her focus was entirely on the case, on untangling threads that seemed to knot tighter with every passing hour. Outside, the city of Los Angeles sprawled in shadows, distant sirens echoing faintly from the streets below, a reminder that life moved on even when she stayed trapped in her little bubble of files, notes, and the comforting, caffeinated scent of late-night work.

She grabbed the phone, her fingers brushing against the worn surface of the receiver. The mug of cold coffee steamed faintly in the dim light, forgotten. Her heart thudded a little faster—not from exhaustion, but from the nagging sense that this call wasn’t going to be ordinary.

She dialed the number scrawled on the note, her fingers lingering on the keypad as the line rang. When it was finally picked up, there was only silence.

“January 2016,” she said, the password she had been instructed to give.

“Hello?” a man’s voice finally answered, cautious, clipped.

“Hey,” she began, keeping her tone light. “I have a package to receive. I talked to Paolo—he said I could get it by calling this number.”

“Don’t say names unless you’re asked,” the voice snapped.

“Okay,” she replied, adjusting immediately.

“The package is in the name of?”

“C. Pecker.”

A pause, long enough to make her shift uncomfortably.

“The package has already been delivered.”

“What? No—” Her voice rose slightly, frustration threading through her calm. “I’m supposed to have it.”

“Yeah,” the man said evenly, “but some Luciel has already picked it up in your name.”

Luciel. His ridiculous fake name. She knew who he meant—just as he surely knew hers. He had the tape.

“Okay, then—” Before she could finish, the line went dead.

She exhaled sharply, heart thudding, and immediately dialed another number. This one was different. She waited, counting the seconds like a metronome, until the voice answered.

“Lucifer Morningstar Investigations. If you’ve got money, I’ve got time.”

The voice on the other end is sharp. Cool. A razor wrapped in silk.

“Step away from the tape, Morningstar.”