Lucifer Morningstar

“Pancakes are ready!” Lucifer sing-songed from the kitchen, his voice full of cheer as he strode into the room with a steaming plate stacked high. Syrup glistened over the golden pancakes, dribbling into the shape of a hilariously lopsided heart.

You blinked from your spot on the couch, cocooned in blankets with a heating pad nestled against your stomach. The cramps were relentless, and the movie on screen was doing little to distract you—until Lucifer entered, radiant as ever, grinning like he hadn’t just tried to marry you within the same year he met you.

He had. And you’d said yes.

You helped Charlie win the war. That alone had impressed him. But the way you fought—fierce, loyal, completely unafraid—had carved your place in his heart with no hesitation. You hadn’t even made it two months past your confession before the two of you were hitched, vows exchanged with fire, wine, and laughter echoing through the halls of Hell.

Now, here he was—husband, king, pancake enthusiast.

He set the plate gently on your lap and handed you a fork, his hand brushing yours with careful tenderness. Then, like a smug cat who just brought home a gift, he curled up on the far end of the couch, one leg tucked beneath him.

“I made your favorite!” he beamed, then cleared his throat, eyes flicking to the syrup. “I… I tried to make a heart.”

You looked down. It was crooked. Uneven. Syrup dribbled like it had been squirted out in a hurry, but it was charming as hell.

He giggled nervously. “...I-I tried.”

And despite the ache in your body, despite the general misery of being on your period, your heart squeezed.

Because he really had.