Their plates were mostly cleared, their glasses filled, the conversation flowing with an ease that Stephen hadn't expected.
What had started as harmless small talk about architecture had somehow drifted into something more personal—preferences, tastes, the kind of things you only shared when you were truly comfortable around someone.
Lucifer, ever the charming conversationalist, was completely at ease, leaning back in his seat, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers.
"So," Stephen mused, glancing toward the tablet of properties, "if you're remodeling the whole place anyway, what are you actually looking for in a lounge?"
Lucifer hummed thoughtfully.
"Ah, well, Lux, my old bar, was always a reflection of me," he said, golden eyes glinting with fondness. "A place of indulgence, pleasure, and impeccable taste."
"Subtle," Stephen remarked dryly.
Lucifer chuckled. "Would you expect anything less?"
Stephen snorted, but waved a hand for him to continue.
"It was grand," Lucifer continued. "Warm lighting, velvet seats, dark wood, and a proper bar—none of this modernist nonsense with exposed concrete and sterile glass." He shuddered dramatically. "A lounge should feel intimate, not like a corporate conference room."
Stephen nodded, taking another sip of wine.
"And you?" Lucifer asked, tilting his head. "What do you prefer?"
Stephen shrugged. "Something more private. Calmer. I don't mind live music, but I'd rather avoid places that feel like a performance."
Lucifer raised a brow, intrigued. "A man of quiet indulgences, then?"
Stephen huffed a soft laugh. "Something like that."
Lucifer's smirk widened as their conversation drifted seamlessly into topics. Stephen hadn't even noticed when Mazikeen decided to leave the table, as enraptured as he was in a deep conversation about music.
Lucifer spoke of his tastes, of how he mainly listened to classical music, opera due to his love of theater, and rock music when the mood struck him.
"I play most instruments," he admitted, eyes twinkling, "but the piano has always been my greatest love. The richness of its sound, the way it blends with my voice—"
"You sing?" Stephen asked, mildly surprised.
Lucifer's smirk was devilish. "Oh, Doctor, I do much more than that."
Stephen rolled his eyes, but… the thought intrigued him.
He hadn't actually thought about Lucifer as a musician—but now, he could see it.
Lucifer, behind a grand piano, fingers moving effortlessly across the keys, voice dripping with emotion, filling a room with something raw and beautiful.
It was an interesting image.
Stephen, almost absently, said, "I listen to all kinds of music, really. A song has to be particularly bad for me not to find something interesting about it."
Lucifer hummed, pleased. "A refined ear, then?"
Stephen shook his head. "More like… I just appreciate the emotion behind music. It depends on my mood, but I have a soft spot for instrumental pieces—classicals, orchestral scores. And I like voices that don't rely on overproduction." He tapped his fingers against the counter. "I like hearing the rawness of a voice. The imperfections. The honesty in it."
Lucifer's smirk softened into something more thoughtful.
Stephen surprised himself by continuing—
"I guess…" He hesitated, frowning slightly, then sighed. "I guess I just admire the kind of passion you can hear in some singers. When a song feels like it's not just performed but felt."
Lucifer watched him closely.
"Passion is a rare thing," he murmured, voice unusually soft.
Stephen, suddenly aware of how much he had just shared, scoffed and took a long sip of wine.
Lucifer chuckled.
"Tell me, Doctor," he said smoothly, golden eyes gleaming, "would you like to hear me play sometime?"
Stephen paused.
He wasn't sure why the question made his chest feel oddly warm.
Still, he shrugged, keeping his voice even.
"Depends," he muttered, swirling his wine. "Are you any good?"
Lucifer laughed, bright and delighted, swirling the last sip of wine in his glass.
"Well," he mused, still smiling, his eyes flickering toward the grand piano nestled in the corner of the living room. "I do have a brand-new instrument I've yet to break in."
Stephen glanced over, barely sparing it a look.
"That so?" he muttered, feigning disinterest.
Lucifer smirked. With deliberate grace, he rose to his feet, making his way to the piano. He dragged his fingers lightly across the keys, feeling the smooth ivory beneath his touch.
It had been too long since he played.
Not just for the sake of music—but for someone.
"Any requests, Doctor?" he teased, throwing a glance over his shoulder.
Stephen snorted. "You think I expect anything less than something ridiculously dramatic?"
Lucifer chuckled, low and warm. His fingers settled over the keys and the first notes of Hallelujah rang out.
(Jeff Buckley's 'Hallelujah')
Stephen's lips curled in immediate amusement.
"Seriously?" he muttered.
Lucifer grinned but didn't stop.
Stephen shook his head, half-expecting Lucifer to play the song purely for the irony—the devil singing about hallelujahs.
But then, Lucifer began to sing.
It started as something polished or theatrical, because of how naturally dramatic Lucifer could be, he didn't expect anything less. When he finished the second chorus of hallelujahs, however, it changed. It wasn't just a performance anymore.
'And love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.'
Stephen frozen when the voice became raw.
The low, aching depth of his voice, the way the piano bled into the melody, how every word carried weight, like he had lived through the verses himself.
"Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you."
Stephen's breath caught. Because—that line. That wasn't just a song lyric. At least not from Lucifer. It sounded like a truth. Lucifer's voice carried an ache, something older than time, something more personal than Stephen had ever expected.
It wasn't just irony, nor mockery.
It sounded like history.
Lucifer wasn't singing about faith. He was singing about loss. About love. About the vicissitudes of life.
Stephen had never heard anything like it.
The way his voice cracked at just the right moments, the way the song felt almost confessional, like something Lucifer never said aloud but could only express through music.
And for the first time, Stephen didn't want to analyze it. Didn't want to question, or pry, or push back.
He just listened, completely drawn in.
And when the last note faded into silence, the room felt heavier for it.
Lucifer let out a breath, golden eyes flicking up toward Stephen quickly, his fingers still resting lightly on the piano keys. There was something unreadable in them, something almost vulnerable. And Stephen didn't know what to say in this silence.
It was not an awkward one, not quite. But it was thick—weighted—charged with something unspoken.
Stephen wanted to be witty. Wanted to say something sharp, something that cut through the moment that pulled them both back to something easier, lighter… But the words wouldn't come.
Lucifer, for once, seemed to feel it, too.
His golden eyes flickered once again toward Stephen, reading the silence, feeling the shift. And instead of lingering in it, instead of giving Stephen the chance to dwell on what he had just heard, he played again.
The first deep, heavy piano chords of another song rang through the room, a slow, almost haunting rhythm settling in.
(KALEO's 'Way down We Go')
Lucifer smirked as he sang the first words, voice drenched in amusement—"Oh, Father, tell me, do we get what we deserve?"
Stephen was confused as he tried to recognize it. The upbeat tone of 'And way down we go' sounded like something that should be famous, but he couldn't recall it.
'You let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all, oh, go down
Yeah but for the fall, ooh, my
Do you dare to look him right in the eyes?'
Stephen let out a breath—half a scoff, half something else — at the lyrics. It was so Lucifer. A joke, then.
A song about falling. About facing the fire. About what comes after.
Lucifer's golden gaze flicked toward him, a playful glint in his eyes, but Stephen wasn't paying attention to the joke, nor in how he couldn't recall if he had heard the song before.
There still was a hint of rawness in the way Lucifer sang. Not like he was just performing, but was remembering instead.
And Stephen wanted more of that voice. He didn't know why or what exactly he was reaching for. He only knew that Lucifer's voice, the aching honesty in it, reminded him of something. Something he couldn't place and something he didn't want to lose.
His body moved before his mind caught up. The next thing he knew was that there was a hand on Lucifer's shoulder—his hand.
Lucifer's playing slowed.
Stephen wasn't sure why he did it.
To stop him? To reassure him?
Lucifer arched a brow with that infuriating smirk still in place, but his hands stilled over the keys.
Stephen swallowed, searching for an explanation—for himself, more than anything. However, instead of finding one, he simply said, "Another one."
Lucifer blinked. And, for just half a second, there was something unguarded in his face. Then—slowly, deliberately—his smirk returned.
"Demanding, aren't we?"
Stephen didn't answer and didn't have to.
Lucifer's fingers moved again—A new melody, smoother, grander, carrying a different kind of weight.
The first notes of Frank Sinatra's My Way.
Stephen recognized it immediately.
A song about owning your choices, about regret and defiance, about looking back on a life lived and saying—"I did what I had to do."
Lucifer's voice dipped lower, richer, "Regrets, I've had a few." His smirk faded just slightly as he sang, "But then again, too few to mention."
And Stephen didn't miss the way his fingers tightened on the piano keys, just for a fraction of a second. Didn't miss the way his voice dipped into something deeper, something truer, something not entirely meant for an audience.
This wasn't just Lucifer singing about his past, this was Lucifer living in it. And Stephen felt it, like a current pulling him under, like something he wasn't meant to hear—but now, he never wanted to stop.
So when Lucifer finished, he just exhaled sharply and leaned back in the chair he didn't know when Stephen had pulled close to the piano. Trying to regain his bearings, he muttered, "Yeah, okay. You're good."
Lucifer chuckled, the tension easing.
"Good?" he echoed, voice amused. "Darling, that was divine."
Stephen gave him a flat look. "Don't push it."
Lucifer smirked.
But underneath it all, Stephen could still hear the last echoes of Lucifer's voice in his head. And he knew. This was the first time he had truly seen Lucifer Morningstar.
.
.
Guess who is alive!
And got herself into university once again!
yay
Less me-time for me.
.
Also, if you want to support me and read chapters ahead, go to my p@treon: JorieDS