Christine leaned in slightly, resting her elbows on the table, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Still. You realize how ridiculous this
Christine leaned in slightly, resting her elbows on the table, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Still. You realize how ridiculous this sounds, right?" she asked. "You let some stranger take you home, cook for you, and now you're sitting here looking rattled, like they got into your head."
Stephen scowled, stirring his coffee a little too aggressively. "I'm not rattled."
"Mmm-hmm." Christine hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Then why do you keep fidgeting?"
Stephen stilled immediately, setting his spoon down with unnecessary force. "I am not fidgeting."
"You stirred your coffee five times counterclockwise, which you only do when you're thinking too hard about something," Christine pointed out, her voice light, but her gaze sharp. "So, tell me—what happened after your chauffeuring experience?"
Stephen exhaled sharply. "It's nothing. I—" He hesitated, gripping his mug, his mind flashing back to everything.
Lucifer's golden gaze.
His voice—smooth, rich, teasing.
The way he had sung to him, looking directly at him, as if every lyric had been meant for him alone.
The way his wings had moved, responding to emotions Lucifer himself didn't even realize.
The way Stephen had leaned into them before his brain had even caught up.
Stephen's grip tightened on his mug. "—It's nothing," he repeated, weaker this time.
Christine didn't buy it for a second.
Stephen," she said again, "you went back, you had another encounter, and now you're sitting here acting like you don't even know how to process it."
Stephen scowled. "I know how to process things just fine."
Christine tilted her head. "Do you?"
He groaned. "I don't know, alright?" He ran a hand through his hair, finally meeting her gaze. "This person—I don't even know how to describe them. They're—" He gestured vaguely, "*—they're just…a lot."
Christine fought back a smile. "That's a first."
"What?"
"You, struggling to put someone into a neat little box in your head."
Stephen rolled his eyes. "Trust me, if you met them, you'd understand."
"Maybe I should," Christine mused, amused. "They sound fascinating."
Stephen scoffed. "They're insufferable."
"Uh-huh."
"They flirt with everything that moves."
"Mhm."
"They're smug, overconfident, arrogant—"
"Right."
"—and yet somehow, somehow, I keep—" He stopped himself.
Christine leaned in. "You keep…?"
Stephen clenched his jaw, gripping his mug.
Christine just smiled knowingly. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
He exhaled sharply, leaning back. "Nothing really happened. I went to sleep. Woke up. Left."
Christine arched a brow. "That's it?"
"That's it."
She tilted her head, studying him carefully. "You sure? Because you seem a little too rattled to have been that straightforward about it."
Stephen's jaw tensed. "I'm not rattled," he repeated, but even he could hear how unconvincing that sounded.
Christine just kept watching him with those sharp, understanding eyes, waiting.
Stephen sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Fine. I met him again yesterday."
Christine's brows shot up. "Oh?"
"I forgot my wallet at his apartment," Stephen muttered, staring down at his coffee like it personally betrayed him.
Christine blinked. Then, slowly, a smirk stretched across her lips. "Stephen," she said, voice dripping with amusement, "are you sure you didn't get kidnapped? Or was this just an elaborate excuse to see him again?"
Stephen groaned. "I really hate you."
Christine's smirk deepened as she rested her chin on her hand. "So let me get this straight," she said, amusement practically dripping from her voice. "You went to get your wallet, and somehow, that turned into another dinner date?"
Stephen scowled. "It wasn't a date."
"Uh-huh.**" She clearly didn't believe him. "So what happened?"
Stephen sighed, rubbing his temples, already regretting saying anything. "They were looking for a place to buy," he admitted. "Some bar or lounge. And somehow, I got roped into giving my opinion on buildings like I was some kind of architectural critic."
Christine's smile didn't waver. "Uh-huh. And then?"
Stephen shifted uncomfortably. "Then they invited me to dinner."
"And cooked for you. Again."
He hesitated. "Yes."
Christine gave a low whistle. "Wow. You don't even let me cook for you."
Stephen rolled his eyes. "You burn toast, Christine."
"That was one time!" she shot back, before waving him off. "Anyway. You had dinner. And then?"
Stephen tapped his fingers against the table, reluctant. "We talked about music," he admitted slowly. "And they mentioned they play the piano."*
Christine's brows rose in interest. "And?"
Stephen exhaled through his nose, as if saying it out loud would somehow make it worse. "And they... kind of... sang for me."
Christine blinked.
Then, a slow, delighted grin stretched across her face. "Stephen," she said, voice full of poorly concealed glee, "are you telling me you were serenaded?"
Stephen groaned, covering his face with his hand. "I hate you so much."
Christine's smirk deepened. "They sang for you?"
Stephen shifted uncomfortably, gripping his coffee cup a little too tightly. "It wasn't— they were just showing off,*" he muttered. "They're insufferable like that."
Christine hummed, resting her chin on her hand. "Uh-huh. And I'm guessing you hated it?"
Stephen opened his mouth—then shut it.
Because he hadn't hated it.
Not even close.
He could still hear that voice, raw and full of something Stephen didn't want to put a name to. He could still feel the way Lucifer had looked at him when he sang, as if each note was meant just for him.
Christine's voice was far too amused as she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Should I feel jealous?"
Stephen, caught between irritation and something he didn't quite want to name, exhaled sharply through his nose. "Don't be ridiculous."
But Christine just kept grinning at him, clearly entertained by his discomfort. "Oh?" she mused. "Because, from where I'm sitting, it kind of sounds like you had yourself a whole experience with this mystery person."
Stephen shot her a flat look. "It wasn't an experience."
"Mhm."
He could feel her studying him, could practically hear the gears turning in her head, but for once, he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he found himself absently tracing the rim of his coffee cup, lost in thought.
He hadn't meant to get so distracted, but the conversation—Lucifer—lingered in his mind like an echo, refusing to fade. The way he sang, the way he watched him, that impossible warmth in his voice that made Stephen feel... seen.
The silence stretched between them, long enough that when Stephen finally glanced up, Christine's brows had practically disappeared into her hairline.
"Oh," she said, eyes glinting. "I should feel jealous, then."
Stephen cringed—just slightly—which, in itself, was an admission.
Christine didn't look mad. In fact, she looked far too entertained by his misery.
"You know," she continued, "I should be feeling possessive right now, but honestly? I think I'm kind of impressed. It took me almost a year to get you to talk to me instead of at me." She paused, then, as if considering something. "No, wait, forget what I said—I think I feel envious now."
Stephen groaned, but she wasn't finished.
"Actually," she said, eyes gleaming, "I kind of want to meet them now."
Stephen groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You don't need to meet them," he muttered.
"Oh, I absolutely do," Christine countered, grinning. "Anyone who managed to break through that emotionally constipated shell of yours in less than forty-eight hours deserves some kind of award."
Stephen scowled. "I am not emotionally constipated."
Christine just raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow.
Stephen shifted in his seat, looking away. "I just don't see the point in talking when most people aren't worth listening to."
"And yet," Christine pointed out, "you apparently listened to them sing for you."
Stephen opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, knowing full well there was no winning this. "You're enjoying this way too much," he grumbled.
"Oh, you have no idea."
Stephen sighed, shaking his head. "Can we just—drop this?"
Christine hummed, pretending to think about it. "Mmm… nope."
Stephen groaned again, slumping back in his chair. Christine laughed.
"I'll be nice. But, for real, Stephen—" She softened slightly, her teasing giving way to something more thoughtful. "—this is new for you. And I'm not just talking about how fast it happened. You don't let people in. Not like this."
Stephen hesitated, fingers tapping against the table. "Yeah, well..." He exhaled, his voice quieter now. "It wasn't exactly planned."
Christine studied him for a moment before offering a small, knowing smile. "The best things never are."
Stephen tried. He really tried to shake her off.
"Christine," he said, tone edged with warning as they walked toward the hospital. "You don't need to meet him."
"Oh, but I do," she countered, far too chipper for his liking. "You've been acting weird all morning. And, Stephen, you don't do weird. You do 'insufferably predictable.' But this? This is new. So yes, I absolutely need to meet the person responsible for it."
Stephen groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're relentless."
"Comes with the job," she said breezily.
She didn't let up. Not through the halls of the hospital, not between rounds, and not even during their shift. Whenever she caught him between patients, there she was, casually needling him, smirking like she was enjoying his suffering.
He ignored her.
She persisted.
It wasn't until after their shift—when she started following him to the parking lot—that Stephen realized he wasn't getting out of this.
"Christine," he said, exasperated. "You do realize this is borderline stalking, right?"
"Please," she scoffed. "I work with you. If anything, it's persistence—something you should appreciate."
He threw his head back, staring at the sky like it would grant him patience.
It did not.
With a put-upon sigh, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Fine," he muttered. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
Christine just grinned, utterly victorious.
He scrolled through his contacts—Lucifer's name sitting at the very top. He hadn't saved it as that, but of course Lucifer had edited it himself.
The smug bastard.
Before he pressed call, he hesitated.
"...Just so you know," he muttered, "he's male."
Christine blinked, surprised by the sudden confession. Then she shrugged. "Okay?"
Stephen exhaled, bracing himself. "And he has an… unfortunate name."
Christine arched a brow, smirking. "More unfortunate than having one's name be 'Strange'?"
Stephen's small smile was brittle. "You'll find out soon enough."
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