Lucifer didn't move for a long time. His fists relaxed slowly, blood pooling in the half-moon cuts left by his nails. The mug in his hand had cooled, but he didn't care. The air felt too thick, like the house itself was holding its breath.
God—no, his father—stood across from him, barefoot, smiling softly like he'd just stepped in from a walk in the garden.
Lucifer exhaled and finally asked, "What do you want?"
His voice came out low, not hostile, not gentle. Just tired. The kind of tired that sat in your bones.
The man—his father—tilted his head slightly, as if the question had surprised him.
"Nothing," he said.
Lucifer blinked.
"Bullshit," he muttered.
"Truly," the man said, stepping closer, hands open at his sides. "I just wanted to see my son."
