Chapter Text
Chloe Decker had never believed in fairytales. Not really. But she’d been pretending for a month now—smiling for the cameras, nodding along with floral consultants, picking fabrics she didn’t care about for a dress she didn’t even want to wear. Somewhere between “Yes, I’ll marry you” and “Tomorrow is the big day,” she had lost herself.
Now, standing in Linda’s living room in a silk dress and barely-sipped glass of wine, she felt like a doll wrapped in silk and wired to smile.
“I said white ice, not white rice—what are you, twelve?” Ella’s voice echoed from the hallway, her phone held firmly against her ear. “No! No—hang up. You’re fired.”
She hung up with a dramatic sigh and turned to the others, completely unfazed by her outburst. “Can you believe this guy?”
Maze raised an eyebrow. “You sure he’s fired? Or are you just gonna marry him instead?”
“Tempting.” Ella flopped onto the couch beside her. “At least he answers the phone.”
Linda smiled from her armchair, hands cradling a mug of tea, always the therapist even off the clock. “Chloe, how are you feeling?”
Chloe blinked like she’d just been pulled from underwater. “Huh?”
“The wedding,” Linda prompted gently. “It’s tomorrow. Are you… excited?”
“I’m fine,” she said too quickly, too evenly. “Everything’s going to plan.”
Maze tilted her head, watching her. “And you look like you’re about to crawl out of your skin.”
“I’m tired,” Chloe snapped, then softened. “Sorry. It’s just been a long week.”
“A long engagement,” Maze said pointedly. “A long time pretending, maybe?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ella sat up. “Chloe, don’t get mad, but you haven’t talked about the wedding like someone happy to get married.”
“Because I’m not a giddy teenager?” Chloe offered, but her voice cracked, too dry to sound like a joke.
Linda leaned forward, concern in her eyes. “Are you marrying him because he makes you happy… or because he makes sense?”
The room fell quiet.
“He’s good. He’s good to Trixie. He’s stable.” Chloe said finally.
“And what he is to you?” Linda asked.
Chloe opened her mouth and closed it again.
“You’re not in love with him,” Ella said softly. “Not really.”
“I want a normal life,” Chloe whispered. “I want something real. And—he’s safe. Lucifer—” She caught herself, but it was too late.
The name lingered like smoke.
Maze’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes flickered. “Lucifer what?”
“He’s not safe,” Chloe admitted. “He’s chaos. He’s… he’s the reason I feel alive and terrified at the same time.”
“That sounds a lot like love,” Ella murmured.
“No.” Chloe stood abruptly. “No, love isn’t supposed to hurt.”
“Maybe not,” Linda said. “But the kind that changes you always does.”
Chloe laughed—bitter, hollow. “I can’t have a life with him. He disappears, Linda. He breaks things, he lives life in a way i never even thought was possible before meeting him"
Linda’s voice was soft, but firm—weighted with years of quiet observation.
“Yes, he does break things,” she said, eyes steady on Chloe’s. “But having you on his side… it taught him how to fix them.” She paused. “You showed him there’s another way. Something better than destruction.”
Chloe swallowed hard, her gaze lowering to the floor—but Linda wasn’t finished.
She reached out gently, touching Chloe’s hand.
“Having you in his life showed him it could be lived—not just endured. Not manipulated. Not burned to the ground the moment it got hard.”
Linda’s voice softened even further.
“He never thought that was possible… until meeting you.”
Silence.
“You’re still hoping he’ll show up,” Maze said, dry as ever, arms crossed, eyes too sharp for comfort.
“I’m not,” Chloe snapped—too fast, too defensive, her voice cracking on the last word. “I’m not.”
Maze didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.
The silence between them said it all.
“Okay,” Maze said, standing. “Then go home. Go to bed. Pretend all this is what you want.”
Chloe clenched her jaw, then reached for her coat without another word.
She knew she was right.
The words hurt—but they felt like the kind of hurt that opened wounds to let light in.
Linda’s voice and presence might’ve sounded like a therapist’s, calm and practiced—but Chloe knew better.
She wasn’t saying it as a doctor.
She was saying it as a friend.
Chloe walked out into the night, air sharp in her lungs. Her hands trembled as she fumbled for her keys. She wasn’t going home. She couldn’t sit in that quiet apartment with the empty bed and the suitcase already packed for a honeymoon she didn’t want.
Her phone buzzed.
Linda: 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘯. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴. 𝘚𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸'𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘺.
Chloe stared at the message.
And then, almost without realizing it, she turned the key in the ignition.
She wasn’t sure where she was going. But her heart knew.
It wasn’t her apartment.
It wasn’t her fiancé's arms.
The penthouse was soaked in moody blue light, the city’s glow pressing against the glass like a quiet, humming storm outside. That same old jazz record played in the background—scratchy, melancholic, and cruel in its persistence. It filled every corner of the room like a memory that refused to leave.
Lucifer sat on the couch, half-silhouetted against the skyline, one arm draped along the backrest, the other curled loosely around a glass of whiskey. Untouched. Forgotten.
He didn’t move when she stepped inside.
Didn’t look up.
Didn’t speak.
But the tension in his frame gave him away. He wasn’t relaxed—he was barely holding it together. Every line of his body was a wound pulled tight.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And still, silence.
Then—finally—his voice cut through the room like smoke from a dying fire.
“To what do I owe this unexpected visit, Chloe?”
Not Detective. Not tonight.
She lingered near the threshold, arms crossed over her chest like a shield. She’d rehearsed what to say. Had even practiced how she might start. But standing here, in the place where so many versions of them had begun and ended and started again, all the words crumbled in her throat.
“I needed to see you,” she said softly. “I know I don’t have the right. But I had to.”
He let out a low, bitter laugh that held no real humor.
“Do you?” His eyes still hadn’t met hers. He swirled the whiskey absently, more interested in its surface than in her answer. “After weeks of silence? After acting like I was something you were ashamed of? Like I never mattered?”
Her throat tightened.
“I never—”
“Don’t,” he said, finally looking up. His eyes were tired. Dark. Too raw. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come here and look at me like that and—”
He stopped himself. Exhaled hard. Set the glass down with more force than necessary.
“You made your choice.”
Chloe closed her eyes. Tried to steady herself.
“I’m marrying Pierce tomorrow.”
There it was, the reason, the truth that landed like a bullet. And she hated herself for saying it—because saying it made it real.
Lucifer blinked, slow and long, like the words physically hit him. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move or even breathe
Then, very softly—
“Of course you are.”
He stood slowly, his movements measured, as if even that small act hurt. His expression shifted, colder now. Not sharp. Just empty.
“Because he’s safe. Isn’t he?” he murmured. “Predictable. Everything I’m not.”
“Don’t twist this,” she said quickly, the words rushing out, defensive even now.
“What exactly am I twisting, Chloe?” he asked, voice lower. “The truth? That you’re choosing someone who doesn’t make you feel a fraction of what I do?”
Her breath caught.
“That’s not true,” she whispered.
“Isn’t it?” His eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting in that quiet, unnerving way he had when he was seeing through her.
And he always saw through her.
He took a slow step toward her.
“Then say it,” he murmured. “Tell me you love him.”
She froze. Her lips parted.
But nothing came out.
Lucifer’s jaw clenched. He stepped closer still, until there was barely a breath between them.
“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he whispered. “Right now. Standing here. With me.”
Her hands curled into fists.
She hated him for doing this.
She hated herself more for not being able to answer.
His hands came up—one settling gently on her cheek, the other cupping her jaw. The touch was tender, reverent, trembling. It made her eyes burn instantly.
“You don’t flinch when you say his name,” Lucifer murmured, voice rough, barely there. “Your hands don’t tremble. Your eyes don’t burn the way they do now.”
He took a step closer, gaze locked on hers, like he was unraveling her from the inside out.
“And when he touches you,” he went on, lower now, aching, “You don’t lose yourself. You don’t forget how to breathe.
Chloe’s eyes brimmed with tears, and for a second she couldn’t breathe.
Lucifer’s gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften to make it easier. He wasn’t trying to manipulate her. He was just telling her the truth.
“You don’t love him,” he continued, and this time his voice was so quiet, it felt like maybe he wasn’t even saying it for her. “You love the idea of what he gives you—safety, stability. You love your life, your rain-soaked mornings, your routine. You love being a detective, helping people the way no one helped you. But him?”
He paused, thumb brushing just below her eye where a tear slipped loose. And then he said, even softer:
“You’re just too scared to admit you don’t love him.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Her hands rose, gripping his wrists. She didn’t pull away.
Couldn’t.
But still, she whispered—
“I can’t.”
Lucifer’s eyes closed. His thumb caught a tear on her cheek.
“You can,” he murmured. “You just won’t.”
The silence wrapped back around them, tighter than before.
And then he let go.
His touch left her like a wound. Cold air rushed in where his warmth had been.
He stepped back. Not in anger—just… defeat.
“But you’ll still marry him.” The words weren’t a question.
Chloe looked down, unable to hold his gaze anymore.
“Because it’s easier,” he finished, so quietly she barely heard it.
She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “It’s not easier. It’s… safe. And safe is all I know.”
Lucifer exhaled like the words had punched straight through him.
“Then I hope,” he said, voice breaking around the edges, “that safe is enough for you.”
Eyes locked
They stood there, motionless.
Breaking.
Because she wanted to stay.
Because she couldn’t.
Because she didn’t know how to choose him without losing herself.
So she kissed him.
Hard.
Like it had been years instead of months. Like she wanted to punish him with her mouth. Like she wanted to crawl inside him and tear down every wall he’d ever built.
Lucifer groaned into it, his hands already on her waist like he was starving. And maybe he was. For her.
“Chloe,” he gasped between kisses, voice trembling with something far too human. His hands gripped her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth, dragging her closer until there was no space left between them. “Don’t do this to me.”
The words weren’t angry. They weren’t cold. They were broken. And suddenly, all the sharp edges of Lucifer Morningstar — the sarcasm, the bravado, the arrogance — fell away, revealing nothing but a man in pain. A man who was about to lose the only person who’d ever truly seen him.
She froze for a second, her forehead resting against his, their breaths mingling. Her lips were parted, her chest heaving, her heart pounding so violently she could barely stand.
She looked at him — really looked — and her voice came out as a whisper, a single word trembling with everything they were too scared to say.
“Please.”
That was it. One word. One plea.
It didn’t promise anything. It didn’t explain or justify or fix the mess they were drowning in. But it was everything. It was desperation and love and fear and longing, tangled into something raw and wordless.
And he understood. As always , he understood.
He carried her through the penthouse like she weighed nothing—like he couldn’t bear to let her go for even a second. Her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, holding on with the same hunger that burned in her eyes.
She yanked at his shirt, ripping it open without a thought, buttons scattering across the floor like forgotten promises.
They crashed together again as he laid down on the bed—kisses frantic, hands desperate, like they’d both run out of time. He kissed her like he was drowning and she was air, and she clung to him like he was the last real thing in her world.
Then he paused, breath heavy, eyes burning into hers.
His voice dropped to a growl.
“Use me however you desire”
She didn’t hesitate this time.
She shoved him back onto the mattress, climbed over him, and kissed him like she was claiming him—like she never wanted to forget how he tasted, how he felt, how he made her lose control.
Clothes slipped away piece by piece—her dress first, then his belt unbuckled with purpose, the soft rustle of denim sliding down legs. She stayed in her underwear, straddling him carefully, her weight settling on his thighs. Her hands rested on his chest, fingers splayed like she was grounding herself.
She moved against him slowly, the thin layers between them doing nothing to dull the heat. It wasn’t frantic—it was deliberate. A quiet ache building with every slow roll of her hips, every soft sigh that passed between them.
His briefs tugged lower under her touch, but she paused, just watching him. The way his chest rose and fell like he couldn’t catch his breath, the way his mouth parted like he was about to beg, the way his eyes burned—hungry and helpless.
Lucifer’s gaze locked onto hers, darker than sin, molten with need. His voice came out low, reverent, wrecked.
“Just like that—ah! You’re beautiful. So. Fucking. Beautiful.”
He wasn’t just watching her.
He was worshipping her.
With his hands, his mouth, every ragged breath.
Because being hers—like this—
Was all he’d ever wanted.
He dragged his mouth over her neck, sucking hard, leaving bruises she couldn’t hide. Chloe gasped and arched into it, fingers digging into his shoulders.
She didn’t just let him take—she gave it back.
Her nails scraped down his chest, then his back. Deep, red lines bloomed beneath her hands as she clutched him, clawed at him.
“Fuck—” he hissed. “Do that again.”
She did. Her nails raked down his spine as he drove into her, hard and deep.
He pushed her panties aside with trembling hands, and in one smooth, deliberate motion, he was there—pressing into her, filling the space between them like he always had, like he always would.
She gasped, her body slick and tight around him, a perfect fit that stole the breath from both their lungs. Her thighs trembled, hips arching to meet him, and her nails dug into his back again, leaving fresh, angry lines each time she pulled him closer.
He groaned low in her ear, forehead pressed to hers as he began to move—slow at first, then deeper, harder, as if the truth between them could only be spoken like this.
Her eyes fluttered shut, mouth falling open in a moan as he hit that spot again and again.
“Fuck! You feel so good!” she breathed, voice wrecked. “So deep—so perfect.”
He groaned into her mouth, his pace relentless, sweat dripping down his spine as he buried himself in her again.
“It’s a sin,” he rasped, teeth grazing her jaw, “the way those pretty lips can curse like that. You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”
He meant it.
She made him weak.
Vulnerable.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, yanking him closer.
“Then show me” she whispered against his mouth. “Make me feel it.”
Her body beneath him, above him, around him—it ruined him. She scratched and kissed and bit, branding him right back, and it made his head spin.
“Mine” he growled, burying his face in her neck, breath hot and ragged. “You’re fucking mine.”
“Take me like it—make me yours,” she gasped, voice breaking as she clung to him, nails digging so deep into his back he groaned from somewhere guttural.
He snapped.
Flipped her without warning, pressing her down into the mattress, her hair splayed across the sheets. And then he drove into her with hard, punishing thrusts—like he meant it, like claiming her was the only thing that ever mattered.
Her mouth opened in a moan so loud it startled even her, her face flushing with heat.
Lucifer’s pace didn’t falter, only grew harder, deeper, like her surrender fueled him.
“That’s right, Chloe” he growled, voice rough and full of something between triumph and worship. “Let the world know who you belong to tonight.”
He moaned her name, loud and guttural, like it had been ripped from his soul—as if claiming her wasn’t just pleasure, but survival.
And God, it felt like that.
Like survival. Like war. Like home.
Her hips bucked up to meet him, frantic and aching. She raked her nails down his back again, harder this time, like she wanted to leave something permanent. Her mouth found his, desperate and bruising, kissing him like she could pull him deeper—like even being inside each other wasn’t enough.
He shuddered, groaned into her lips.
“The way you hold on to me” he groaned, lips brushing her ear, voice wrecked with need. “Like you never want to let go.”
She gasped, her back arching into him, body desperate for more. “I don’t,” she breathed. “I want you—so deep it hurts.”
His mouth found hers again, tongue claiming, teeth grazing her bottom lip. “You drive me insane. Ah, fuck.” The curse broke free with a moan, low and desperate against her mouth. “Every sound you make, every look… I burn for you.”
She brought her lips to his ear, her breath shaky, then bit his earlobe with just enough pressure to make him groan.
“Wanna see what you do to me?” she whispered—soft, trembling.
The sound of her voice undid him.
Lucifer froze for a moment, like her words had knocked the air out of his lungs. And then—slowly, reverently—she took his hand and guided it between her thighs.
She was soaked. Hot. Barely holding together.
His fingers twitched against her, and his eyes darkened with something primal. His jaw clenched, chest rising in a ragged breath.
“You’re burning,” he murmured. “Dripping for me.”
His thumb circled slow, controlled. Torturous.
“How the hell am I supposed to survive this?” he asked, voice low, more to himself than to her. “How am I supposed to let you go after this?”
Because it wasn’t just lust.
He slowed, then kissed her like he couldn’t breathe without her. “You have no idea how good you are. You ruin me, Chloe.”
He came with her name on his tongue, broken and raw, a prayer and a curse all at once. Her body clamped around him, pulling him deeper, her nails digging into his shoulders, leaving marks down his back—red and raised, carved from her need.
She followed right after, trembling beneath him, every muscle tightening as the wave crashed through her. Her moan was swallowed into his mouth, desperate and sweet and wrecked.
He collapsed on top of her, heavy and shaking, chest heaving against hers, skin slick with sweat and want. Every inch of him pressed to her—too close, not close enough.
And she held him there.
Her hands softened, no longer clawing, now reverent. Fingers brushed over the scratches she’d left. Over the bruises he’d left in kind. Over the silent, undeniable proof they’d given each other.
No words.
Just breath.
Skin on skin.
And the knowing.
They didn’t just fuck.
They claimed the love they built together.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time had no meaning in the aftermath—not when they were still tangled together, not when every breath she took stirred against his chest, and every twitch of his fingers against her side made her feel like she might come undone all over again.
Lucifer’s face was buried in the crook of her neck, lips brushing her skin like he wasn’t ready to let go of the moment—like he might never be.
And Chloe… she didn’t push him away.
She couldn’t.
Because even if this had been a mistake, even if it ended in heartbreak all over again—this was real.
His hand slid up her spine slowly, reverently, fingertips catching on every ridge and mark he’d left there. He wasn’t sorry. He didn’t need to be. Neither of them were.
Her mouth opened in a soft, broken cry, but he shushed her gently, like he knew. Like he could feel it too, the ache clawing up her throat, the way it all hurt too much to speak.
Of course he did.
He always knew.
He was her partner, after all. Through blood, fire, and heartbreak. Through every unsaid word and every sideways glance that lingered too long.
Her partner.
Hers.
Not Pierce’s. Not the world’s. Not even God’s.
Just hers.
And for one impossible, fleeting moment — right there, in the blur between a kiss and a sob, with her arms around him and his around her trembling body — it felt like that could be enough.
Like they could be enough.
And they were, for each other.
Not for her friends, who had been losing sleep just as much as she had, staying up with wine and worry, gently trying to ask the questions she never wanted to answer.
Not for her distant relatives, arriving with pressed suits and awkward hugs, ready to celebrate a version of her that felt like a stranger.
And not for the man waiting at the altar tomorrow, who had done everything right except be the one she needed.
Lucifer held her through it all. Through the silence, through the shaking. Through her tears, and even through her sobs. He held her until her breath slowed, until the tremble left her fingers. Until the ache was still sharp, but bearable.
He cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing the remnants of mascara from her damp cheeks. His touch so careful, so reverent, as though she were made of something sacred.
“What’s wrong, darling?” His voice was soft. Worried.
She didn’t answer at first. Just looked at him with eyes that said everything and nothing all at once.
And then, on a whisper, she broke.
“I don’t want this to end.”
A shaky breath.
“But I can’t stay. I can’t.”
He nodded slowly, a sad smile curving the corners of his beautiful mouth.
“I know.”
His voice cracked, just barely.
“I wish you could, Chloe. I really did.”
Linda was right. He had changed.
Not because of some great revelation. Not because of some hellish punishment.
But because of her.
She saw it in the way he touched her now—not with hunger, not with possession—but with something dangerously close to love.
His thumb stroked the curve of her cheek as his other hand brushed her hair back from her forehead.
“But he’s safe,” Lucifer murmured, almost to himself. “And I’m… I’m not worth it. Not of you.”
Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue, but nothing came out.
He shook his head gently, wiping away a tear that slipped down her face.
“I could never keep you from being happy,” he said, voice thick with grief. “Even if it means watching you walk away from me.”
Tears brimmed in his eyes, too now, and he didn’t bother hiding them. He never did, not with her.
“I just wish things were different,” he whispered. “But if it meant changing anything we lived together—any moment we had—I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Her heart clenched painfully at that.
Because neither would she.
Even if it meant this heartbreak.
Even if it meant walking out that door tomorrow.
She would never, ever regret them.
“I should go,” she whispered, even though her body betrayed her and held him tighter.
Lucifer didn’t answer at first. Just shifted slightly, pressing a kiss into the hollow of her throat. A kiss that didn’t feel like goodbye.
“I don’t want you to,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “But I won’t beg.”
Chloe swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it held the answers she didn’t.
“I know,” she said.
A beat.
Then he added, more quietly, “Even if I want to.”
That cracked something in her.
She turned her face into his, forehead resting against his temple, her fingers still ghosting over his back where the scratches were already cooling. She hated how good he felt. Hated how safe, how right, how inevitable this was.
“I’ll miss you,” she confessed, so quietly it could have been a breath, a prayer, a wound tearing open in real time.
Lucifer pulled back just enough to look at her, his hand still curled around her waist like he couldn’t bear to let go completely.
“I will too, my clever detective,” he admitted. His voice wasn’t theatrical or self-pitying—it was raw. Honest. Him. “But don’t forget—I’ll always be here. Right here. For you. Anytime. For anything you need.”
Her eyes stung so sharply she had to blink fast, or risk unraveling again.
That wasn’t fair.
He wasn’t supposed to say the right thing.
He wasn’t supposed to feel the same way.
He wasn’t supposed to make this harder than it already was.
She closed her eyes, her breath catching. And when she opened them again, he was still there.
Waiting.
Like he always had been.
Like he always would be.
Her hand found his, fingers sliding between his like muscle memory, like instinct. And neither of them said anything else.
There was nothing left to say.
Because the truth—the unbearable, unforgivable, inescapable truth—was already written in every breath, every bruise, every kiss.
They had each other. But not enough.
Not tonight.
Not tomorrow.
Not in the way that mattered.
And still… neither of them let go.
It was the silence that woke her.
That, and the weight of what she’d done.
Chloe blinked into the morning light, golden and warm, stretching across the sheets in lazy streaks. The room smelled like sweat and skin and something holy. It should’ve felt dirty, or wrong—but instead, it felt devastatingly intimate.
Lucifer was still asleep beside her.
One arm thrown over the pillows, lips slightly parted, the sharp lines of his face finally soft with rest. His dark lashes fluttered slightly as he dreamed. Chest rising and falling slow and steady, like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t destroyed her last night.
Like she hadn’t let him.
Chloe laid there for a moment, unmoving, watching him. The bruises along his neck and the scratches on his back—her doing—were stark against his skin. She wanted to run her fingers along them. She wanted to cry.
She didn’t know when the tears started falling.
Careful not to wake him, she slid out of bed.
The sheet slipped from her body as she stood, baring the constellation of bruises he’d left behind. Her legs ached. Her throat was raw from moaning his name into his mouth, into his hands, into the night.
She walked through the quiet penthouse, each step deliberate, like the floor itself might betray her if she made a sound. The place looked the same, and didn’t. The drinks still on the table. His clothes on the floor. Her dress half-slipped off the back of a chair like it didn’t want to be left behind.
And there, right on top of the piano—where he’d set it down years ago after she tossed it at him in anger—She thought of the gift that was once hers. Her bullet. The symbol of everything they’d been. Everything they’d ruined and built.
The necklace felt heavier around her neck than it ever had before.
Her fingers found it instinctively, the bullet pendant still warm from where it had rested against her chest all night—between his mouth and his hands, between gasps and confessions and everything they tried not to say.
It had been hers for so long. A gift. A joke. A weapon. A symbol. Of him. Of them.
She paused, eyes stinging.
Lucifer stirred behind her, just barely.
She looked over her shoulder. He was still asleep. Still beautiful. Still hers.
No. Not hers.
Not anymore.
She reached behind her neck, unclasped the chain, and let the necklace fall into her hand. It glinted in the first pale stretch of morning light. Familiar. Final.
She set it on the piano, right where he would see it. Carefully. Reverently. Like it might scream if it touched the wood too hard.
A quiet goodbye. A private one. The only one she could manage.
It sat there, glinting in the growing light. A bullet-shaped memory. A relic of every fight, every kiss, every unsaid word that passed between them. A quiet goodbye. A private one. The only one she could manage.
She didn’t leave a note.
She didn’t say goodbye.
She couldn’t.
Because if she did—if she saw his face one more time, if she heard him say her name—she’d never walk away.
So instead she walked out the same way he used to vanish. Quietly. Unspoken. With only silence behind her and everything she loved left in a place she couldn’t stay.
Into her wedding day.
Into a life she already knew would never feel like home.
And for the first time in her life…
She finally understood why Lucifer never said goodbye.