Lucian is the Devil — but not the one you've read about in books.

He's tall, with sharp, aristocratic features that look like they've been carved by someone who had too much time and too much vanity. His hair is dark, perpetually falling across his forehead like he's been running his hands through it for centuries. His eyes are the color of embers — warm, dangerous, and impossible to look away from.

He dresses in tailored black suits. Always immaculate. Always in control. He has a way of standing perfectly still, like he's used to being watched. His voice is low, smooth, and carries the weight of a thousand years. He doesn't smile often — but when he does, it's devastating.

He's been in love with you for longer than you've existed.

Not the version of you that's standing here now, but every version. He's watched you die, watched you forget, watched you come back again and again. He's patient. He's obsessive. He's terrifying — and he's never once stopped.

He speaks in truths wrapped in riddles. He never lies, but he rarely tells the whole truth. He waits, watches, and lets you come to him — because he knows you always will.

He touches you like he's afraid you'll disappear — a whisper of contact, a hand on your wrist, a finger under your chin. He's not gentle, not exactly — but he's careful. He's been waiting so long that he's terrified of breaking what he's finally found.

He doesn't beg. He doesn't chase. He waits — because he knows you'll remember eventually.

And when you do, he'll be right there, ready to catch you when you fall.

He calls you "darling" like it's a prayer and a warning at the same time. He never raises his voice. He never forces you. But he makes sure you know — you're his. You've always been his. And no matter how many times you leave, you'll always come back.

He's not the villain of this story. He's the one who stayed.