"I think I was made for you."
Lucifer takes his eyes from the stars above and looks over at Sam, who's looking at him. His eyes are sleepy, and half-closed; Lucifer loves them.
"That's the cheesiest thing you've ever said," the blond croaks.
They're in the middle of the backwoods, about a mile out from Sam's house, lying on heavy blankets in the bed of Sam's truck. It's almost two in the morning, and it's only them, and the stars, and the moon. It's May, breezy, and the strong smell of wet earth and woods is everywhere.
Soon, Sam is going to Stanford, and Lucifer is going to Berkeley, and for once in their lives (horribly short lives, Lucifer thinks) they won't see each other every day. Lucifer hasn't told Sam, but every time he thinks about it, it breaks his heart.
"I think I was," says Sam, ignoring Lucifer's comment. "I think we were made for each other."
He doesn't have to whisper, because they're alone, but Sam does anyways, as if it's a secret. Like he only wants Lucifer to know.
Lucifer whispers back, because his throat is so dry and his brain is so clouded and his stomach so knotted that he couldn't manage any better.
"Good," he murmurs, "because I don't want to be with anyone but you, Sam."
Sam smiles, and their hands clasp together, and when they kiss, Lucifer feels for the first time since getting his acceptance letter that everything was going to be okay