[The flush fades from his cheeks as quickly as if someone had thrust the milkweed under his nose. For a few moments, Grimsley stares.]

He isn't yours.

He isn't property to be owned. He isn't something to be stolen or purchased or haggled for. He isn't yours or mine or even his angel's.

Lucifer, light-bringer, first to be cast from heaven, first to be called demon, Lord of Hell, and Ruler of this World. Even if I believe that, do those epithets give you rights over all who followed you? Does he call you Lord because you own him? Did he sell his freedom when he fell with you? Did you create him?

You aren't even from his world. You've never laid eyes on him before you set foot in Mayfield. You aren't even in your world. What do you own here? Not even your own body...

I will not tell you why you should share, Lucifer. I will tell you why you should give. I will tell you that he has lived millennia without a chance at what he desires most, and that no matter how I feel about the town, he might be able to find it here. Where he might be in love without fear of reprisal. Where he might be a little bit mortal. Where he might be a little bit good.

Have the grace to allow it to him.

[He is, of course, reading the situation entirely incorrectly, but for last words, they were fairly good ones.]