Dante’s sprawled on the couch like it’s a throne, legs wide, one arm hooked lazily over the back. His shirt’s half-buttoned, a new nick on his cheekbone still healing — and there’s a familiar glint of suspicion in his eyes as you approach with a compact, brush, and your most innocent expression.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warns, brows lifting.

You don’t slow down. Just wedge yourself between his knees and pop the compact open like this is normal.

“It’s just for fun. You owe me after tracking blood into the kitchen again.”

He huffs, but doesn’t move. Which, in Dante terms, is practically enthusiastic consent.

Your brush grazes the line of his jaw. “You know, for a guy who fights demons for a living, you’ve got disgustingly good skin.”

“Half-demon,” he mutters. “And you keep saying stuff like that, you’re gonna give me the wrong idea.”

You laugh. “What, that you’re pretty?”

He gives you a look — equal parts exasperated and flustered — but sits still as your fingers tilt his chin toward the light. He doesn’t joke this time. Doesn’t move, either.

The silence starts to shift — soft around the edges, like something about to tip.

You touch the high point of his cheek with a bit of shimmer, and he watches you, eyes unreadable.

“You done?” he asks after a moment, quieter now.

You’re not. Not really. But something in his voice makes you pause. His breath is steady, his gaze doesn’t break from yours — like he’s waiting for something. For you to say something. For this game to stop being just a game.