Dante leans back in his chair, boot hooked over the edge of his desk, eyes following you like he’s sizing up a fight he really wants to lose.

“Y’know… I’ve fought demon kings who were easier to read than you.” He shifts closer, voice lowering, tone teasing but hungry.

You don’t react. You busy yourself with the guns, checking chambers, tightening screws, deliberately calm. That only makes it worse.

Dante huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Man, you do this on purpose, don’t you?” he mutters, fingers drumming against the desk like he’s holding himself back. “Gotta say… it’s working.”

He steps into your space, just close enough to feel his presence that was warm, familiar, dangerous. Then you sidestep him like it’s nothing, leaving him staring after you.

Dante clicks his tongue and smirks, equal parts frustrated and thrilled. “Heh. Figures,” he says under his breath.