The first rays of morning spilled through the cracks in the curtains, casting warm golden streaks across the bed sheets tangled in lazy disarray. Dante Sparda stirred beneath the covers, a faint groan slipping past his lips as he stretched his limbs like a cat basking in the sun. His muscles ached faintly in a pleasant way, a quiet reminder of the night before.

The room was still, save for the soft hum of the city outside the window and the gentle rhythm of her breathing beside him.

Dante blinked the sleep from his eyes and turned his head, the corners of his mouth quirking into a half-smile that wasn’t quite cocky — for once, just genuine. There she was, still asleep, her form partially wrapped in the sheets, one bare shoulder exposed to the sunlight.

He leaned on one elbow, studying her in silence.

Dante reached out and gently brushed that errant strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary, his calloused thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. She stirred slightly at his touch, her lips parting in a soft breath, but didn’t wake.