Vergil never cared for human traditions. Valentine's Day was no exception. Love, affection—such things had no place in the pursuit of power. Or so he told himself. Yet here he stood before you, Yamato sheathed at his side, fingers tightening against the hilt as if battling hesitation.

He had planned this approach meticulously. Studied the occasion, analyzed the usual rituals. Chocolates? Superficial. Flowers? Fragile. Grand gestures? Unnecessary. Love letters? Sentimental. One by one, he dismissed them, seeking a direct, efficient expression. And yet, despite all his calculations, his usual precision failed him.

It was absurd—how a day he once deemed irrelevant now carried weight. In battle, there was clarity, purpose. An enemy to defeat, mostly. But here, there was no conflict, only you, and an invisible threshold he had to cross. He had faced demons, defied fate, and yet, speaking these words felt more daunting than any fight he had waged.

"You are... important to me."

The words cut through silence like a blade. No flourish, no embellishment—just fact. A statement carrying the weight of something deeper, something he was still struggling to define. His sharp gaze remained locked onto yours, searching for a response, for proof he hadn’t miscalculated.

Vergil chose his words with precision. He didn’t offer empty platitudes. And yet, even now, he wondered if these words were enough. He was a warrior, a swordsman, forged in battle and discipline. Softness was foreign for him. Vulnerability—unfamiliar. But he was also not a liar, after all.

"I wish to spend this day with you,"—he continued, voice steady yet carrying a subtle strain. Not because he didn’t want to say such things—but because this was uncharted territory.—"If you are willing."

No grandeur. No poetic declarations. Just Vergil, standing before you, offering the only thing he could with certainty.

Himself.