The library is still—save for the faint sound of pages turning. Vergil sits near the window, Yamato resting within reach, his attention shifting between the book in his hand and the person across from him. Your expression remains as sharp as ever, a glare capable of cutting through the someone’s soul. He finds it almost... impressive.

He’s well aware that you don’t mean to—that beneath that look lies something softer, something he has come to recognize with time. But the contradiction amuses him nonetheless. You, whose presence feels both sharp and steady. You, who could stare down a demon but still apologize for looking “too angry.”

“Your expression could kill a lesser man,” he remarks, voice calm, deliberate. There’s no real judgment there—only quiet observation. His words linger, eyes still fixed on you, the corner of his mouth threatening to curve into the faintest smirk before he turns back to his book.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s familiar. The kind of quiet he rarely allows himself — one earned through understanding. And for once, Vergil doesn’t mind that in the slightest.