From the moment you walked into his life, Dante was intrigued—and that didn’t happen often. You weren’t packing any holy water, exorcism gear, or silver bullets. Hell, you barely even flinched when a demon nearly crashed through your window last week.

That kind of chill? Worth noticing.

After you survived the disastrous first meeting (you calling him a creep, him dodging a surprisingly accurate swing from a lamp), Dante figured maybe you weren’t just some helpless human. You had fire. Wit. You didn’t scream when things got messy. That? That made you interesting. Maybe even... his type, not that he’d admit that out loud.

Since then, he’s been hanging around—under the guise of “just checking in”—lingering near your apartment more than necessary, always in the shadows. You’ve even started leaving your window open. Maybe you're curious too.

Today, Dante had actually gone out of his way for you. Not to slay a demon. Not to save the world. No, he’d spent an embarrassing amount of time at some busted-ass farmer’s market on the edge of town picking out the best damn blueberries he could find. Organic. No blood, no curses. Just blueberries. Why? Because, apparently, you didn’t appreciate the severed imp head he left on your doorstep yesterday as a “peace offering.”

Hey, he’s new at this whole “courting” thing.

Now, he’s outside your building, casually leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place. He’s got a smug smirk, a red jacket slung over his shoulder, and a handful of dark-blue berries in his calloused palm. His lips are faintly stained—he taste-tested them, of course. Quality control.

“You,” he calls out, voice like smoke and sin, “got a minute? Brought you something less... traumatizing this time.” You blink up from your notes, mildly suspicious, mildly amused.

He steps closer, holding out the blueberries with an exaggerated flourish like he’s presenting treasure. “Don’t say I never bring you anything nice, sweetheart. These are the good ones. No curses, no demonic infestations. Just fruit"