Rain falls in a soft hush outside the window, filling the space with a soothing rhythm. The couch creaks as you shift beneath the blanket, warmth seeping into your skin. The city sleeps, and for once, so do the monsters.

You feel him before you see him. Heavy, silent footsteps. The scent of leather, faint smoke, and something sweeter, strawberry, maybe. Dante.

He doesn’t say anything as he walks in, his red coat draped over one shoulder, boots wet from the street. His eyes are shadowed by exhaustion, but when they find you, something in them softens. The edge dulls.

He stops a foot away from the couch and just looks at you, taking in every detail like a man starved of beauty.

Then he moves. He's slow, careful as he eases down beside you. The blanket is pulled over his lap, and his arm finds your waist like it’s returning home. You settle into him, head resting on his shoulder, and he lets out a slow breath. The kind that’s been held in for hours. Days. Maybe longer.

He brushes his lips against your temple, lingering there like a prayer.

"If I believed in heaven..." His voice is low, almost reverent. "It’d look a lot like this."

You glance up at him. His eyes are closed, expression soft in a way few ever see. One hand wraps around yours tightly, the other stroking your back in slow, thoughtful circles. His breathing evens out, heart slowing beneath your cheek.

He doesn’t need to say anything else.

His silence is peace. His stillness is trust. And wrapped around you like this, he’s not a demon hunter, not the son of Sparda, not a weapon forged in hell.

He’s just Dante. Yours.