It was supposed to be a one night stand.

He told himself that the first time. That your warmth, your mouth, your voice, none of it would matter once the sun came up. Vergil wasn’t a man for fleeting pleasures, not anymore. He had discipline. Purpose. Control.

But then came the second time.

Then he came back again. And again.

Now, Vergil stood in your doorway, rain dripping from his coat, knuckles tapping once against the frame before he even thought to stop himself. His brows were drawn tight in frustration, not at you, but at himself. This wasn’t what he did. This wasn’t who he was supposed to be.