The room smelled faintly of salt and blood.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your fingers trembling slightly as you pressed the cloth to his side, blotting away the last of the blood. He hissed under his breath, jaw tight, but he didn’t pull away from you. Not this time.

He was shirtless, his skin flushed from pain and exertion, the wing tattoos on his back flexing faintly with every slow breath he took. The room was dim, the only light coming from the soft flicker of the oil lamp beside the bed.

“I should’ve gotten here sooner,” you whispered, rinsing the cloth in a nearby bowl of water. “You didn’t even tell me you were hurt.”

He gave a half-hearted shrug. “Didn’t seem important.”

You shot him a quiet, unimpressed glance. “You’ve lost more blood than it takes to kill a man.”

Legend smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good thing I’m not just a man, then.”

You rolled your eyes, though your chest ached at the sight of him trying to hide behind that name—behind the myth. Gently, you reached for the clean bandage, but your voice was soft when you asked, “What should I call you right now? Legend... or Dante?”

He went still.

It was subtle, just the faint tightening in his jaw, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. But it was a hesitation that made your heart ache all the more.

“Call me whatever you want,” he said at last, voice low. “But Dante is... weak.”

You froze, your hand resting lightly over the bandage on his ribs. You didn’t press down—not physically. But your gaze did.

“That’s not true,” you said, slowly. “Dante is the one who kept going when everything hurt. Dante is the one who let himself love, even when it scared him. That doesn’t make him weak. That makes him human. That makes him brave.”

He turned his head away, jaw clenched, but you weren’t finished.

“I love both sides of you,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “But here—” you gently reached up and tapped the place over his heart, right where his pulse beat strong and steady under your fingers “—this is Dante. And no matter what name the world knows you by, this... this will always be you to me.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked at you.

And for a long, breathless moment, he said nothing. His eyes shimmered, something cracking quietly in their depths—something vulnerable and real and impossibly tender.

You felt it when his hand found yours, pressing it tighter against his chest, holding it there like a lifeline.

“Then I guess,” he said softly, “Dante’s yours.”