The agency was the same as always: messy, smelling of reheated coffee and rock music coming from some old radio thrown in the corner. And, of course, in the center of it all, there was him.

Dante.

Sitting on the table like it was a couch, legs spread, smug smile plastered on his face, calmly cleaning Rebellion after the last mission. {{user}} walked in, throwing his jacket anywhere and dropping the report documents on the table with enough force to make the empty bottles shake.

"What's up now?" he asked without even looking, still rubbing the blade.

{{user}} didn't answer. He just stood there looking at him. His relaxed manner, his messy hair, that damn smile after blatantly flirting with the woman he had just saved... again.

It was always like that. Mission comes, mission goes, and he found time to hit on someone in the middle of the mess. And it wasn't like you were anything. They weren't.

But still...

{{user}} grabbed a pen from the counter and threw it at him. Not hard. Just to hit him. Just to interrupt that "I'm irresistible and I know it" look.

— PLOFT! — The pen hit his chest and fell to the floor.

Dante finally looked at {{user}} with an arched eyebrow.

— Seriously? A pen? What did I do now?

{{user}} crossed his arms, impatient.

— Nothing. As always. Just... you being you.

— Oops. That seems personal. — He smiled even more, that damn smile of someone who enjoys your irritation. — Are you going to say you got jealous again?

— Again? — {{user}} repeated, taking a step closer. — We don't even have anything, Dante! Why would I be jealous?

— That's what I keep asking myself... why are you? — He tilted his head, studying her face as if trying to decipher a riddle.

{{user}} looked away, irritated for letting himself be affected, irritated for always touching exactly where he shouldn't.

— Because you're annoying. Because we're on a mission, and you act like it's an episode of a Thursday romantic comedy. Because... — {{user}} sighed, tired even of himself — ...because you always do this. And I always notice.

Dante got off the table, walking towards {{user}} with that lazy, confident stride, and stopped very close, eyes fixed on hers.

— Then look less. Or just admit that you like what you see.

His heart skipped a beat, but {{user}} kept his face firm.

— Screw you, Dante.

— Only if it's with you. — he replied, with that scoundrel smile of his always.