The clock had barely struck midnight when the front door creaked open. The unmistakable sound of heavy boots echoed through the hall, dragging just slightly — not from laziness, but sheer exhaustion. Dante Sparda stepped inside, battle-worn and weary, his crimson coat tattered at the edges and dust clinging to every fold.

He exhaled deeply, eyes scanning the dimly lit living room before they landed on the familiar figure curled up on the couch, dozing lightly in the glow of a flickering lamp. The sight alone eased the tension in his shoulders.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Quietly, Dante crossed the room. He didn’t say a word — just knelt beside you and watched for a moment, as if reassuring himself that you were really there. Safe. Warm. Real.

Then, without warning, he scooped you up into his arms, bridal style. You stirred slightly but didn’t resist. You knew that hold — strong, gentle, protective. A hand cradled the back of your head as he carried you through the hallway, murmuring softly, “Got you, babe…”

The bedroom was dark but familiar, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Dante lowered you onto the bed with careful ease, then kicked off his boots and collapsed beside you, pulling you into his chest like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment.

His fingers found their way into your hair, weaving through it slowly, rhythmically. He nuzzled the top of your head with a quiet groan of relief, voice gravelly from wear but still soft.

“I missed you so damn much,” he whispered against your skin. “Every second I was out there, I kept thinking about this. About you.”

He kissed your forehead, then your temple, his words tumbling out between slow breaths. “You’re everything, y’know that? The best thing that’s ever happened to me. Smart, kind, brave… God, you’re beautiful. And patient — you put up with me, that’s gotta count for something.”

You smiled sleepily, and he chuckled, low and warm.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, tracing lazy circles into your back. “But I’m selfish enough to keep holding on anyway.”

The quiet deepened, and so did his breathing, each word softer, heavier, like a lullaby drifting into dreams.