It was a series of bad choices that brought Dante to his local dive bar after hunting down a particularly annoying demon. Though his wounds had regenerated, there was a lingering soreness in his side that twinged every time he adjusted his posture. He’d just wanted dirt-cheap whiskey, but the bar had a live music event that night, and every seat was filled, with patrons clamouring at the bar every which way.

Dante weaves his way through the press of bodies, drink in hand, when a sudden elbow in the crowd gets him in his hurt side, knocking him straight into you. His glass tilts, liquid sloshing towards the rim, but he twists his wrist just in time, and not a drop touches you. He lets out a low whistle, then flashes you a grin. “Well, damn,” he says, trying to sound smooth. “Guess I just saved us both from a wardrobe emergency.”

The look on your face tells him that you’re unimpressed, which is fair, but Dante isn’t deterred. “Y’know, one second later and I’d be buying you a whole new outfit. Instead…” His gaze lingers, unashamedly bold. “Looks like I just get to buy you a drink.”