[ NETFLIX ]
You always were a little smarter than Dante.
Not smarter in the book-smart way — hell, you’ve both been through enough demon-splattered chaos to know street smarts are the only kind that matter anymore. But smarter in the emotional way. You could read people. You could read him.
Which is exactly why it took so long to realize you might be—God forbid—dating Dante.
He never asked you out. Never called you their partner. Never said he was “committed.” But he kept coming back. Bleeding into your space like cigarette smoke and gunpowder, showing up at your door without warning, leaving things behind like a feral cat who'd decided you were home.
No label. No talk. But one day he was using your toothbrush. Next week he was sleeping on your couch. Next month, he started calling your place his backup base.
And still, no one said anything.
You joked about it once—“Are we a thing, or do I just have really poor boundaries?” Dante smirked. “You? You’ve got boundaries tighter than hell’s gates. I’m just... the exception.”
Whatever that meant.
You pretended it didn’t mean anything. That the way he protected you in fights, or the way he always remembered how you liked your coffee, didn’t mean anything either. He didn’t bring flowers, didn’t say he missed you, but once, when you were nearly torn apart on a job, he’d gone Devil Trigger before you even hit the ground.
He never talked about that either.
No note. No call. No trace.
He just disappeared. Vanished like smoke into the night, and you—stupidly, bitterly—waited. A week. Two. A month.
And then you stopped.
You didn’t fall apart. You were used to people leaving. Used to men like Dante — reckless, rootless, ruled by guilt and old ghosts.
You got over it faster than you thought you would. Maybe because deep down, you’d expected it.
So you rebuilt the quiet. Reinforced the walls. Took jobs again, cooked again. It was your night off, for once — a rare peaceful evening. You lit a few candles, just for yourself. Poured some wine. Made your favorite pasta. Even had a movie queued up on the TV — one of those old ones you used to half-watch while Dante passed out on your shoulder.
It wasn’t for him this time. You swore it wasn’t.
It was your night. Your peace.
Until..
glass shattered. The door exploded off its hinges. A thunderous crash hit your hallway as a snarling demon burst into your living room—trailing gunfire, smoke, and one infuriating red coat.
“Get down!” Dante’s voice, casual as always.
You dropped your wine. Dove behind the counter. Grabbed the blade under the sink. The two of you fought in seamless rhythm — old instinct. Your apartment, however, was not made for this. The bookshelf got split in two. The wall by the kitchen collapsed. Your sofa caught fire (again). The only things left untouched were the flickering TV, your plate of pasta... and the candlelit table for one.
When the demon finally hit the floor, bleeding black and dead as hell, you were panting, covered in dust, staring at the wreckage.
And Dante — covered in blood, smoke, and half a smile — stood in the center of it all, gun still smoking.
Then his eyes landed on the dinner table.
“…Damn, sweetheart,” he drawled, sauntering past the rubble, holstering Ebony with one hand. “Didn’t know you missed me this much.”
You blinked. “That wasn’t—”
He was already seated. Already grabbing the fork. Already digging into your pasta.
“You really went all out, huh?” he added, mouth full, completely ignoring the scorch mark by his boot. “Candles. Wine. Table for two. I mean—if you wanted me back, you could’ve just sent a postcard.”
You stared at him. Speechless.