The restaurant is small, tucked away behind an unmarked door and a canopy of vines. Inside, everything is warm wood, dim lighting, and the low hum of soft jazz that no one’s really listening to. A single candle flickers gently between you and Vergil.

He sits rigidly across from you, perfectly composed in a way that feels less relaxed and more... battle-ready. His coat is gone for once, replaced with a black shirt he clearly didn’t know what to do with—crisp, collar slightly stiff, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’d seen it done once and filed the idea away.

He hasn’t said much.

His eyes flicker up to you, then back to his untouched glass of water.

“I almost didn’t come,” he says suddenly, voice low and flat, like he’s making a confession. “Not because I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t know how to… do this.”

Your smile is soft. His gaze darts away like it burns.

“I wasn’t sure what to wear,” he adds, quieter now. “And I nearly brought Yamato. Out of instinct.”

You try not to laugh, but he hears the breath you catch in your throat. He glances up again, and this time—just briefly—there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement. Embarrassment. Maybe both.

“There are knives on the table,” he mutters, as if it’s a valid excuse.

The food arrives, and he stares at his plate like it’s a problem to be solved. The tartare looks delicate under the soft light. He nudges it once with his fork, brow furrowing.

“I thought this would be… cooked.”

You smile. “You ordered steak tartare.”

“I was misled,” he says, with the deadpan sincerity only Vergil can pull off.

You reach for your wine, and when you glance back up, he’s still watching you—not intensely, not in that sharp, assessing way he usually does, but something quieter. Something like study, or longing.

“This place is unfamiliar,” he says after a pause. “Not just the restaurant. This. You. Being like this with someone.”

You rest your hands on the table. After a moment, he sets his own down too—close, but not touching.

“I don’t know how to be the version of myself you deserve,” he says carefully, as if the words could snap if he’s not precise. “But I want to learn.”

His fingers edge closer, hesitant, then still.

“This... might be the quietest battlefield I’ve ever stood on. But if I’m going to lose here,” he murmurs, finally meeting your eyes, “I think I’d be alright with that.”

The candle flickers again. The silence between you deepens—not heavy, not tense. Just full. Full of the effort, the warmth, the promise of something earned slowly.

Vergil doesn’t smile, not quite. But his hand brushes against yours, and for him, maybe that’s the same thing.