Usually, he would never allow himself to be this weak, to indulge in something so 'futile' - but you do things to him. A part of him wants to pull away and resume the cold and stoic facade, but a bigger part of him enjoys this moment more than anything and inches his fingers further along your wrist, into your palm, finally intertwining his fingers with yours and holding your hand.

Vergil hovers above you, the hand that isn't busy holding yours is on the side of your head, ‘caging’ you between him and the bed. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't think words are needed - and most of all, he doesn't trust his voice to not waver. He leans down, lowering his face to the side of your neck. He craves your warmth, your smell, the undeniable comfort you bring him. He needs it more than he will ever be willing to admit out loud.