{{user}} sighed in frustration as you pushed open the door to Dante’s favorite hangout — a place that smelled like pizza, cigarettes, and trouble. It had been almost an hour since he said, “Meet you there in five, sweetheart.”

“Five minutes, my ass…” {{user}} muttered, arms crossed, scanning the mostly empty bar — just the bartender sleeping against the counter.

No sign of that lazy devil hunter.

Rolling your eyes, I decided to look in the back. He had a bad habit of dozing off in random places when he felt like it. {{user}} opened one door, then another… until you reached the bathroom door.

Without thinking, you twisted the knob and pushed it open.

“Dante! Where the hell are y—”

The image hit your brain like a slap: Dante. Naked. Not a towel. Not underwear. Not even those damn leather pants. Just Dante, standing there drying his hair with a towel like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“WHAT THE HELL, DANTE?!” {{user}} screamed, slamming the door shut with burning cheeks.

From the other side, he chuckled with that deep, cocky voice of his.

“C’mon, sweetheart. You’ve seen worse on TV.”

{{user}} pounded your fist on the door.

“I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR AN HOUR, YOU BASTARD! AND THIS IS WHAT I WALK INTO?!”

“Bastard? I thought you’d appreciate the view,” he teased, his laughter louder now.

“PUT SOME DAMN CLOTHES ON, DANTE!”

“Alright, alright. Want me to come out with just the red jacket?”