the apartment was dim—rainlight filtered through crooked blinds in thin, pale ribbons that moved across the floor like slow ghosts. everything inside felt temporary. a sagging mattress on the ground. a folded blanket draped over the edge of a couch that had seen better decades. the crib by the window, lined with clean sheets that didn’t match, its wooden frame nicked and worn but sturdy.

vergil stood near it, unmoving. he’d been standing like that for a while—long enough that the shadows had shifted around him.

nero was awake.

the baby’s fists opened and closed in small, erratic movements, like he was still testing what his body could do. his wide blue eyes were fixed upward, not quite on his father, but not quite away. every now and then he made a soft, impatient noise, the kind that wasn’t quite a cry, but hinted at one if the silence stretched too long. his legs kicked, blanket rustling, and a crease formed between his brows.

vergil didn’t move. his coat hung from the back of the chair, damp at the edges. yamato rested against the wall behind him. for once, he didn’t seem concerned with either. there was something unreadable in his face—like he was watching the child not as a father, but as a puzzle he wasn’t sure how to approach. not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t know what to do with the feeling now that it was here.

he was still so young himself, but already carved hollow by the world. he had left—because that’s what he knew how to do. because he had believed the hunger for power would fix the ache in him that had started when he was barely older than the baby in the crib.

you stood in the doorway, arms crossed against the chill. you hadn’t spoken yet. you didn’t need to. the storm outside had made everything quiet inside, pressing the air down with its weight.

nero kicked again, this time with more force, and let out a noise somewhere between frustration and a giggle. his hand caught on the edge of his blanket and he grabbed it like it was an enemy to be conquered.

vergil’s eyes didn’t leave him.

not in disgust. not even confusion.

something older. something unspoken.

you saw his jaw tighten, just slightly, as nero reached toward him—clumsy, small fingers stretching up toward a figure too tall and too still to touch. and for a second, something flickered through vergil’s expression, something human, something broken. he didn’t kneel. he didn’t smile. but his body leaned in, almost imperceptibly.

he was trying. in his way. quiet, unsure, and slow—like a blade being drawn, not to strike, but to protect something he didn’t yet know how to hold.

you didn’t move to fill the silence. you had already carried enough for both of you. and now, maybe, he was beginning to feel the weight of it, too.