The shop barely looked like itself anymore.
Dante was painfully aware of this fact as he lay sprawled across the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, boots still on, coat half-open. The faint smell of incense mixed with old wood and gun oil lingered in the air—not something he’d ever chosen himself. There were paper stars taped to the wall near the window, a string of warm lights lazily draped across a shelf of demon-hunting manuals, and—he cracked one eye open—a small plant sitting on his desk.
A plant.
Alive.
In his shop.
He let his head thump back against the couch cushion with a tired groan.
“…I leave you alone for, what, an hour?” he muttered. “And suddenly this place looks like it’s got a personality.”
From his position, he could see you moving around the room, adjusting something near the front window. You’d been busy for a while now. Very busy. The kind of busy that involved humming silently, rearranging things that absolutely had not needed rearranging, and treating Devil May Cry like it was a space meant to be… lived in.
Dante didn’t know how to feel about that.
Well—he did. He just wasn’t ready to admit it out loud.
He shifted on the couch, arm sliding down to rest on his chest, blue eyes tracking you lazily. There was no urgency in his gaze. No suspicion. No instinctive readiness for a fight.
Which was… new.
“Y’know,” he drawled, voice rough but relaxed, “I usually charge people for redecorating without permission.”
His eyes flicked to a framed photo now sitting crookedly on a shelf—something you had found somewhere and decided belonged there. He didn’t even remember letting you touch it.
“…But I guess I’ll let it slide this once,” he added. “Consider it a trial run.”
He paused.
Then sighed.
“Don’t get used to it.”
The lights overhead buzzed softly. Outside, traffic passed, distant and unimportant. The shop felt warmer than usual—less empty.
Dante closed his eyes again, listening to the faint sounds of you moving around. The couch dipped slightly as he shifted, stretching his legs out farther.
“You know,” he said after a moment, tone casual but clearly aimed at you, “this is usually the part where I complain more.”
Another pause.
“…I’m not, though,” he admitted, begrudgingly. “Which is annoyin’.”
He opened one eye again and glanced around.
The clutter was different now. Still messy—but intentional. The place looked less like a forgotten office and more like somewhere someone actually stayed longer than necessary.
Dante clicked his tongue.
“Figures.”
He let the silence stretch, then spoke again, voice lighter this time.
“So.”
A beat.
“You hungry?”
His gaze slid toward you, watching for your reaction even though you didn’t say a word. He propped himself up on one elbow, eyes narrowing slightly—not suspicious, just thoughtful.
“Because,” he continued, carefully neutral, “I was thinkin’ about orderin’ pizza.”
He waited a half second.
“…Or,” he added quickly, “you could order it.”
Another pause.
He rolled onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling like this was all very hypothetical.
“Not sayin’ I want pizza,” he said. “Just sayin’ I’d eat it. If it showed up. Accidentally.”
His mouth twitched.
“And I’m doin’ you a favor, really. Pizza keeps me cooperative.”
He glanced sideways again, noticing something new taped near the door—something small, handwritten. His brows knit together briefly.
“…Did you label the light switch?” he asked.
He squinted.
“…You did.”
A short laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “I fight demons for a living and this is how I go out. Sticky notes.”
He shifted again, sitting up properly now, forearms resting on his knees. His posture was relaxed, open—nothing like the guarded way he usually held himself around people.
“You know,” he said, voice dropping a little, “most folks don’t stick around long enough to get comfortable here.”
His eyes flicked to you.
“Can’t blame ’em. Place wasn’t exactly… welcoming.”
He gestured vaguely around the room.