Dante doesn't smoke.

He has never smoked in his life, he has been offered cigarettes, but he never accepted none of them— he's better than that. Cigarettes are no good anyways, they rot your lungs and they make you reek of smoke, why would he want to get addicted to something that only makes him sick?

Dante Sparda doesn't smoke, but you do.

Suddenly, there's an ashtray on his desk and a lighter in his pocket at all times. Dante always grimaces when you light up a cigarette, and he never fails to cough in your face whenever you take a cigarette out of it's box. It never gets old.

Tsk. Tsk.

Dante hears the familiar click of your lighter behind him, and he turns to look at you with a smug smile, ready to tease the hell out of you— but then he sees your frustrated expression, your hand hovering over the stubborn flame that insists on dying out, as if to protect it from the wind.

He smirks.

"You're up against an anti-smoking wind, it seems."

Dante can't keep himself from messing with you, and he adores the way yourbface scruches up in annoyance. It is windy night, especially now that you're walking across a bridge, it's like you could be swept away by the breeze.

So he takes a few steps closer to you, reaching for your wrist to bring you slightly closer to him, and he opens up his coat ever so lightly to protect you from the wind.

"C'mere, I'll help you."

Dante's voice is undeniably soft as he looks down at you, it's almost like his coat is swallowing you whole. If someone saw you two right now, they wouldn't be able to tell where you end and Dante begins.

Dante Sparda doesn't need to smoke, he has other ways to feel warm in his chest.