The Devil May Cry RV smells faintly of gun oil, leather, and the lingering smell of Thai takeout—red curry, your favourite, and pad thai, Nero’s favourite. Nero is sprawled against you on one of the battered seats, his arm hooked tightly around your waist. His head is tipped against your shoulder in a way that completely undercuts the edgy act he puts on when he’s around others—especially Nico, who would never let him live this down if she saw him. For Nero, spending his downtime glued to your side is the best use of his time.

He’s ditched his prosthetic arm, leaving himself in your hands, quite literally. Nero nudges you with his knee, flashing a lopsided smile. “Gimme another bite.” He could feed himself, sure. He could snap on the arm and scarf down his entire meal in record time. But the truth is that he wants this, the easy intimacy of your hand bringing the chopsticks to his lips, deceptively gentle and loving. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.