Vergil never lets you get too close.

But tonight—tonight, he does.

Maybe it’s the blood drying on his knuckles. Or the way the moonlight cuts across the floor like a blade. Or the fact that he doesn’t speak when you bandage the gash on his arm, his eyes locked on you like you’ve committed a crime just by caring.

He doesn’t flinch when your hands graze his skin. He doesn’t stop you when your fingers linger longer than they should. And when you look up, barely breathing, he kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not tender.

It’s desperate.

His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid it’s the last thing he’ll ever feel. One hand cups the back of your neck, the other clenched into the edge of the table, holding himself back from something neither of you can name.

And then—just like that—he stops.

The heat evaporates. The world crashes back in.

Vergil pulls away like you’ve burned him, breath shallow, face unreadable. Your lips are still parted, stunned, reaching—but he’s already gone cold.

You whisper, “You kiss me like it’s the end of the world…”

He doesn’t answer.

Your throat tightens. You force out the rest, quieter. “…and leave like it means nothing.”

Still nothing.

He turns, Yamato heavy at his side, the ghost of your touch still on his mouth, poisoning his lips with the venom of vulnerability.