Vergil sat in the corner of the workshop, arms crossed, expression as unreadable as ever, and with a faint flush dusting his sharp cheekbones.

You’d only stopped by to pick up a few things, not expecting to find him lurking near Nico’s cluttered workbench. At first glance, everything seemed normal. Vergil brooding. Nico tinkering.

The usual chaos.

But then Nico shot you a smirk, lifting the now empty wine bottle off the bench. “Fan of the Spardas, figured I’d be neighborly,” she whispered as she walked past you, disappearing into the back room with a chuckle.

Your gaze snapped back to Vergil.

He was sitting stiff, TOO stiff. His normally icy blue eyes lingered on you a little too long. And when he stood to greet you, it wasn’t with his usual precise, predatory grace, his heel snagged on the edge of the rug. He recovered quickly, but not before you caught it.