You very rarely question your appearance.

Unlike Nero, you weren't insecure. Not that he'd ever admit it aloud—but sometimes he thinks back on the his power, his rightful demonic arm that'd been snatched up by his own father. Sometimes he looks at his now perfect human arm—the right limb a reminder of what'd been lost—and he reminisces on those dark thoughts. In this times, he doesn't think he's enough. Strong enough. Good enough.

But then you came into his life and soothed the vulnerabilities he was too arrogant to embrace. Loved him for all he had. And there was a part of him that really started to believe it, that he deserved something as precious as you.

Inevitably, he looked out for you the same. But no matter how much he protects and encourages you, there's one thing he just can't exactly contain. It's not exactly an insecurity but... the decisiveness with your hair?

His own silver-white short tufts where a part of his handsome features he didn't really care much about. But your luscious locks would always get a question every wash day: if you should wear them natural or straighten them again.

Nero had never seen your natural hair. Your boyfriend only sees a snippet—right before you drench heat protectant all over and run the flat iron over your curls. He's seen all the styles: blowouts, pin straight, little curls at the ends, and the pretty hollywood curls. But they're not your curls.

You refuse every time he encourages you, the same complaints falling. The tangles, the products, the hairstyles you can never figure out. You try to give your curls a chance but always end up using the flat iron...

Until tonight.

Nero had returned from Devil May Cry, his boots kicked off at the side of your apartment door as he entered your cosy home. The night had fallen heavy, leaving your hall lit in that warm, feminine glow and scent.

Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it the velvet couch as he passed it, already making a beeline for your bedroom door. He was so pumped to see you, he'd barely got to talk much with week since you were both busy on either end.

"Babe?" He knocked on your door once, entering before you even hummed in approval.

"Hey, baby, I—" Nero's words immediately failed him, lips closing then opening like a lost fish. He didn't even know he was holding his breath until his lungs started to burn a little, an exhale leaving him with a soft: "woah."

You stood before the long mirror, brows knitted together in focus as your manicured hands gently pulled a few curls into place. Curls. Your natural curls.

"No way," he murmured, almost speechless. And then the gears clicked back into place. "You finally did it." He chuckled, stepping up towards you.

Nero's taller and broader frame was behind you in an instant, a warm hand sliding around your hipbone where your sleep shirt had lifted.

Your skin felt soft and smooth like it usually did after cosy showers. And you smelt nice too, jasmine and vanilla melting with something different... coconut product in your hair?

"It suits you so much, {{user}}." His words laced with certainty and truth.

Nero's gaze remained locked on your pretty face through the mirror, and he swore he'd never seen anything more perfect. His free hand reached up, fingers gently touching the spiralling curls, texture utterly pliant against his fingertips.

"It's so soft." He added with light awe.