“Okay, in my defense,” Dante says, breathless with laughter as he pulls you behind a crumbling brick wall, bloodied sword in one hand and a very crushed pizza box in the other, “I thought the demon nest was on the other side of the city.”

You stare at him. You stare at the pizza. Then back at him.

“You dragged me out of bed at 2 AM because you were ‘craving something greasy and life-threatening.’”

He grins — wide and shameless, with that stupid glint in his eye that somehow makes it impossible to stay mad at him. “And we got both! I’d say that’s a damn successful date night.”

You don’t even get a chance to argue before a chunk of concrete sails past your head — the demon from earlier snarling as it tears through the alley toward you both.

“Hold this,” Dante says, shoving the pizza box into your hands like it’s more precious than your actual life. He launches himself over the wall with a spin and a roar of Ebony and Ivory, gunfire lighting up the dark.

You stand there, holding the box like an idiot, watching him flip through the air with ridiculous style points. The man is fighting for his life — and still managing to show off.

He lands in a crouch, runs a hand through his hair, and flashes you a wink. “Still hot, right?”