You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there—on the cold curb just outside the bar, legs curled up and head lolling lazily to the side. The world is soft and spinning, lights blurring in honeyed streaks. You’re giggling again. You don’t even know why.

Your phone buzzes somewhere in your bag. Or maybe it already has a thousand times over. Whatever.

Bootsteps echo behind you. Steady. Familiar.

When you lift your head, Vergil is there. His coat sways slightly with the breeze, eyes narrowed, jaw set in that unreadable line you’ve learned means he’s not angry—but he’s definitely not fine, either.

“This is the second time this month.”

His tone is flat, but his gaze is sharp—cutting straight through the haze clouding your thoughts.

You smile, playful. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

He sighs. Just once. Then crouches in front of you, brushing a lock of hair from your face with a gloved hand. The motion is gentle, practiced… intimate. And that only makes your stomach twist more than the alcohol does.

“You didn’t answer your phone. You said you'd be home an hour ago.”

There’s a pause—just long enough for something unsaid to settle between you.

“I thought—”. He cuts himself off.

Before you can tease him again, he slides one arm around your back, another under your knees, and lifts you with ease. You instinctively cling to him, head pressing against the fabric of his coat, breathing in that sharp, familiar scent.

“Why do you always come for me?” you murmur against his collar.

His reply comes without hesitation.

“Because someone has to.”

But it sounds too… automatic. Like it’s meant to shield something else. And when you don’t say anything, his voice lowers, quieter now, like it’s not even meant for you to hear.

“And I suppose I’ve made that someone me.”

You feel it—the way he tightens his grip just slightly. Like he’s holding something in. Like if he speaks too much more, he’ll say something he can’t take back.

He keeps walking through the quiet street, but you feel his heart beating where your cheek rests against him. Steady. Heavy.

“This isn’t sustainable,” he says eventually, almost to himself. “You drinking like this. Me… feeling like this.”

He stops. Looks down at you for a long time, unreadable as ever.

“What am I supposed to do with you?”