The night had settled deep and quiet, the kind of stillness that only came after long days and longer fights. You were curled up beside him on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder, fingers absentmindedly tracing the seams of his jacket. The room was dim, lit only by the dull flicker of a dying lamp in the corner and the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Nero hadn’t spoken in a while. He was warm beside you but tense, like his thoughts were still caught somewhere far away- wrapped up in things he couldn’t punch his way out of.

“…Hey,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Can I say something kind of… stupid?”

You turned slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. He was looking straight ahead, jaw tight like it was physically hard to speak.

“I used to think… this was it. Just fighting. Bleeding. Pike it’s all I’m good for.” He glanced down at his demon arm briefly, flexing the fingers, then letting them fall slack again. “But you... You make me feel like I can be something more than that. Like I’m not just built for hurting things. Like maybe there’s still a part of me that’s… worth something.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly flustered. “That was the stupid part, by the way,” he muttered. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”