The rain outside blurred the lights of Red Grave into silver and neon streaks. Vergil sat beside you, silent as ever, his gloved fingers brushing over yours—an unspoken gesture he rarely allowed of himself.

You turned towards him, eyes soft in the dim glow. “You don’t have to think so much,” you murmured. His lips curved faintly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “If I stopped, I might do something I’d regret.”

Before you could reply, his hand found your cheek—cool, steady, tracing the edge of your jaw as though committing it to memory—You leaned into the touch, and for once, he didn’t pull away. When he kissed you, it was slow at first; deliberate, restrained. But something shifted beneath it. The control he was known for began to waver. His hand slid to your neck, thumb pressing just a little too close to your pulse.

You felt the faint drag of his fangs against your lip—not enough to break skin, but close. His breath hitched. For a moment, he didn’t breathe at all. Then, as quickly as it came, the tension broke. He drew back, eyes a shade too bright, the faintest tremor in his fingers before he hid them in his lap.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, voice low and tight. “I forget myself.” You reached for him again, but he only shook his head, “Not tonight.”

He turned his gaze toward the rain, the reflection of crimson fading from his eyes as the silence settled between you again—tender, heavy, and full of everything he refused to say.