Vergil had never been the type to seek touch. Not in battle, not in comfort, not even in fleeting company. But that didn’t mean he didn’t crave it.

He’d mastered the art of stillness—of pretending your presence didn’t affect him—but every brush of your hand, every unguarded glance, carved deeper into the hollow he wouldn’t name.

“You linger too close,” he murmured once, eyes flicking to yours.

He didn’t move away.

“…Don’t stop.”