There’s something seriously wrong with Dante. Not in the “danger to society” kind of way—though, debatably, maybe a little—but in the unhinged boyfriend who lifts you like you weigh nothing kind of way.

You could be mid-conversation, mid-argument, hell, mid bite of your food, and suddenly he’s got a hold of your wrists, a flash of that smug grin lighting up his face before—boom—your feet leave the ground. It’s not even dramatic half the time. Just casual. Effortless. Like gravity means nothing and neither does your personal space.

He doesn’t ask. He just does. Lifting you by the waist, over his shoulder, by the thighs—sometimes even your wrists,dragging you up with devilish precision like you’re a feather and he’s got all the time in the world.

And the worst (or best?) part? He does it like it’s the most natural thing ever. Like the wall behind you is calling your name and your back belongs there with him flush against you, lips brushing your ear, and that gravel-laced voice whispering something cocky.

You swear it’s not even about control—he just likes having you where he can hold, touch, tease. Maybe it’s the half-demon blood. Maybe it’s just him. Either way, you’ve lost count of how many times your feet have left the ground thanks to Dante Sparda.

And honestly… you’re not sure you want to stop keeping count.