The first time you stabbed Dante, he laughed.

Not a pained laugh, either. Not shocked. Not angry.

Delighted.

Your blade had gone clean through his shoulder, pinning him briefly against a crumbling brick wall while demons screeched somewhere deeper in the alley. Blood dripped down the red leather of his coat. Rain soaked silver strands into his face.

And the idiot grinned at you.

“Oh, I’m definitely into you.”

You stared.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Dante yanked the blade out of himself with a wet sound, barely wincing. “Most people buy me dinner first.”

You’d been hired to kill him. A simple enough contract. Half-demon mercenary causing trouble, impossible to control, impossible to predict. You’d hunted monsters long enough to know the dangerous ones usually smiled the widest.

Dante smiled like the sun itself.

Unfortunately, he also refused to die.

The second attempt ended with him sitting cross-legged atop a pool table while you reloaded your gun.

“So,” he said casually, spinning Ebony around one finger, “you busy Friday?”

A bullet smacked him square between the eyes.

His head snapped back.

Then slowly tilted forward again.

“You know,” he muttered, smoke curling from the wound, “mixed signals are kinda toxic.”

You left through the window.

Months later, somehow, he was still there.

Persistent as a cockroach. More attractive, unfortunately.

The apartment complex hallway echoed with a familiar knock-knock-knock against your door.

You ignored it.

“C’mon,” Dante called through the wood. “I know you’re home.”

Silence.

Another knock. Louder.

Then, dramatically: “Baby, please. I’m half-naked out here.”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” you answered flatly.

“Cruel.”

You opened the door just enough to glare at him.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t lying.

Shirtless. Damp hair. Laundry basket tucked under one arm with your clothes hanging obnoxiously over the side.

Dante flashed the most shameless grin imaginable.

“Think the laundromat mixed our stuff up again.”

“You switched them yourself.”

“No proof.”

You snatched your clothes from the basket.

Dante leaned casually against the frame. “You know, normal people would’ve accepted my date offer by now.”

“Normal people aren’t repeatedly hired to kill you.”

“Yeah, but you stopped trying.” His voice softened slightly beneath the teasing. “That’s basically affection.”

You shoved his laundry into his chest.

The door slammed in his face.

A beat passed.

Then, muffled through the wood—

“Okay but hear me out — what if we got pizza and you threatened me with a knife recreationally?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

The man was exhausting.

That should’ve been the end of it.

Instead, twenty minutes later, another knock sounded.

Slower this time.

When you opened the door again, Dante stood there fully dressed now, though less smug than usual. A bruise darkened his jaw. Fresh blood stained the cuff of his sleeve.

He smiled anyway.

Always smiling.

“You dying?” you raised a brow.

“Nah. Just Tuesday.”

His tone stayed light, but you caught it — the exhaustion underneath. The hollow sort. The kind buried beneath jokes because silence left too much room for ghosts.

Dante was good at pretending things didn’t hurt.

You’d noticed that months ago.

“You need something?” you asked.

His silver brows lifted slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to ask sincerely.

Then the grin returned, smaller this time.

“Was wondering if you had bandages.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then stepped aside from the doorway. “Five minutes,” you muttered.

Dante blinked.

Then lit up so brightly it was embarrassing.

“Oh my God,” he breathed dramatically. “We’re basically married now.”