Chapter Text
"Devil May Cry, how can I help you?"
A voice boomed as you pushed the main door of the building.
You pushed it just enough to take a peek inside, unsure if you wanted to enter.
Your eyes landed on him instantly.
Boots—scuffed and unapologetic—rested on the desk like they owned the place. A long red coat spilled over the sides of the worn leather chair, framing his relaxed posture. One gloved hand held up a magazine, covering his face entirely, other hand laid dangling on his side.
You take in the scene—and your uncertainty hardens into decision. Quietly, you start to turn back, hand already on the door.
But the moment the creak fades into silence, the magazine rustles. The man lowers it with a casual flick of his wrist, placing it on the desk like it had served its purpose.
"Hello there? Ah—mister? Do come on in, we are open for business" he calls out, leaning forward in his chair, head tilting just enough to catch the edge of your retreating shadow.
"That’s miss for you," you reply, stepping inside properly this time, your heels echoing faintly against the worn floor as you approach his table.
And then you see him—really see him.
Silver hair tousled with effortless charm. A faint black stubble dusting his jaw, just enough to hint at age, not wear. His eyes—clear, piercing, an icy blue that seemed to slice through the room and rest only on you. His features were soft in all the right places, sharp where it mattered.
And with one glance, one stupidly long second of locking eyes—you had to admit:
Damn, was he easy on the eyes.
Looking at that annoyingly pretty face, you found yourself struggling to string actual words together.
"I–I... aa..."
Dante blinked at your stammer—and then burst out into a hearty laugh.
"Come on, miss. I don’t bite. Just relax. How may I help you this evening?" he asked, leaning forward on the desk, a smirk curling on his lips.
You cleared your throat, trying to gather yourself.
"Well... I just moved into the building next to yours and thought I’d drop by to say hello to my new neighbor. But then I saw your very peculiar sign outside and had my doubts."
You glance around pointedly, eyeing the chaos of his office with raised brows. "Let’s just say I had second thoughts after looking inside."
Dante followed your gaze, clearly catching on to the silent commentary.
"I’ve been busy," he offered, tossing out the excuse with a sly grin.
"I didn’t say anything," you replied, your tone playful, eyes twinkling with a teasing glint.
"You didn’t..." he said, eyes meeting yours. "But your eyes did."
Your breath caught at the look he gave you—direct, kind, and disarmingly sincere.
"We–well..."
And there you were again. Stammering. Great.
Dante stood up abruptly and began moving around the room, gathering stray papers, clearing the desk, straightening up with a kind of focused chaos. You stood there, watching, unsure if you were more amused or impressed.
After a few minutes of silent scrambling, he dusted off his hands, turned on his heel, and—before you could react—gently took your hands in his. You blinked in surprise as he guided you over to the worn-out sofa, gesturing for you to sit.
Without a word, he disappeared into a small back corner and returned with two cold cans of soda. He handed you one, cracked his open, and finally—finally—sat beside you, keeping a respectful distance.
"This is all I’ve got on me right now," he said, lifting his can. "It came as a compliment with the pizza I ordered last night."
"Well... thank you for the drink," you murmured, fingers curling around the chilled can as you looked down at the label.
Then came his voice again—quiet, but direct.
"Did I scare you?"
You turned to him, startled. "What? Why? No—you don’t."
He took a small sip, eyes still on you.
"Earlier, when you stammered... I thought maybe I was intimidating. And that this whole atmosphere—" he glanced around the still-messy office—"was too shabby for you."
"You could say I was surprised… seeing the office, I mean," you said, trying to sound casual, your eyes briefly flicking around the still-chaotic room. "And yeah, people get busy—spaces can be left unattended. It happens."
Then, lowering your voice a little, your tone softer, you added, "And no, you don’t intimidate me. I just... stammered because I wasn’t sure what to say. I'm not exactly great at conversations."
He looked at you then—really looked—and offered a small, genuine smile, his gaze dropping to the can in his hand as if your words had smoothed something unspoken inside him.
You watched that smile play on his face, and in that moment, felt yourself melt just a little.
He looked so… soft. And for a man like him, that was saying something.
"Understood, miss," he said, glancing up again, voice playful. "You ain't great at convos. So lemme take the lead."
He tipped his can slightly in greeting. "I’m Dante Sparda. You can call me Dante. I run this place, and I take up odd jobs of all sorts. Nothing shady—promise."
He added a cheeky wink for good measure.
You smiled at his cool, laid-back demeanor. There was something comforting about it—like maybe you didn’t have to overthink things around him.
"I’m [Your Name]. Just moved to this city looking for work… haven’t found anything yet, but I’m trying. Pleased to meet you, Dante," you said, extending your hand with a little more confidence than before.
He took your hand with a firm shake—warm, grounded, steady.
It was just a moment, but you couldn’t help noticing how small your hand looked in his grasp—how his fingers wrapped around yours with a quiet sort of warmth.
You blinked and gently pulled your hand back before your thoughts could spiral in places they weren’t supposed to.
Clearing your throat, you asked, “So, tell me about this city. Did I make a good choice moving here?”
He leaned back, arm draped across the back of the couch as he took another sip of his drink. You watched him from the corner of your eye, wondering what he’d say.
After all, you had told him—about how you came here looking for something different. A life that wasn’t so… monotonous. You’d grown tired of feeling like a cog in someone else’s machine, repeating the same steps day after day in a loop you hadn’t chosen. You wanted space. A chance to breathe. To live.
“Well…” Dante began, glancing toward the dusty window, eyes thoughtful.
“Red Grave’s got its flaws, yeah. But it’s alive. Loud, weird, stubborn. People here fight hard—for themselves, for each other. It's got heart. If you’re looking for something new… something real… you could do worse.”
His words weren’t dressed up. But they didn’t have to be.
You smiled, the corners of your lips tugging upward without you realizing.
“Well, that gives me hope,” you said softly, eyes dropping to the can in your hand.
“Maybe life here’ll be good after all.”
As the last threads of conversation slowly faded, the two of you glanced at your cans—now light and empty.
Dante stretched slightly in his seat, the sound of the can hitting the table soft but final.
“Well, I got no dinner. Gonna have to order something. You like pizza?” he asked, already half-rising from his seat.
You paused for a second, then offered a small smile.
“Actually… I prepped some dinner back at my place.”
You met his eyes, your tone warm, inviting.
“It wouldn’t be a bother to cook for two instead of one. Would you join me?”
You tilted your head slightly, the soft smile lingering on your lips.
Dante stopped. For a second, all he could do was look at you.
From the moment you stepped inside, Dante had been watching you.
Not out of suspicion. Not even entirely out of curiosity.
It was quieter than that.
You were pretty—but not in the artificial, flash-and-flutter way he’d seen a thousand times before.
There was something quiet about your beauty. True. Warm. The kind that didn’t try to be noticed and yet—was impossible to miss.
Your eyes spoke more than your words did. Your gestures contradicted your claim of being bad at conversation.
And despite being a stranger, you somehow… felt familiar.
Like the scent of an old book.
Like home.
He hadn’t meant to think so much. But thoughts had a way of slipping in uninvited. And you, unknowingly, had left your mark.
A good one.
And for once, he didn’t want to push it away.
“Yeah,” he said, a rare softness to his tone.
“I’d like that. The more the merrier, right?”