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Nero knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into Devil May Cry. It wasn’t that the place looked clean, because it didn’t – it was the smell. Normally, the shop had its own distinct scent: a base layer of gunpowder that had somehow baked into the floorboards over the years, the faintly musty scent of leather and dust from old books and crates of forgotten manuals, the lingering tang of oil and grease from Nico’s tinkering, and that inexplicably persistent smell of cold pizza that manage to cling to every surface. It was an odd, comforting, familiar chaos, a scent that meant home. Today, though, none of that was there. The air was heavy, invasive, and frankly wrong with the sticky-sweet scent of roses, the kind of floral smell that didn’t just drift – it clung, harsh and overpowering, embedding itself into his sinuses and forcing him to take a step back.
His boots scuffed against the floor, catching on something soft, and he paused, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. His gaze dropped, immediately catching the culprit: rose petals strewn across the hardwood like some overwrought scene from a romance movie that would have made him groan if it weren’t real. They wound their way in a winding trail toward the counter, perfectly designed to lead a victim – him – right into the direction they wanted him to be at. A couple of uneven strings of fairy lights drooped from the wall, their soft glow flickering inconsistently, and every flat surface was crowded with candles: mismatched in height and stages of melting with some dripping wax dangerously close to the nearest stack of papers and letters. The smell war was brutal: vanilla and cinnamon battling each other in his nose, with a suspicious undercurrent of strawberry that made him wrinkle his nose. It was overwhelming, confusing, and somehow entirely Dante.
“What the hell happened here?” Nero demanded, his voice tight with confusion as his eyes scanned the unfamiliar scene, taking in the petal trail, the flickering lights, and the precarious candle towers. Every instinct in him seemed to indicate that this was a trap.
Behind the counter, Dante lounged back in his chair, a magazine in hand whose cover Nero refused to acknowledge, and a smirk stretched across his face that radiated amusement, satisfaction, and just a touch of cockiness – as if he’d been waiting specifically for Nero to walk in and flinch.
“What? Can’t a guy spruce the place up every now and then?” he drawled, his voice lazy but teasing, as if the answer should be obvious.
“This isn’t ‘sprucing up,’” he replied flatly, nudging a rouge petal with the tip of his boot lightly, watching as it crumpled under pressure. “This is a fire hazard and a public health concern for everyone's sense of smell.”
“This,” Dante said, sweeping a hand over the scenery like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, “Is atmosphere. Mood. The perfect stage for a romantic masterpiece.”
Nero’s jaw lightly tensed as he sighed, “Why the hell would you need–”
“Not me,” Dante cut in, leaning forward now, his smirk widening like he was about to deliver a punchline only he found funny, “You.”
Nero blinked, his eyes narrowing as the words circled through his mind. The pieces clicked together: the smell, the petals, the candles, Dante’s awful smirk. His stomach sank in a way that was equal parts dread and disbelief.
“Oh, hell no,” he muttered, his voice low, almost skeptical.
“Oh, hell yes,” Dante replied, rising from his chair as if he were giving a briefing to a soldier, standing tall, his shoulders slightly pinned back as every one of his movements was dramatic and purposeful. He slammed the magazine down onto the counter with a satisfying slam, the sound echoing through the shop. One finger came up, which pointed directly at Nero like he was a marked target in some romantic mission. “Kid, you’ve been dancing around saying it for months. She already knows, but she deserves to hear it from you. You’re gonna tell Kyrie you love her.”
Nero felt his stomach twist, heat rising up to his neck and ears, a familiar surge of panic threatening to tie his tongue in knots. He wanted to protest, turn and flee, and perform various other actions he could see clearly in his mind. Instead, he just stood there, eyes narrowed, jaw tight, staring harshly at Dante like the man had grown a second head. His mind scrambled as he thought of every possible way to dodge the situation, different weak excuses fumbling in his mind. But Dante was already leaning back, amused, smug, and utterly unmoveable in his confidence that he was doing the right thing.
“You’re insane,” he finally muttered, his voice almost lost in the floral haze.
“Maybe,” Dante admitted, shrugging with perfect innocence, “But you’re gonna thank me later. Or cry. Either way, mission accomplished.”
Nero groaned, rubbing his face with one hand, trying to will his courage into existence while simultaneously wishing the world – or at least Dante – would explode. But deep down, he knew it was true. He had to say it, somehow, someway. He had to tell Kyrie the three words he’d been procrastinating for months in his head.
Later that afternoon, Nero stopped by Kyrie’s to fix a squeaky cabinet hinge, armed with a small toolkit slung under his arm and determination that he swore was aimed solely at the metal and wood. The kitchen was small, cozy in a way that felt more alive than any place he’d ever lived: sunlight poured through the curtains, catching in the gentle flour dust left from baking, the faint aroma of bread and herbs lingering in the air. The warmth of it pressed in on him, all soothing and dangerous at once, because when it came to Kyrie, nothing ever stayed simple.
They worked side by side at the counter, their movements brushing close more than once. Her shoulder grazed his arm when she passed him the screwdriver; her hair tickled his sleeve when she leaned in to inspect his progress. Each time, it sent a ripple of heat down his neck that he tried – and failed – to ignore. His focus was supposed to be on the hinge, on the squeak that had been bothering her for weeks, but it wavered each time she leaned closer and how she laughed softly at his furrowed brow and mechanical precision.
“You take this so seriously,” Kyrie teased, her voice light, teasing in that way that warmed every edge of him. “It’s just a hinge.”
Nero grunted, his jaw tight, and his heart hammering harshly in his chest. It wasn’t just a hinge. Not to him. Nothing was simple when she was standing this close, smiling like that, looking at him like he was something more than just a devil hunter who stumbled his way through life. His hands stilled on the screwdriver, fingers tightening, the weight of words pressing against his throat.
Say it. Just say it now. Don’t think, don’t run. Just say it.
“Kyrie, I lo–” The words launched out of him like a cannon misfiring. It was too sudden, too raw, and his chest tightened with panic halfway through. His mouth betrayed him, the syllables twisting into nonsense before he could stop them. “–uhm, I love these hinges. They’re, uh, top-notch?”
The silence that followed was deafening. His pulse roared in his ears. He wanted to slam his head against the cabinet and never stop.
Kyrie blinked once, then twice, the screwdriver still in his hands as she studied him. Her lips curved upward, her eyes twinkling with an amusement so soft it didn’t sting, though it made him want to melt into the floorboards all the same.
“They’re very sturdy,” she said at last, her voice carrying a gentle warmth, but also something else – something that felt like she already knew what he’d meant to say. Her smile lingered with patience and an understanding look, as if she was giving him the space to try again when he was ready.
Nero coughed, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, refusing to meet her eyes as his cheeks burned hotter than the Red Queen’s exhaust. He mumbled something about tightening the screws, forcing himself to keep working, though his fingers fumbled more than once on the handle of the screwdriver. He didn’t make eye contact with her for the rest of the time; every ounce of courage drained out of him and was replaced with a buzzing awareness of the words he still hadn’t managed to say.
But as he packed up his tools and prepared to leave, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew anyway.
The next day, Dante insisted that Nero come along for what he claimed was a ‘supplies run.’ Nero didn’t question it at first – Dante’s errands were always unpredictable, and at least this one promised to be less messy than demon guts and busted motorcycles. But as they wound through the streets, Dante whistling some off-key tune like he didn’t have a care in the world, he started to notice the path they were taking. It wasn’t toward the usual mechanic shop or the shady dealer Dante got his ammo discounts from. Instead, they rounded a corner, and Nero’s boots came to a reluctant stop as the church rose into view, its steeple cutting into the sky.
The bells weren’t ringing, but the front steps were alive with movement. A few townsfolk carried boxes of flowers inside, chatting quietly amongst themselves. The air smelled faintly of roses and lilies, a stark contrast to the heavy sweetness that had clung to Devil May Cry yesterday. And there, in the middle of it all, was Kyrie. She wore a light dress that moved with the breeze, her hair pinned back loosely as she directed where each arrangement should go. Even with the noise around her, her presence was soft, grounding in a way Nero could never quite put into words.
Dante didn’t slow down; if anything, he strolled faster, deliberately steering them right toward the steps like this had been his destination all along. Nero felt his stomach drop.
“Are you kidding me?” he muttered under his breath, shooting Dante a glare that could have burned holes through concrete.
“Relax,” Dante said smoothly, not even glancing back at him, “You’ll thank me later.”
Before Nero could grab him by the collar and drag him the other way, Kyrie looked up. Her face brightened the moment her eyes landed on them. She wiped her hands on a cloth and stepped down from the entryway to greet them, her smile soft and effortless, the kind that managed to make Nero’s chest both ache and loosen at the same time.
“Dante, Nero,” she said warmly, “What brings you here?”
For half a second, Nero almost believed he could do it. The words pressed hard against the back of his teeth, his heart thundering as though this was his only chance. He could feel the air shifting, the weight of the moment settling between them. If he just pushed them out now, just once, everything might change.
“Kyrie, I–”
“–owe you lunch!” Dante boomed, stepping directly into the line of fire and clapping a hand on Nero’s shoulder with such force it rattled his bones. He stumbled forward, choking on his own half-finished sentence, his balance gone as Dante grinned wide enough to shame the devil himself.
“Yeah, he’s been meaning to ask you out all week. Right, kid?”
For a heartbeat, Nero was too stunned to move. Then heat flooded his face, and he snapped his head toward Dante with a stare so sharp it could have sliced through Yamato’s sheath. “Well, I–”
Dante only tightened his grip, his smirk practically glowing. He looked like a man who’d not only opened Pandora’s box, but also invited it out for dinner. “Don’t be shy,” he snickered.
Kyrie tilted her head, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, her lips curved faintly, her eyes softening like she could see straight through Nero’s panic and Dante’s meddling.
“That would be nice,” she said gently, as though she was saving him from the corner Dante had shoved him into.
Nero’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and all he could manage was a stiff nod, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
By the time they left the church, Dante was practically strutting, hands behind his head as a grin as smug as a cat who’d broken into the treat bag and eaten every last crumb stayed plastered on his expression. Nero trailed after him, shoulders tight, every step radiating the urge to plant Dante face-first into the nearest wall. He imagined it vividly, the satisfying crunch it would make, the momentary peace it would buy him – yet somehow, he doubted it would wipe the grin off of his face.
“See?” Dante said cheerfully, almost as if he hadn’t made his life a hell-of-a-lot harder. “I set ‘em up, you knock ‘em down. That’s teamwork.”
Nero’s fists curled at his sides, a heavy grumble leaving his lips in return. “Teamwork? You’re lucky I don’t knock you down.”
If Dante heard him, he didn’t care. The smug humming soon returned, echoing through the street as Nero walked behind him, silently swearing that one day – one day – he’d get him back for this.
Only a few hours later, Nero decided it had to be now. No Dante, no witnesses, and no unexpected ‘lunches’ he hadn’t agreed to – just him and Kyrie, the way it should be. He kept telling himself that if he kept waiting, he’d never do it.
So, with his heart pounding like he was walking into battle, he grabbed the bag of groceries Kyrie had accidentally left at Devil May Cry earlier in the week. It wasn’t much: some vegetables, a loaf of bread, and what looked like ingredients for soup, but it gave him the perfect excuse to show up without feeling like he was barging in.
By the time he reached her front door, his palms were clammy against the paper bag, and he had to stand there for a full thirty seconds before he knocked.
Kyrie’s voice floated from inside. “Coming!”
The door opened, and there she was: her hair still pulled back loosely, an apron tied around her waist, the faintest trace of flour dusting one sleeve. A kind of sight that made his brain stall before he could even form a greeting.
“You forgot these at the shop,” Nero managed finally, holding up the bag like a shield. Her face lit up, warm and bright, and she stepped aside to let him in. “Thank you, Nero. You didn’t have to bring them all the way here.”
He muttered something about it being ‘no problem’ and followed her into the kitchen, where the table was already half-covered in a neat line of produce, mixing bowls, and utensils. She hummed softly as she worked, a tune he didn’t recognize but that wrapped around the room like comfort itself.
Nero stood awkwardly at the threshold for a beat before setting the bag down. This was it. He didn’t have Dante heckling him, no random civilians walking by, no hinges to distract him. Just him and Kyrie, the smell of flour and fresh spices in the air, and the words burning a hole in his throat.
“Kyrie,” he began, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. She glanced up, smiling in that patient, gentle smile of hers – the one that always made his chest tighten. “I just wanted to say that I–”
“You look pale,” she interrupted softly, her brow creasing with worry as she set down the tomato she’d been holding. She stepped closer, tilting her head as if she could read him like an open book. “Are you feeling alright?”
Nero blinked, caught completely off guard. “I–I uh, yeah. Totally fine.” His heartbeat was all wrong now; it was too fast and obvious. Panic tripped his tongue, and the confession that had been right there slipped away before he could catch it. He flailed for the first thing his mind latched onto. “I just, uh, like your new curtains. A lot,” he stammered.
The words fell into the room with the grace of a brick.
Kyrie’s expression softened, and then her lips curved into a quiet, amused smile. She didn’t laugh – she never did, not at him – but her eyes sparkled with a knowing patience that made it almost worse
“They’re very nice,” she agreed gently, glancing toward the kitchen window where pale blue fabric swayed faintly with the breeze. “I’m glad you noticed.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, words spinning incomprehensibly in his head, and very pointedly avoiding her gaze. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding with the frustration of it – he’d had it. He’d been right there.
But Kyrie didn’t push. She simply picked up the tomato again, humming as if nothing had happened, her smile lingering like she knew exactly what he meant to say but was willing to wait until he was ready.
And that, somehow, was worse than any teasing Dante could’ve thrown at him.
By the weekend, Nero had had enough. He’d spent days tripping over his own tongue, choking on words he’d meant to say, and pretending like he hadn’t noticed the way Kyrie’s eyes softened every time he almost said them. He told himself he was going to bury it under work: having guns to clean, Devil Breakers to tune, and maybe a job or two that would leave him too sore and exhausted to think about how badly he was messing this up.
The bell over the door to Devil May Cry jangled as he stepped inside, already loosening the glove on his hand. He barely made it two steps before he caught sight of Dante leaning casually against the counter, his arms folded, a small smile firmly in place on his face. That smile alone was enough to set Nero’s teeth on edge – because it never meant anything good.
“Kid,” Dante greeted smugly, drawing out the word like he’d been waiting for this exact moment all week.
“What now?” Nero asked flatly, already bracing himself.
Instead of answering, Dante slid an envelope across the counter with a flourish that suggested he thought this was some grand reveal. The paper skidded over a stack of unfiled job requests and landed neatly at Nero’s elbow.
Nero eyed it with deep suspicion. “What the hell is this?”
“Reservation,” Dante said simply, leaning back on his heels, “Seven o’clock. Classy place. Table for two. You’re welcome.”
For a moment, Nero just stared, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and irritation. He picked up the envelope slowly, as if it might explode, then pulled out the stiff card inside. The name of a restaurant was printed neatly at the top, followed by the time and words ‘reserved under Sparda.’
“You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?”
Dante’s smile widened, infuriatingly smug, “Call it tactical support.” He spread his arms out like a man presenting his finest work. “You keep chickening out every time you’re alone with her. I’m just – removing some of the variables.”
Nero slapped the card back onto the counter, “You don’t just ‘remove variables’ by ambushing me with dinner reservations!”
“Sure you do,” Dante said, unbothered. He snatched up his half-finished mug of coffee and took a slow sip, watching Nero like a hawk. “Besides, Kyrie’s already in the loop. She’s expecting it.”
“You told her?”
“Relax,” he replied easily, waving a hand. “I didn’t spill anything. Just said you’ve been meaning to take her out and you’re too much of a coward to schedule it yourself.”
“Are you kidding me?” Nero replied, feeling his stomach lurch.
“Not at all. You should’ve seen her face – she lit up like I told her she won the lottery.”
Dante leaned forward on his elbows, his smile softening into something just shy of earnest. “Look, Nero. You’ve been dragging your feet for months. You don’t need a demon-slaying pep talk; you need a damn push. And that’s me.”
Nero ran a hand down his face, groaning into his palm.
“Unbelievable. You’re insufferable.”
“Thank you,” he replied brightly.
“And what if I don’t go?” Nero asked, glaring at the reservation card like it was mocking him.
“Then you’re an idiot,” Dante said bluntly, tipping his mug in salute. “And I’ll just keep rescheduling until you do. Might even up the stakes – next time, I’ll make it a double date and drag someone along just to watch you squirm.”
Nero groaned again, half tempted to set the card on fire just to spite him. But deep down, under the irritation and the nerves knotting in his chest, there was something else: anticipation. Dante wasn’t wrong. Kyrie deserved more than half-broken, almost-confessions in kitchens and doorways. She deserved to hear it properly, without distractions.
He shoved the card into his pocket with a scowl. “You’re lucky she can tolerate you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t mess it up this time.” Dante chuckled.
The restaurant was quiet, softly lit, the kind of place Dante would probably call ‘fancy’ just because it had tablecloths. Amber light spilled from old-fashioned lamps that cast everything in a warm glow, the kind that made the dark wood tables gleam and softened the edges of the world. Nero wasn’t exactly used to places like this – usually some ‘dinners’ meant takeout cartons balanced on the arm of a couch or a greasy pizza box on Dante’s counter. This felt different. Important. Which was exactly what made his pulse run uneven, his collar feel just a little too tight.
And then there was Kyrie. She sat across from him, the light catching in her hair, her dress simple but elegant. Not that it mattered – she could’ve worn a jacket three sizes too big and still looked beautiful in that effortless way she always did. The sight of her nearly derailed his resolve before they’d even ordered. He had to force his eyes away, grabbing the menu like it was a lifeline.
They talked, at first, about little things; the sort of easy rhythm they’d always had together. Kyrie told him about a funny mix-up at the church with the flower arrangements, her voice bubbling with amusement as she described volunteers tripping over buckets and Nico accidentally turning up to deliver a part covered in grease. Nero added his own gripes about Nico’s latest ‘upgrade’ to the van that had ended up with smoke pouring out of the engine and Dante cackling in the background. He even managed to laugh, and the sound startled him with how natural it felt.
But under the table, his hands wouldn’t unclench. They stayed tight, knuckles white, drumming against his thigh when he thought she wasn’t looking. He knew what he’d come here to do – what Dante had forced his hand into doing – and yet every time he thought about saying it, the words caught like barbs in his throat.
Dinner came and went. He barely remembered what he’d eaten, only that Kyrie kept smiling at him over the rim of her glass, calm and warm, and every time she did, his heart squeezed a little tighter. He told himself: after this bite, after this story, after she finishes that laugh. But he kept missing his moments, kept fumbling them away, until the waiter appeared with dessert.
It wasn’t much: two small plates, one with something chocolate and one with something fruit-topped. But the sight of them made Nero’s stomach drop. Dessert meant the night was ending.
He was out of time.
He stared at his fork for a long second before setting it down, palms suddenly slick with sweat. He leaned forward slightly, not trusting himself to stay steady otherwise. “Kyrie,” he said, his voice lower than he meant it to be.
She set her fork down, too, her gaze meeting his across the table. It was steady, gentle, a look that always made him feel like she saw right through him. Somehow, that was never frightening; it was grounding. Like she already knew, but she wanted him to be the one to say it.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he continued, forcing the words past the tightness in his chest. “For a while now.”
Her lips curved just slightly, the corners of her eyes softening with patience and an encouraging stare.
And suddenly the panic eased, just enough. He realized he didn’t need Dante’s theatrics, or Nico’s jokes, or some perfect moment staged with roses and candles. It was just her. Just Kyrie. And she was already waiting for him.
“I love you,” he said, quiet but certain, like it had been carved into him long before he found the courage to speak it out loud.
Her smile deepened, her eyes bright, shimmering with something tender that made his breath catch. “I know,” she said softly. “And I love you, too.”
For once, there were no interruptions. No teasing from Dante crashing in, no self-sabotage, no panic pushing him to change the subject at the last second. Just her, smiling across the table, and the immense, almost dizzying relief of finally laying down what he’d been carrying for so long.
And when she reached across the table, slipping her hand into his, he realized he hadn’t even noticed how tightly he’d been holding himself until then – because with just that touch, the tension melted away.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Nero allowed himself to finally breathe.