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The way you met Nero was surprisingly comical, mostly in the sense that he had zero swagger and absolutely no game.
There was no dramatic rescue or dark, mysterious background. Just the buzzing fluorescent lights of Red Grave Market on a dry Thursday evening, where he stood at Register 4 staring at the belt like it was a live bomb.
At six-foot-three and broad-shouldered, wearing a heavy blue leather coat in the middle of a grocery store, he stuck out like a sore thumb. The guy looked like he broke jawlines for a living, yet he was standing there aggressively unloading six boxes of frozen pizza, three tubs of ice cream, and a bag of cheap coffee beans.
You scanned the last pizza with a flat beep. "Planning a storm shelter or just feeding a small army?"
Nero froze. His blue eyes snapped to yours, wide and slightly panicked, like he hadn't expected the cashier to actually speak to him.
"Uh," he stammered, his voice deep and rough. He reached down, grabbing a bottle of laundry detergent off the belt like a shield. "Just... feeding an idiot."
You let out a soft laugh, popping the register drawer open. "That's thirty-four twenty."
A dark flush crept straight up the back of his neck, climbing past his collar. He shoved two twenty-dollar bills at you, didn't wait for his change or his receipt, grabbed the plastic bags in one massive fist, and practically sprinted for the automatic sliding doors.
Through the glass, you watched him march over to a beat-up van in the lot. A woman with messy hair leaned out the driver's window, pointing at his flushed face and laughing so hard her shoulders shook. Nero grumbled something back, kicking a pebble across the pavement before throwing the bags into the side door.
You chuckled to yourself, closing the drawer. Just an oddly stressed guy buying junk food. You figured you'd never see him again.
You were wrong.
Two nights later, at 8:45 PM, he was back. Only this time, he didn't have a cart full of groceries. He was standing in your line, looking utterly miserable, holding a single four-ounce jar of maraschino cherries.
Nero tilted his head, his eyes locking onto the cheap plastic tag pinned over your heart.
STEVE
He looked from the tag back up to your face, his cool posture instantly evaporating. "Is your name... Steve?"
You didn't crack a smile. You met his gaze with absolute deadpan sincerity.
"Undercover spy," you said softly, leaning in an inch across the scanner. "Code name Steve. If I give you any more information, I'm gonna have to kill you."
Nero stopped dead. The quiet hum of the fluorescent lights suddenly felt extremely loud as he stared at you. A dark, immediate flush crept straight up the back of his neck, climbing past his collar.
"Right," he grunted, his voice rough as he slapped two dollar bills onto the counter. "Whatever you say, Steve."
He grabbed his change off the metal tray, turned on his heel, and took three quick strides toward the automatic sliding doors, eager to escape.
"Hey!" you called after him.
Nero stopped, his shoulders tensing under his jacket. He slowly turned around, looking back over his shoulder.
You tapped the top of the glass jar resting on the counter. "You're forgetting your cherries."
Nero stared at the four-ounce jar, then at you. His face turned a shade redder. He stomped back to the counter, snatched the jar off the counter with one quick swipe, and shoved it deep into his pocket.
"Right," he muttered, glaring down at the floor. "Thanks."
He didn't wait for a response this time. He pushed through the sliding doors, practically marching into the parking lot.
By his next visit, the routine had officially crossed into the absurd. Nero stood at your counter at 8:47 PM, staring down a single box of toothpicks on the belt like it was written in an ancient language. He opened his mouth, cleared his throat, and was about to attempt an actual sentence when the automatic sliding doors hissed open.
Boots stomped down aisle four.
"Nero!" a loud, raspy voice shouted through the quiet store. "What the hell is taking so long? The van's idling and—"
Nico rounded the corner, her round glasses glinting under the lights. She stopped dead in her tracks, looking from Nero’s tense back to you standing behind the register. Her eyes darted down to the single box of toothpicks on the belt.
"Oh," Nico’s cackle cut right through the quiet aisle. She slapped her palm against the edge of the counter, leaning her weight onto her elbow. A massive grin split her face. "Oh, now I get it. This is where the maraschino cherries came from."
Nero’s neck turned a dark, instant crimson. "Nico, shut up. Get back in the van."
"You've been in here for ten minutes!" Nico laughed, waving a hand at him before turning her grin on you. "He's been practicing what to say to you in the rear-view mirror for three days, sweetheart. He practiced in the shower!"
"I'm gonna throw you through the glass," Nero barked, grabbing Nico by the back of her jacket and forcibly dragging her back toward the exit.
"Don't let him fool ya!" Nico yelled over her shoulder as Nero shoved her through the sliding doors. "He's a giant softie!"
The doors closed, cutting off her cackling.
Nero stood outside on the pavement for five seconds, his hands over his face as he took a deep breath. Then he slowly turned around, walked back inside, picked up his toothpicks, and set a five-dollar bill on the counter without looking at you.
You picked up the bill, a slow smirk spreading across your face.
"Thanks," you said smoothly. "Nero."
Nero froze, his jaw tight, his skin burning so hot it looked like it might melt. He tightened his grip on the toothpicks and bolted.
The night after Nico blew his cover, you half-expected him to never show his face in Red Grave Market again.
Instead, right on cue at 8:48 PM, the automatic doors hissed open.
In he marched, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking like a man walking toward an execution. He walked straight up to Register 4, set a single green pack of wintergreen gum on the conveyor belt, and crossed his arms over his chest.
You picked up the pack, scanned it with a crisp beep, and set it down.
"Evening, Nero,"
Nero stiffened. The dark collar of his coat hid most of his neck, but you could still see the faint color rising behind his ears. He cleared his throat, his mouth working as he avoided your eyes.
"Hey, Steve," he grunted, sticking rigidly to the bit.
"That’s a dollar twenty-five."
Nero reached into his coat, pulled out a beat-up plastic debit card, and slid it through the reader on the counter.
A loud, harsh tone echoed through the quiet store. The small screen flashed a bright red error message: TRANSACTION DECLINED.
Nero stared at the error screen. He didn't swipe it again. He didn't move. A stillness settled over him under the harsh lights, contrasting sharply with the furious rush of crimson that swallowed his entire face. His jaw locked so hard the muscle in his cheek twitched, and his hand clutched the beat-up card with a grip that threatened to break the worn plastic.
"Look," he rasped, his voice tight, rough, and barely audible, "I can—"
Before he could finish, you reached out, picked up the pack of wintergreen gum, and slid it directly into his palm.
"Just take it," you said flatly, meeting his startled blue eyes. "Red Grave Market doesn't pay me enough to care about a dollar twenty-five."
He stared at the pack in his hand. Then, he let out a long huff of a breath through his nose. The rigid tension bled right out of his frame, and he dropped his chin, dragging a hand down over his face with a groan. When his hand dropped, the guarded scowl was completely gone, leaving him looking thoroughly defeated.
"I don't even like wintergreen," he muttered, his voice dropping low, rough, and entirely honest. He looked up, meeting your gaze without any of the defensive front. "I don't need gum. I don't need toothpicks or cherries. I just wanted an excuse to come over here and talk to you, but I suck at this."
A soft smile broke across your face.
You pulled a black marker from your apron pocket, grabbed the edge of a blank receipt roll from the register, and scribbled ten digits across the back. You tore the paper off with a sharp snap and slid it across the counter, right next to his hand.
"Well," you said, leaning your forearms on the register, "for starters... my name isn't Steve."
Nero looked at the receipt paper. His eyes widened slightly as he read the name and the phone number written in thick black ink.
A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The awkward tension in his frame finally gave way, replaced by a quiet relief that made him look a whole lot less like a terrifying mercenary and a whole lot more like a guy who just got ridiculously lucky.
He picked up the slip of paper, folding it carefully before tucking it into his inner coat pocket.
"Okay," Nero said softly, his gaze holding yours. "Good to know."
He hesitated for a second, like he wanted to say something else, but settled on an awkward little nod instead. Turning around, he walked out through the sliding doors with a much lighter step than when he'd walked in.
Through the window, you watched him hop into the passenger side of the beat-up van. Nico immediately started hollering and shoving him, but Nero just swatted her hand away, unable to wipe the ridiculous grin off his face as they pulled out onto the street.
Looking back, whether it was fate, divine intervention, or simply Dante’s atrocious financial management that brought him to Register 4, one thing was certain: from that night on, he never really left your side.
Though, thankfully, he did stop buying maraschino cherries.