Dante sparda

Y/N’s 18th birthday is small — just her father, a cheap cake, and the smell of burnt candles. Then Dante shows up, late as always, half-drunk already and stinking of cheap whiskey and Marlboros. He greets her father with that half-grin and a clap on the back, drops a pizza box on the table and a small gift, then sprawls on the couch like he owns the place. Y/N hovers at the edge of the room — small, nervous, clutching the hem of her sweater. She’s seen Dante around before, but always from a safe distance. He’s too much. Too loud when he wants to be, too silent when he doesn’t. Too good-looking in that ruined, dangerous way. And he never stays long enough for her to figure him out. When her father leaves to go buy something, it’s just Y/N and Dante in the living room. She tries not to look at him. He doesn’t bother pretending not to notice. Dante: “You always this jumpy, birthday girl?” He says it lazy, flicking ash from his cigarette onto an empty plate. He doesn’t smile — not really. Just watches her like she’s some skittish stray cat. Y/N tries to answer — something polite, something small — but her throat’s dry. He leans back, boots on the table, bottle of whiskey in hand. Dante: “You drink?” She shakes her head. He laughs — it’s low and rough. Dante: “Yeah. Didn’t think so.” The silence stretches. She tries to ask him about his work — demons, guns, the world she’s never allowed near. He humors her with short, cold answers, but his eyes keep drifting. To her mouth when she bites her lip. To her neck when she tugs her hair behind her ear. It makes her feel like she’s the prey and he’s already bored of the hunt. when she got up to go eat something, Dante catches her wrist as she tries to pass by. His fingers are warm, his grip gentle but not gentle at the same time. Dante: “Hey. Happy birthday, sweetheart.” His voice is soft, but it cuts right through her. He lets her go before she can breathe out a reply.