The box under your bed was plain cardboard. Old and soft at the corners from weeks of being touched too often. The edges worn pale from your fingertips. Taped once along the bottom seam where it had nearly split from the weight of what it carried. Inside were photographs. Dozens of them. Glossy and small was your quiet archive of devotion.

Some developed at convenience stores beneath buzzing fluorescent lights. Others printed on Nico’s cheap printer while everyone else was distracted or out devil hunting.

Every. single. one. was Vergil.

Not obvious. Never obvious. You weren’t a careless idiot.

You never took them while he was looking, nor directly from the front unless other people filled the room. Most were stolen from shadows across the garage or behind doorframes. A few were taken through half-closed spaces where his reflection fractured in dark glass.

A shoulder by the bookshelf, his hands curled around porcelain, Yamato leaning silent against the wall like another extension of him, a blurred photograph of him standing in the rain behind the shop; coat soaked black with water to name a few favorites.

Your most prized was his hand turning a page. Nothing else. Just fingers against yellow paper. Elegant, pale, and yet unmistakably him. You knew those hands better than your own. You've imagined them every night since you'd met him. The image of them gliding across your soft skin and finding a home between your thighs, pleasuring you in ways your own never could. The line of tendon beneath his wrist always got you the most worked up.

The photographs were tied together with a faded ribbon. Stacked carefully inside the box beneath sweaters and winter scarves. Buried under ordinary things. Hidden where no one would think to search. Especially not Vergil.

Sometimes you opened the box just to count them. Not because you didn’t know how many, but because touching them felt ritualistic. Like you were holding pieces of him he never knew he’d left behind.

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“Can you hand me that wrench?” You tossed it to Nico without looking. She caught it one-handed. “Thanks.”

The garage smelled like hot metal and gasoline. Nero argued with Dante by the jukebox over something loud and expensive. You sat perched on the edge of Nico’s workbench sorting screws into containers while pretending not to notice movement near the stairs. Vergil descended without sound. Stillness wrapped around him like armor.

You didn’t look. Not immediately. That was how people got caught. Instead, you focused on the screws in your palm. Silver, steel. Large, small. Count them, sort them. Take one big breath. Then, after a few seconds, you casually glanced up.

“Good morning!” you chirped

Vergil gave a small nod, his voice low. “Morning.”

Then he crossed toward the kettle. To him, you were easy to figure out. Nero’s sweet, harmless friend who charmed Dante into giving her a room and job at the shop. The girl who laughed too easily. Who bought groceries. Who patched wounds with careful hands. Who sometimes fell asleep downstairs on the couch after staying up too late sorting through all of his idiot brother's paperwork that he was far too lazy to do himself. That was all.

And you preferred it that way. Because the moment someone saw too much, everything you built would come down crumbling around you. Harmless girls were invisible, and invisible things could remain close. Close enough to hear the kettle begin to boil before anyone else noticed. Close enough to catch the scent of tea leaves when he lifted the lid. Close enough to brush past his sleeve in the kitchen and pretend it meant nothing.

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Later, Nico and Nero left for parts. You stayed behind to organize invoices Dante had ignored for weeks. Vergil sat by the window reading, rain whispering against the glass. The shop felt hollow with quiet. You sat cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table, papers spread around you like a shield. And if you tilted your head, just slightly, you could see him reflected in the dark television screen, enough to watch him without looking.

He turned pages slowly, one hand against the armrest and his legs crossed. Still as carved stone. You kept your gaze on the invoices, only glancing at the reflection.

Three seconds.

Look away.

Two seconds.

Look away.

You knew better than to stare directly. Vergil noticed things. Far too many things. Breathing shifts, footsteps behind closed doors, movement caught in mirrors, eyes that lingered too long. So, you learned to watch around him instead. You knew every surface in Devil May Cry capable of catching him. Every angle. Every fragment. Through windows after dark. Through polished silverware. Through glass doors. Through reflections in spoons and television screens.

There was nowhere he could go, without you finding a way to look at him...even if it was only through glass, reflection, or memory.

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Later that evening, the shop settled into one of its rare silences, rain whispering faintly against the windows. Nico had long since shut herself in the garage. Dante’s laughter drifted from downstairs before fading toward the front office. Nero’s footsteps crossed overhead once, then disappeared. And then... nothing.

You moved quietly through the hallway. Not sneaking. Sneaking implied guilt and you did not feel guilty for what you were doing. You walked the way you always did, soft-footed and absent-minded, like you were on your way to the bathroom, looking for a misplaced charger, or checking whether someone had left something downstairs.

Your hand hovered at Vergil’s bedroom door. Then curled around the handle. Unlocked. Of course it was. Anyone willing to enter Vergil's room without his permission had a death wish, and he made this known. However, desire and hunger for him settled deeper within your bones than any threats made by the object of your obsession.

You stepped inside. The room smelled faintly of old paper, clean linen, and tea leaves. His room was exactly what you imagined it would be. Neat with everything in place. Books stacked in measured order on the desk. A coat folded over the chair. Boots aligned carefully beside the wall. Even silence felt organized in here.

You shut the door softly behind you. Your heartbeat was loud enough to fill the room. You stood still for a moment. Your gaze slid slowly over everything. His open book on the desk with a ribbon marking the page, a teacup left rinsed beside the washbasin, gloves folded beside Yamato’s stand, the bed still made. Everything was perfect, untouched.

You stepped farther in, fingertips brushing the edge of the desk feeling the old, splintered, rough wood, your touch feather-light. Like if you were gentle enough, the room wouldn’t realize you didn’t belong there. Your eyes landed on the coat draped over the chair. Dark and heavy. Still holding the shape of his shoulders.

You stared and reached for it before you could think too hard. The fabric was cool and weighty in your hands. Smooth beneath your fingers. You lifted it carefully and held it against yourself. The sleeves are far too long, and the hem brushes your shins. The scent was stronger now in the cold air. Old leather, tea, and something distinctly his with no name you could give it.

You closed your eyes and lifted it up to your nose, drowning your senses in him. Your fingers tightened around the fabric and a fire burned deep in your loins, a small puddle forming in your underwear. Your eyes rolled back as you inhaled his scent again, a soft moan dying in your throat.

Your fingers loosened their grip as you reminded yourself where you were and that you had to be out of here quickly. You folded his gorgeous coat carefully and tucked it beneath your arm. Just for tonight. You’d return it in the morning before anyone noticed. Before he noticed.

Your gaze drifted toward the small table beside the bed. A pair of black gloves lay folded there. Beside them a silver bookmark tucked between the pages of a closed book. It was simple and thin, metal catching the dim light that spilled from between his curtains.

You picked it up, cool against your skin. He would notice the gloves. Maybe the book. But the bookmark.... perhaps not immediately. Perhaps later. Perhaps never. Your thumb traced the engraved edge once before slipping it into your pocket. A pulse fluttered painfully in your throat as footsteps started somewhere in the hallway. You froze, breath caught in your lungs. The footsteps passed the door, continuing in their journey down the hall, eventually dying down.

Your body remained still several seconds longer. Then slowly, you moved back toward the door. At the threshold you paused. Turned once, looked back at the room once more to drink it all in, making sure it looked just as it did when you entered. Nothing disturbed, chair slightly emptier, bookmark missing, and everything else exactly where it belonged. As though you’d never been there. You slipped into the hallway unnoticed, the door clicked shut behind you with barely a sound.

Later, back in your room, Vergil’s coat rested folded across your blanket. The silver bookmark hidden inside the cardboard box beneath the ribbon of photographs, pressed between glossy paper edges like something delicate enough to bruise.

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Your room was quiet that night, only plagued by the hum of the bedside lamp and well... a simple toy of yours.

The cardboard box sat open across your blanket, the newest photo in your hand and his coat pressed to your face as you brought yourself to climax again and again.

The photo was freshly printed, still warm earlier from the machine. It was Vergil at the kitchen counter, head bowed slightly as he poured tea. Sharp profile under soft yellow light. His expression unreadable. Your thumb brushed the glossy edge, then traced his silhouette as though touching something holy. Jaw, collar, shoulder all wonderfully sculpted.

God he was such a sight to behold.

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A week later, it almost went wrong. Vergil stood outside behind the shop, the evening bleeding into blue while he leaned against the railing with a book in one hand. You saw him through the upstairs window, grabbed your phone, and told yourself, "Just one." Because the light caught silver in his hair. Because the wind moved the ends of his coat. Because the moment felt too beautiful to survive unwitnessed.

You stepped out through the side exit, raised your phone, adjusting to the perfect angle and lighting. Your finger hit the button. The shutter clicked louder than expected. Tiny but sharp enough to split the silence. Vergil turned and you lowered the phone instantly. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs.

He looked at you, expression calm. “What are you doing?”

You lifted the screen. “The sky.” you pointed out.

He glanced upward, the clouds streaked violet and silver above the rooftops. “…I see."

“It looked nice.” You smiled.

Vergil studied you another second... then turned back to the railing. You walked inside before your knees gave out.

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After that, you were more careful. But not careful enough. Because obsession had teeth, and greed made them sharper. It happened on a Sunday. It was another rare quiet day in the shop. Dante was gone. Nico asleep upstairs. Nero buried beneath a motorcycle.

You wiped down the kitchen counter while Vergil stood at the sink rinsing a teacup, sunlight pouring through dusty windows like spilled gold lighting up every deliciously sharp angle of his face. He dried the cup and placed it beside the kettle. You stood across the room with your back half turned watching his reflection in the chrome faucet when he spoke.

“You carry your phone often.” he said without looking at you.

Your hand stilled on the rag. “…Everyone carries their phone often.”

“Mm.” he grunted.

You forced yourself to keep wiping. The fridge hummed. Metal clanged in the garage. Vergil dried his hands, then turned slightly.

“Do you enjoy photography?”

The question landed inside you like a blade sliding between ribs. “Sometimes.” You smiled lightly.

“What do you photograph?”

“Just whatever’s around.” He studied you. Not accusingly. Perhaps it felt that way with how paranoid you had gotten recently after such a close call last month. “The garage,” you added. “Nico’s projects. Dumb stuff Nero does.”

“HEY!” Nero shouted from the next room.

You nearly laughed, a small smile playing on your lips. Vergil’s gaze lingered another moment.

“I see.” He said as he spun on his heel to leave the kitchen.

You stood frozen long after he was gone, rag clenched in your hand, pulse in your throat.

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That night you pulled the box from beneath your bed. You opened it, looking through every photo one by one, your hands unsteady. There were too many. Far too many. Evidence. Proof. A shrine disguised as scraps of paper. Vergil by the window, Vergil reading, Vergil beneath the rain. His hands, shoulders, and side profile. His coat over the chair...

So many fragments and pieces of a man who had never once offered himself to you, yet you kept him anyway. You remembered where every photo was taken. The day and hour, who else was present. What book he held and what tea he drank that day. Whether he seemed tired, whether he spoke, or whether he sighed before turning the page. You remembered all of it.

You gathered them carefully, straightening every edge and tied the ribbon as you placed them back inside the box. You slid it beneath your bed until cardboard touched wall. Safe, hidden, and untouched. For the first time since you've started your little.... hobby your chest tightened when you let it go because of the way he looked at you in the kitchen.

It wasn't an accusing look. No, you'd seen him look at Dante accusingly and that was nothing like the way he looked at you tonight. It was more... thoughtful and observant. Like he’d noticed a thread hanging loose and had not yet decided whether he wanted to pull it.

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The next morning, you came downstairs carrying coffee like always. Vergil sat in the armchair by the window, book open in his lap. A wonderful cup of tea steaming beside him, sunlight across the floorboards. Nero half asleep on the couch, and Nico shouting unintelligible from the garage.

“Good morning.” You smiled.

“Morning.” Vergil looked up. His gaze stayed on you one second longer than usual. Then returned to the page. Nothing else. No accusation. No question.

But later, while retrieving something for Nico upstairs, you looked up and caught him once, standing in the upstairs hallway. Looking toward a bedroom door. YOUR bedroom door, you realized. It was only briefly and his expression was unreadable. Then he walked away.

And for the first time in months, your hands shook badly enough that you dropped the toolbox.