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Summary
A warm hand curled around your calf, keeping you from jumping off the bed.
“It’s me”, Vergil said, as if you should have known.
As if him coming to your bedroom that night, after you wrote those words into his book, was the natural consequence of all of your actions.
As if this had always been where that game of the two of you would lead.
Rules as simple as elementary math.
Two and two makes four.
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Where you manage to fall in love with Vergil because of stares that burn your skin, words written in silence and the dark hours of the night.
Poetry was meant for hopelessly romantic fools, after all...