you tell me it feels a little colder

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

The sharp knock does have Danta cramming Moira out of the window (Asta will hear a bright squawk of annoyance before silence to inform him that it's safe for him to walk inside), and as such the Maverick is on his feet by the time the other man properly appears. "Hey," he begins, though the smile on his face is already fading as he turns to face the butcher, already sagging back against his bedroom door.

One look is all it takes - the missing shirt and open waistcoat, the dishevelled appearance, the Halovian whiskey - and Danta can put two and two together without needing to ask any questions. "Oh, no," he says quietly, padding across the room to the other man, reaching out to brush a lock of dark hair out of his face. "Come on," he urges, trying to coax him away further into the room where Danta can sit him down and figure this all out.

"You're not hurt?" It's an assumption, but he can't see any injuries.

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //