He’s still standing too close. The space crackles with tension I can’t name.
Finally, he steps back and takes my phone. “You’ll get it again when I can make it safe.”
I don’t argue this time. My voice might shake if I do.
The next morning, the room is too quiet.
I wake up disoriented, the smell of coffee and expensive linen everywhere.
For a second, I forget where I am.
Then I see the skyline through the glass and remember everything.
I roll out of bed, stretching sore muscles, and tug one of his shirts—someone must’ve left it folded on the chair—over my tank top. The hem hits mid-thigh. It smells like cedar and sin.
The hall is empty when I pad out. The floor is cold under my bare feet, and I swear the air here carries secrets.
The kitchen gleams like no one ever cooks in it. I open a cabinet—rows of imported coffee beans, expensive liquor, not a single box of cereal. Typical.
A sound behind me makes me jump.
“Hi.”
I turn to find Sofia standing there, hair wild from sleep, clutching a stuffed rabbit.
“Oh. Hi.” I smile, softer now. “You startled me.”
She grins. “You look funny in Papà’s shirt.”
I glance down and laugh under my breath. “Yeah, I bet I do.”
“Are you his friend?” she asks again, the same question as last night.
I hesitate. “I’m… trying to be.”
She nods, as if that makes perfect sense. “Okay. Do you want pancakes? Nicole usually makes them, but she’s not here yet.”
“I can make pancakes,” I offer. “But only if you help.”
Sofia’s eyes light up. “Deal.”
We spend the next half hour making a disaster of his kitchen—flour everywhere, chocolate chips on the counter, laughter echoing through marble walls that probably haven’t heard joy in years.
When I flip a pancake too high and it lands on the floor, Sofia snorts so hard she nearly drops her spatula.
It’s… nice.
Too nice.
Somewhere in the middle of our chaos, I catch movement near the hall.
Dante stands there, half in shadow, watching us.
Not moving. Not saying a word.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up, the top buttons undone, and his tie hangs loose around his neck. There’s something unreadable in his expression as his gaze moves from Sofia’s flour-dusted hair to my bare legs, to the batter-smeared counter, and back again.
He doesn’t step in.
