When he sees me, he quirks a brow. “You here to enjoy the show? Another viral video, perhaps?” He inspects his IV like he’s going to pull it out.
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair.
“I’m here to make sure you’re breathing, asshole.”
“Aw,Lucciolina.” He grins. “You do care.”
Dante’s lips are just starting to curl into another smartass comment when pain hits him.
His whole body seizes.
“Merda—” he chokes out, jaw clenched, one hand flying to his thigh.
The way his face twists—sharp pain and surprise—has me moving before I even register it.
“Hey. Hey,” I murmur, stepping in close.
My hand slides over his, catching it through the blanket. I press it down—not hard, just enough to anchor him, to let him know I’ve got him. That he doesn’t have to brace through it alone.
But his breathing is ragged now, uneven. One hand grips my wrist like a vise. His other hand fists the sheets.
I slip beneath the blanket. The warmth of his bare skin punches through me. Jesus. The muscle’s locked, tight as a wire, and my fingers move instinctively—slow, steady circles just above the cramp. I keep my touch firm, careful.
His breath catches.
And when I glance at his face?—
He’s staring at me.Reallystaring.
Eyes heavy-lidded but razor focused. His lashes cast low shadows, but nothing dims that look—like he sees every thought racing through me. Every place my mind is going. Every place my hands have already been.
There’s a pull in my chest, hot and coiled. A hum beneath my skin. Like I’ve grabbed a live wire and can’t let go.
He’s not watching me with that usual sharp-edged mockery, but something quieter. Heavier. Something that makes it impossible to breathe.
There’s a dark freckle high on his left cheek. A small scar at the base of his chin—one I’ve seen a thousand times but never like this. His mouth is parted, lips full, and his breathing matches mine—too fast, too shallow, like we’re both seconds from something we can’t take back.
I don’t say anything. Can’t.
Because this? This isn’t banter or bravado. This is real.
His fingers tighten around my wrist.
Just slightly. Just enough to make sure I feel it.
And then he shifts.
His legs part, just a little. Just enough.
The message is clear. He’s not asking.
He’s offering.
And then his hand moves.
“Dante,” I say again, voice lower now. Rougher.
He doesn’t answer. Just holds my wrist as his body stays tense beneath mine. He breathes through another wave of pain—or maybe it’s something else entirely—and then he guides me.
