I wasn’t exactly... prepared for something like that.
“I’d love to,” I said honestly, “but as you can see, I’m not dressed for it. Maybe another time?”
He studied me for a moment—not judging, just observing—then tilted his head, that same easy smile still in place.
“Well, in that case...” His tone turned playful, but there was something earnest underneath it. “I have to ask for your number.”
My brows lifted slightly.
“So we can schedule that ‘another time.’”
A beat passed.
Not uncomfortable.
Just... thoughtful.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
“Why don’t you enter your number here?” I said, unlocking the screen and opening a new contact. “And I’ll call you.”
His smile shifted—something softer flickering across his face as he took the phone from me.
Dante lowered his gaze to my phone, his fingers moving with easy confidence as he typed in his number.
He didn’t rush it.
Each tap felt deliberate, like he wanted it to count.
When he finished, he didn’t just save the contact—he named it “Dante” and added a small wave emoji beside it.
Playful. Unapologetic.
A quiet signature of who he was.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he pressed the call button.
A second later, his own phone buzzed in his pocket.
He silenced it immediately, a faint, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his lips, as though the moment had gone exactly as he intended.
He handed my phone back.
Our fingers brushed.
It wasn’t accidental.
The touch lingered—just a fraction longer than necessary—warm, steady, and oddly grounding.
There was no pressure in it, no demand.
Just... intention. And somehow, it didn’t feel like intrusion.
It felt normal.
Like something from another life entirely.
“I’ll call you, Elena,” he said, his voice low and easy.
