Even though he gave a small nod, Dante still didn't move from where he half-knelt on the bed in front of her. The muscles in his shoulders tightened, his breath slow but deliberate. He stayed there, hovering over her like a shadow that refused to break away.
Isadora leaned back instinctively, the edge of the bed dipping beneath her weight, as though some part of her wanted to create space between them.
But she couldn't look away. The air between them was alive—charged, heavy, and trembling with words that neither of them seemed ready to say.
Silence lingered until Dante's voice cut through it—low, steady, yet holding something rough at the edges.
"Do you want me to take off your shirt," he asked quietly, "or will you?"
