Ophelia's POV
The city looked different from inside Dante's car.
Quieter. More intimate. As though the world beyond the tinted windows didn't exist, only the low hum of the engine, the faint scent of his cologne, and the steady presence beside her.
"You're quiet," Dante said, eyes on the road.
Ophelia smiled faintly. "I'm thinking."
"Dangerous habit," he replied.
She turned to look at him. "You noticed."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "I notice most things."
They arrived at a small restaurant tucked away from the main streets, elegant without being loud. Discreet. The kind of place that didn't attract unnecessary attention.
She raised an eyebrow. "You own this one too?"
"No," he said simply. "I come here when I want to breathe."
Something about that made her chest tighten.
Inside, the lighting was soft, amber. The table was set for two near a window overlooking the city. Dante pulled her chair out, his hand lingering just long enough at her back to make her inhale sharply.
The moment settled between them.
"I don't usually let people this close," Ophelia admitted once they'd ordered.
Dante studied her. "Yet here you are."
She nodded. "I don't know why."
He leaned back slightly. "You don't feel like you have to explain yourself to me."
That startled her.
She lowered her gaze, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. "I've always been careful. Controlled. But with you…" She hesitated. "I don't feel small. Or afraid."
His jaw tightened.
"That's dangerous," he said quietly.
"For me?" she asked.
"For anyone who threatens it."
The air shifted.
She reached across the table without thinking, her fingers brushing his. He didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his hand, threading their fingers together, firm and deliberate.
The contact sent a spark through her entire body.
"I shouldn't want you the way I do," Dante said, voice low. "You're too… good."
Her breath caught. "And you think you're not?"
"I know I'm not."
She squeezed his hand. "You saved me. You've been gentle. Patient. That counts for something."
His thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow and grounding. "I don't get gentle with people."
Her heart skipped. "Then why me?"
Dante leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Because when I look at you, I want to be."
The confession hung between them, raw and dangerous.
When they left the restaurant, the city felt closer, louder, alive. He didn't drive immediately. Instead, he rested his hand at her waist, steady, protective.
"I don't want to rush this," she said softly.
"I won't," he promised. "But understand this, Ophelia, once I let myself want something, I don't half-want."
She turned toward him, her forehead resting briefly against his shoulder. "Then maybe… we're both already in trouble."
His hand tightened at her waist.
"Yes," he said quietly. "We are."