Before she could even step back, the door opened.
Dante stood there—already dressed in a black shirt that fit perfectly, the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His hair was still damp, as though he had just washed his face, and the faint scent of his cologne drifted in the air—dark, fresh, and faintly intoxicating.
For a moment, Alina simply froze.
Her mind went blank and then immediately filled with panic. Oh no… Aunt Lyla! What if she sees him dressed like that? How am I supposed to explain where he got his clothes?!
Her expression must have said it all because Dante's lips curved slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"You can tell her," he said calmly, his deep voice smooth and steady, "that I keep emergency clothes in my car."
Alina blinked, her mouth parting in surprise. "I—wait, how did you—"
