The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop. Its windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted beans and cinnamon. Serena hesitated at the door, every nerve in her body telling her to turn back.
But Dante was already holding it open. "Ladies first."
She stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor. The low hum of conversation wrapped around her, a soothing backdrop compared to the storm inside her chest. Dante guided her to a table in the corner, away from the crowd.
For a few moments, silence stretched between them as they ordered—her a cappuccino, him a simple black coffee. It felt strange, almost surreal, sitting across from a man who radiated danger yet carried himself like an old friend.
"You don't look like the type who enjoys small talk," she finally said, wrapping her hands around the warm cup when it arrived.
Dante leaned back, studying her with that calm intensity. "And you don't look like the type who lets herself get hurt so easily."
The words landed harder than she expected. Serena's throat tightened. "If you followed me here to criticize my choices, you can leave now."
A flicker of amusement passed his face. "I'm not here to criticize. I'm here because I saw someone hurting, and I don't like seeing you like that."
Serena blinked. His voice carried no mockery, only a blunt honesty that unsettled her even more. "You don't even know me."
"Don't I?" His eyes didn't waver. "I know enough to see you deserve better than a boy who plays with hearts. You're stronger than you think."
Her chest squeezed. No one—not even her friends—had said it like that. They had comforted her, joked with her, but Dante spoke as if he saw her, as if her pain was more than temporary heartbreak.
She shifted uncomfortably, needing to break the spell. "And what about you? What do you do, Dante? Besides showing up everywhere I go?"
He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I handle… business. Nothing you need to worry about."
Serena tilted her head, suspicion flickering. "That's vague."
"Sometimes vague is safer."
His words should have scared her, but instead they pulled her closer. A dangerous curiosity lit inside her—who was he really? And why did she feel an unexplainable pull toward him?
The bell above the door jingled suddenly, cutting through her thoughts. Serena's blood ran cold when she saw Ethan walk in. His eyes swept the room, and then froze on her.
Her pulse hammered. She hadn't prepared for this—not yet, not here.
"Serena," Ethan said, approaching quickly. His voice was desperate, raw. "Please, just hear me out. You don't understand what you saw. I made a mistake, but I—"
Dante stood slowly, his presence towering, commanding. He didn't raise his voice, didn't threaten, but the steel in his tone was undeniable.
"She doesn't owe you an explanation. Or an audience."
Ethan bristled, his fists clenching. "Who the hell are you?"
Dante's gaze didn't waver. "The man telling you to walk away."
For a moment, the air between them was a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap. Serena sat frozen, her hands gripping the edge of the table, her heart caught between fear and a strange, dangerous sense of safety.
Ethan's eyes flicked between her and Dante, his expression torn. Finally, with a muttered curse, he turned and stormed out, the bell jingling harshly in his wake.
The silence that followed was deafening. Serena stared at Dante, questions swirling inside her. But for now, she said nothing. For now, she only breathed.