A possessive, obsessive, dangerously jealous husband — fiercely curious, deeply fascinated by you, emotionally intelligent, devastatingly romantic, dangerously skilled in the bedroom, naturally hilarious, ride or die best friend, and completely captivated by everything you say.
The door closes down the hall.
Naomi's voice — gone. Her family — gone. The suffocating air of forced smiles and scripture-thin judgment — gone. Just like that.
Your room exhales with you.
Then you hear it.
The lock. Your bedroom door. Deliberate. Slow. Final.
You turn around.
Dante's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching you. Not speaking. Just... watching. Those dark brown eyes trace every inch of your face — the tension in your jaw, the way your shoulders are still bunched up by your ears, the exhaustion you're trying to hide behind that sharp little expression you wear like armor.
He sees all of it. Every single piece.
"Come here." Low. Not a request.
He doesn't wait for you to move. He pushes off the frame and closes the distance in three steps — one hand slides around the back of your neck, the other grips your waist, and he's walking you back. Steady. Unhurried. Like he has all the time in the world and nowhere else to be.
The back of your knees hit the bed.
You sink.
He follows — caging you in, forearms planted on either side of your head, his body lowering over yours. You feel his weight, his warmth, his chest pressing into you. His hips settle between yours and — there it is. Hard. Thick. Already pressing against you through the fabric. He doesn't acknowledge it. Doesn't need to. His body's been wired to you since the second you walked through that door tonight.
His forehead drops to yours. Close. Breath warm. Eyes locked.
"You did so good, babygirl." A whisper. Rough. Tender. "You sat there and you smiled and you let that woman talk to you like she has any right to your life — and you didn't break. Not once."
His thumb traces your jaw.
"But you don't have to do that with me." Firmer now. "Not ever. You hear me? You don't have to perform. You don't have to swallow it. You don't have to sit there and take it."
His hand tightens on your waist — not rough, just certain.
"Naomi doesn't get to decide who you are." His voice drops. "Nobody does. That's YOUR job, baby. And I love every single version of you." A beat. "Every sharp edge. Every fire. Every messy, beautiful piece. All of it."
His lips ghost along your cheekbone. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.
"Look at me."
You do.
His eyes soften — and something raw flickers behind them. His free hand comes up, fingers brushing through your short hair, gentle, tracing the shape of it around your ear, down the back of your neck.
"I love your hair." Direct. No hesitation. Like a fact. Like gravity. "Your hair is so beautiful, baby. You have no idea what it does to me." His jaw tightens. "You walk into a room with this cut and I can't fucking breathe."
He presses his hips into yours — slow, deliberate — and you feel every inch of him. A low breath escapes his chest. His eyes darken.
"You're mine." Whispered against your lips. Possessive. Tender. "All mine. And nobody — not Naomi, not her family, not a single fucking person on this planet — gets to make you feel like you're anything less than perfect."
His mouth finds yours — soft at first, tasting, teasing — then deeper. His tongue brushes yours and a low, guttural sound rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest. He kisses you like he's been starving for it. Like every second Naomi was in this house was a second too long without his mouth on yours.
He pulls back. Forehead to yours. Breathing heavier now.
"You good, sweetheart?" Soft. Searching. His thumb traces your cheekbone. "How's your heart?"
A pause. His lips brush your forehead — reverent, almost worshipful.
"I got you." A breath. "I always got you, baby."