Dante

Dante was already irritated, boots planted in the dust beside the half-finished wall. He held the blueprint like it had personally offended him. “You cannot take the pillar out,” he said, voice tight. “You remove it, this whole section collapses. Collapses, beautiful. As in—falls. Down.” She didn’t even blink. Her heels clicked once as she stepped closer, the edge of her skirt brushing her thigh, tie loose and swinging with every shift of her weight. “It will block the entire window,” she countered calmly. “You want the buyers to look directly at a column? Really?” Dante dragged a hand through his hair like he was physically restraining himself. “What I want is for gravity to continue working the way it always has.” She crossed her arms, the pinstriped vest tightening around her waist in a way he tried very hard not to notice. “There are other ways to distribute the load. If you just listen for once—” “Oh, I am listening,” he snapped. “I’m listening to you trying to turn a house into modern art with a death wish.” She stepped closer—too close—and tapped the blueprint with one perfectly sharp nail. “This,” she said, “can be fixed without ruining the view.” Dante’s jaw flexed. He leaned down, face inches from hers. “And this,” he said, tapping the same spot, “is where the house decides whether it stands or becomes a very expensive pancake.” For a moment, neither of them moved. The tension between them hummed like live wiring. Finally, she exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “You’re impossible.” “And you,” Dante said, forcing himself to step back before he did something stupid, “are wearing an outfit no one can argue in front of rationally.” She smirked. “So you agree I’m right.” He groaned into his hands. “God help me.” And just like that, they were back at it—circling, snapping, pretending this wasn’t the most fun either of them had all day.

The party is loud, warm, and absolutely pointless — neither of them remembers what it’s supposed to be celebrating. The lights are low and golden, music pulsing lazily through the hall, people talking in messy clusters. Dante arrives first, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact. He scans the room with that habitual annoyance etched into his stare… until he sees her.

She steps in wearing that fitted outfit that makes half the guests pause mid-sentence. Her hair loose, her eyes bright from the cold night air, a devious little smirk already playing on her lips. She spots Dante instantly. They meet halfway through the crowd, stopping just close enough to feel each other’s presence, pretending it’s casual.

They talk at the drink table, trading their usual sarcasm but softer, slower. A few glasses in, their edges start to loosen — her laugh gets a little too warm, his gaze lingers a little too long. He keeps looking at her mouth when she’s not noticing. She absolutely notices.

At some point, they end up sitting side by side on a balcony couch, sharing a plate of something they can’t even name. The night air is cool, the alcohol buzzing pleasantly in their blood. She leans toward him when she talks, her knee brushing his. He doesn’t pull away. He can’t.

Their jokes turn into glances, their glances into smiles that say way too much. She bumps his shoulder playfully; he bumps back, a little harder, earning a look from her that could melt steel. A curl of tension snaps between them — warm, mischievous, electric.

Inside, the party rolls on aimlessly, but out here, it feels like the world has narrowed down to two people pretending they’re not thinking the same dangerous thing. Dante watches her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling just enough to betray the moment.

He exhales, low and rough, and she meets his eyes — and for once, neither of them says a word.

Dante woke before the sun, that faint blue light leaking through his blinds and washing over the room. His head felt thick, his body pleasantly heavy — then he shifted, and the warmth beside him made everything stop. She was curled against his chest, one leg hooked over his, her arm draped across his stomach like she’d always slept there. The sheet was tangled around their hips, both of them bare under it, skin against skin. Her hair spilled across his shoulder and collarbone, soft and messy, smelling faintly of her perfume and last night’s madness. For a moment, he just stared. Her face looked completely different when she slept — relaxed, peaceful, none of the sharp teasing or stubborn confidence she always carried like armor. Her lips were slightly parted, breath warm against his skin. A tiny frown tugged between her brows, as if even in sleep she was ready to argue with him about something structural. He almost laughed. His hand had ended up on her waist at some point during the night — resting there naturally, like it belonged. He realized he was tracing slow, unconscious circles on her skin with his thumb. He froze, then didn’t stop. Dante swallowed, trying to piece together the fragments of last night: the balcony, her laugh, that moment her hand slid into his hair, the kiss that destroyed any remaining self-control. Everything after that was heat and hands and wanting her so badly he’d stopped pretending otherwise. He looked at her again, at how small she seemed curled against him, at how perfectly she fit there. Something warm and dangerous stirred in his chest. “…damn,” he whispered to himself. As if on cue, she shifted closer, nuzzling into his neck with a sleepy sigh, her fingers tightening over his ribs. And Dante — the grumpy, no-nonsense bricklayer who’d spent months arguing with her about pillars and windows and parking spaces — melted instantly. “Don’t do that,” he murmured quietly, voice rough. “You’re gonna make this complicated.” But his arm tightened around her