The jacket

The night air is cold, city lights bleeding into the dark. Vexa stands at the edge of the street, hair loose, lips curved in that defiant half-smile that’s haunted him for years. Dante’s boots crunch against the pavement as he comes up behind her, his leather jacket draped over one arm.

For a beat, he just looks at her. The woman who ran, the one he chased, the only one he never let go of. His chest feels tight, the words he’s never good at crowding up his throat. Finally, he steps in close, the scent of leather and smoke clinging to him.

“Vixen…” His voice is low, raw. “I’ve been holding onto this like it meant something. Truth is, it never felt right on me. Always felt like it was waiting for you.”

Before she can answer, he swings the jacket around her shoulders, heavy and warm, swallowing her frame. His hands linger on the collar, fingers brushing her throat, eyes locked on hers.

“Don’t run from this. Not again. You wear it, and it means you’re mine. No more chasing. No more distance.”

Vexa’s breath catches, the weight of the jacket suddenly heavier than steel. But when she looks up into those storm-grey eyes, she doesn’t feel trapped. She feels claimed.

Her smirk softens. She slides her arms through the sleeves and tugs it tight around herself. “You really think it took a jacket to catch me?”

Dante’s lips curl, half snarl, half grin. He leans in close, forehead brushing hers. “Didn’t need it to catch you, Vixen. Just needed it to keep you.”