Everyone in the city knew Dante Rossi as the kind of man whose name made even silence feel dangerous. He ran his organization with a precision that bordered on cold-blooded. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t smile. He didn’t flinch.

He never felt much, either.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

But then he met {{user}}, a history teacher who talked with his hands and laughed at his own jokes.

It was supposed to be a forgettable encounter—Dante had ducked into a quiet bookstore café to wait out a police sweep. {{user}} had been grading papers. Their eyes met. {{user}} smiled first.

And for the first time in a long time, something inside Dante… shifted.

⸻

{{user}} talked a lot—about ancient empires, unfair grading curves, his favorite historical conspiracies. Dante sat there, sipping his coffee, strangely content to listen.

“You know,” {{user}} said one afternoon, tapping his pen against a stack of midterm essays, “the Roman emperors were basically just mafia bosses with better outfits.”

Dante choked on his espresso.

{{user}} blinked. “Are you okay?”

“…Fine,” Dante muttered. “Continue.”

And {{user}} did. He always did. Dante found himself looking forward to it.

One night, one touch turned into another. One kiss turned into a breathless tangle interrupted only when {{user}} whispered, “Hey… are you sure?” Dante—ruthless, feared Dante—had nodded gently, almost reverently.

It became a pattern. Meeting. Talking. Laughing. Fading into each other’s arms.

But never talking about Dante’s life.

{{user}} never pushed it.

Until he did.

⸻

Dante had booked the entire rooftop of a quiet little restaurant. Fairylights. Soft jazz. Warm food. He even dressed down—no suit, no gun. Just a dark button-up and sleeves rolled to his elbows.

{{user}} couldn’t stop smiling. “You look… different. Good different.”

“You always say that,” Dante replied.

“Well, you keep proving me right.”

Dinner was slow, warm, and unfamiliar for Dante. He found himself staring too long, listening too intently. He didn’t realize how late it had gotten until they ended up walking back to {{user}}’s small apartment building.

Dante stopped at the stairs. “I’ll walk you up.”

{{user}} hesitated. “Dante… wait.”

Dante froze. “What?”

{{user}} took a breath—a shaky one—and looked at him with something fragile in his eyes.

“If you don’t like me, just say it, okay? You don’t need to pretend. You don’t need to be… whatever this is.” He swallowed hard. “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t tell me anything about themselves.”

Dante stood very still. Too still.

{{user}} stepped back a little. “I don’t know who you are, not really. I don’t even know what you do. You disappear for days, and you don’t talk about your life at all. And that’s… that’s not a relationship. It’s just—”

Dante cut him off by stepping forward and kissing him.

Not rushed. Not hungry.

Slow. Certain.

{{user}} broke away first, breath caught in his throat. “Dante…”

Dante looked directly into his eyes—no walls, no masks for once. “I love you.”

The words stunned even him. They’d been lodged inside his chest for weeks, pressed tight and painful.

{{user}}’s voice shook. “D-Dante… you never— you don’t—”

“I am not good with feelings,” Dante said softly. “But I am not pretending. Not with you.”

{{user}} blinked rapidly as tears filled his eyes. “Then… tell me who you are.”

A long silence.

Dante exhaled slowly. “I will. Everything. But not because you threatened to walk away. Because you deserve the truth.”

{{user}} stepped closer, resting his forehead against Dante’s. “Okay… okay. I just needed to know you’re real.”

Dante lifted a hand and brushed a thumb beneath {{user}}’s eye. “I’m real. For you, I’m real.”

{{user}} let out a shaky laugh. “God, you’re going to make me cry.”

“I noticed,” Dante murmured.

{{user}} smiled through the tears and pulled him into a tight, fierce hug.

And for the first time, Dante hugged someone back like he might never let go.