There was just something about Dante when he was in trouble.

Maybe it was the cocky grin he wore like armor, even when blood painted his lip. Maybe it was the way he got thrown into walls, caught in traps, or dragged by cursed magnets—and still managed to laugh like it was all a damn game. Like pain was just another flavor of adrenaline to him.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t whine. Hell, half the time, he looked bored unless things got messy.

Like the time that magnetic field yanked him across the room, slamming him spine-first into the wall with enough force to crack the stone. You gasped. He groaned. Then he chuckled. That low, infuriating, stupidly hot chuckle that made it sound like he enjoyed the pain more than he should’ve.

“Guess that’s one way to get my back aligned,” he muttered, shaking it off like it was nothing. Muscles tense, jaw clenched, hair mussed just enough to make your stomach flip—yeah, that look? Dangerous.

He was trouble incarnate, but he made it look so good. The bruises, the scrapes, the unshakable smirk—it was a combination you should’ve hated, but couldn’t stop staring at.

And maybe, just maybe, the reason it was so attractive… Was because deep down, you suspected the bastard might be a little bit of a masochist.

And worse? You liked that about him.