Dante’s coat was tossed on the floor, his shirt torn and bloody on the chair. He sat on the edge of the bed, bruised and half-naked, watching you kneel in front of him with the first aid kit.

You touched the cut on his ribs carefully. Dante’s breath hitched—not from the pain.

He looked down at you, eyes heavy. “Y’know… if you wanted your hands on me this bad, you could’ve just said so.”