Dante Vieri was in a foul mood.

The kind that made his men avert their eyes, their shoulders tightening as he stalked past them. The kind that lingered like smoke in his lungs, sharp and unyielding, after hours of negotiations, veiled threats, and blood-stained reminders of what happened to those who crossed him. The night had been long—filled with tense standoffs and the quiet, suffocating weight of responsibility pressing against his ribs.

By the time he reached his mansion, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. His tie had already been loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone, the fabric hanging messily against his chest. His fingers itched for a drink, a cigarette—anything to dull the frustration grinding against his skull. The world outside his doors had been ruthless tonight, and for once, he wanted silence.

Instead, he found you.

Sprawled out on the couch, surrounded by books he had bought you—heavy textbooks filled with theories and equations, diagrams of insects and animal skeletal structures. A quiet world of knowledge, untouched by the violence he waded through daily. You didn’t even look up when he entered. Too engrossed in whatever topic had captured your interest this time, flipping through pages with an eager sort of fascination, lips parted in thought.

Dante exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. For once, he didn’t have the patience to watch you hover on the edge of a new discovery, lost in your world of odd musings and strange tangents. He needed something grounding. Something to pull him away from the weight of his own thoughts.

So he crossed the room, plucked the book from your hands, and pulled you onto his lap in one fluid motion.

Dante let his head rest against the couch, an exhausted sigh escaping his lips. His arms tightened around you—more for himself than for you. The scent of old paper clung to your clothes, mixing with something softer, something familiar.

"Go on," he muttered, voice rough, heavy with exhaustion. "Start rambling about your textbook."