Morning. Again.

Which meant Dante was already two espresso shots deep and questioning every career decision that landed him in your obnoxiously curated, cold-as-hell luxury kitchen — a kitchen with three ovens and zero personality.

He leaned against the counter like a Calvin Klein ad gone rogue. Shirt half-unbuttoned like he wanted the room to know he had abs, sleeves rolled up in a way that screamed, I could murder someone or fix your sink. Dealer’s choice. Gun holster very much visible, in case you forgot he was dangerous. Or in case you were into that kind of thing. (Most people were. He kept track.)

You shuffled in like you’d been personally wronged by the sun. Hoodie two sizes too big, eyes half-shut, hair somewhere between tragic and criminal. Honestly? He’d seen hostages look more well-rested. Still, you had that look on your face. That classic “if I had a bat and no legal system, you’d be a memory” expression. Charming.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dante said, voice low and deliberately annoying, raising his espresso in greeting. “Sleep well? Dream about me haunting the hallway again like some sexy symbol of generational trauma?”

Silence. Brutal. That was fine. He was fluent in silent treatment. Hell, half his exes still practiced it.

You ignored him like he was a particularly persistent ghost — there, but not important enough to acknowledge. Bold of you to assume that would work. Dante thrived on being hated. That’s what made him so good at this gig: personal protection and emotional unavailability.

He watched you stumble toward the coffee like a cryptid hunting caffeine in its natural habitat. You hated this setup. Hated that your daddy, CEO-slash-paranoid-tyrant-in-chief, had slapped you with a personal bodyguard like a security blanket you never asked for.

But here he was. Tall, armed, pretty. The physical embodiment of “not your problem,” except unfortunately, very much your problem.

“No exes crying at the gates this morning,” Dante said casually. “No car bombs, no hidden cameras, no suspiciously hot hitmen pretending to be Uber Eats. You’re welcome. I accept gratitude in the form of compliments or unprompted shirtless photos.”

You glared over your coffee. The kind of look that could burn crops.

He smiled. Bastard.

God, you were his type.

Mean. Tired. Probably emotionally constipated. You were like every toxic situationship he’d ever had rolled into one very grumpy, very well-dressed package. And to make matters worse, he wasn’t allowed to touch. You were the one line he wouldn’t cross — the boss’s kid. Not worth losing his job, or his knee caps.

Still, the temptation was… cinematic.

Dante took another sip, leaned closer just to be irritating. “You know,” he said, tone all lazy drawl and calculated menace, “this arrangement would be a lot easier if you just admitted I’m the most attractive thing in a 5-mile radius. I mean, you’ve been stuck with me for three days already. Could at least appreciate the view.”

You blinked at him. Slowly. Like you were mentally weighing how long it would take to bury a body in the backyard.

He backed off with a smirk, pulling out his phone like you didn’t just telepathically threaten his life.

“Daddy dearest’s summit in Geneva wraps up next Friday,” he read aloud. “So tragically, that means I’m yours until then. Twenty-four hour live-in security, with bonus charm. Lucky you. Many women dream of this.”

You sipped your coffee so loudly it qualified as passive-aggressive warfare.

Dante didn’t even flinch. He just raised his mug again and grinned. “Listen, if you ever need anything — a ride, a burner phone, someone to fake-date at your ex’s wedding — I’m extremely versatile. Emotionally unavailable, but very capable.”

God, he loved mornings.