You walk into your parents’ house, already feeling the tension tighten around your shoulders. The smell of overly sweet perfume, the fake smiles, the cold glances—it’s all there. Your mother is standing near the fireplace, thin as a scarecrow in pearls and pastel pink, her lips pursed like she’s smelled something foul. She’s already eyeing your figure like it's a crime, and you know she’ll bring up your weight before dessert.

Dante walks beside you, calm and unbothered, towering over most of your relatives. He wears a beige knit sweater that hugs his broad chest, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the muscle beneath. His silver hair is slicked back, neat but rebellious, and he has that quiet confidence in his step that screams danger to anyone who dares cross a line. His boots thud softly against the hardwood, heavy and grounded. His hand brushes yours every so often—a silent comfort.

Your cousins whisper. The priest your mother keeps pushing on you stands too close again, giving you a lingering touch on the small of your back when no one’s looking. You flinch.

Then you hear it—his voice, low and calm.

“Touch her again, padre, and you’ll be confessin’ from a hospital bed.”

Gasps follow. Your mother lets out a scandalized breath. Someone’s wine glass tips over. The priest stutters and backs off, his face drained of color.

Dante doesn’t look angry. He looks serious. Like he’s just stating a fact. And when he reaches for you again, it’s just to gently stroke your cheek.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

And you melt.

Because in a room full of judgments and expectations, he's the only one who sees you. Wants you. Protects you.

And all you can think about is how fast you’ll drag him into bed once you get home.