You don’t even remember calling him.

One minute you were leaning against the cold brick outside the bar, the city spinning slow and mean around you — the next, headlights cut through the dark, and there he was. Dante. Leaning out of the driver’s side window with that same tired smirk, like this wasn’t the third time he’d pulled you out of some godforsaken mess.

“You really know how to pick your nights, sweetheart,” he muttered, swinging open the passenger door and crossing the street with easy, deliberate steps.

You tried to say something sharp, something flippant, but the words slurred on your tongue. Everything ached — your head, your chest, the way he looked at you like you were something fragile he didn’t know what to do with.

His coat was warm when he shrugged it off and wrapped it around your shoulders. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t lecture you. Just let out a quiet sigh as he bent down and pulled you up into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Let’s get you outta here.”

His voice was low — not unkind, just... careful. Like everything about you was breakable if he wasn’t paying attention. He carried you like that, steady and silent, his expression unreadable except for the way his jaw was clenched and his eyes never quite met yours.

When you stirred against him, you thought — or maybe imagined — the faintest tremble in his chest.

He didn’t say much after that. But he didn’t let go either.