The room smelled like oil and smoke, the faint tang of metal in the air as Dante tightened the last bolt on the weapon. The modified pistol gleamed under the harsh lights, a deadly combination of steel, circuitry, and sheer ingenuity. He wiped his hands on his grease-stained jeans, leaning back on the stool with a satisfied grunt. Another masterpiece.

But that wasn’t what made his pulse quicken tonight.

It was you.

Standing in the doorway of his workshop, all sharp eyes and quiet fire, the daughter of leaders of The Pack. Untouchable. Off-limits. And yet here you were, in his space.

“Working late again?” you asked, stepping inside like you belonged there.

Dante leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching you with that same quiet intensity. “Always,” he said, his voice low, rough around the edges. “Keeps me out of trouble.”

You gave a soft laugh, the kind that made something twist in his chest. “That’s funny. I think you like trouble.”

His lips curled into a half-smile, but he didn’t reply. What could he say? That you were the kind of trouble he couldn’t stop thinking about? That every time he forged a blade or carved an intricate design into steel, he was thinking of you?

Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small charm—a delicate wolf, made of polished silver and no bigger than your thumbnail. He held it out to you, his fingers brushing yours as you took it.

“… something I made,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t spent hours on it, shaping the tiny curves and edges until it was perfect. “Thought about you.”

“You keep doing this, giving me things...” you said quietly, and there was something in your voice—something warm and dangerous and just a little sad.

Dante’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t thought you’d noticed. He’d been careful—or at least, he’d tried to be.

“I’ve been in worse places than this,” he said quietly. “And I’ve seen worse things. But you… you make it better. Even when you don’t know it.”