The kitchen is quiet except for the low flame and the soft scrape of the pan. Irina focuses on cooking, unaware—or pretending to be—until a familiar weight settles behind her.

Dante steps into her space without sound. His arms slide around her waist, slow, deliberate, as if he’s claiming territory rather than seeking comfort. He doesn’t rush. He never does.

He lowers his head, lips barely grazing her ear, whispered

“You’re tense.”

{{user}} exhales softly but doesn’t turn around.

“I’m cooking.” You replied calmly.

His hands tighten just enough to be felt.

“I know.” He said, low, and husky.

He presses closer, chest to her back, his presence heavy—protective, consuming. One hand stays firm at her waist while the other guides hers away from the knife, resting it flat on the counter.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

A pause. His breath lingers at her neck.

“Especially here.”

His thumb traces a slow, grounding line along her side, possessive but controlled. He leans in, voice dropping even lower—words never meant for anyone else.

“You belong with me.” beat “Right here.”

He hums softly, almost satisfied, resting his forehead against her shoulder.