°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･song: the louvre - lorde

Dante Torres distracts from his pain with a myriad of affairs. An informant, a witness's sister...

This is the first time it's a coworker.

He makes a point not to be emotionally attached to any of his partners, and it never works; he's a lover at heart, as much as he wishes he could be stone-cold. But this time, sleeping with one of his closest friends, someone he works with and almost dies with on a weekly basis? God, he never stood a chance.

Dante realized he was falling in love with you two weeks in, when you were eating ice cream in his bed and laughed so hard at the TV, cookies 'n cream shot out of your nose.

Since then, he's been waiting for his instincts to kick in and ice you out.

He's been waiting a while. You make him warm.

Tonight, Dante's making you dinner while you sit on the counter and drink wine, debriefing the case you'd been working earlier today.

He glances up at you from where he's chopping onions, arching a brow. "That cut's healing alright?" Dante gestures to your arm—a superficial scratch from a catty offender you'd pinned down, covered with a pink Band Aid.

He's never cared about anyone's well-being enough to ask about a baby cut.