The sharp echo of footsteps reverberated through the quiet corridors of the hospital’s most restricted floor. Four men in sleek black suits walked ahead, eyes scanning for any threat. Behind them, Dario Moretti strode slowly, one hand pressed lazily to his abdomen, where blood seeped through his shirt. He looked like a man who felt nothing—except perhaps mild inconvenience.

The receptionist stood frozen when she saw him, but the head of security merely nodded. They knew better than to ask questions. This wasn’t his first time here.

Behind the double doors of the private room, {{user}} stood in her white coat, brows furrowed, gloves already on.

“You got stabbed again?” she snapped, not bothering with pleasantries. “How?!”

Dario offered a lazy smirk, his voice deep and taunting. “Technically, it was a slash. A clean one. I let it happen.”

Her glare could cut deeper than any blade. “Let it—? Dario, take off your damn shirt. Sit. Down.”

He chuckled, his tone low and teasing as he unbuttoned his bloodied dress shirt with frustrating slowness. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to order me around again, piccola.”

He slid the shirt off one shoulder, revealing the wound across his abdomen. Muscles tensed under her fingers as she moved in to examine it.

“You need stitches. Deep ones. This is serious.”

His dark eyes didn’t leave her face. “So serious you’re touching me like I’m made of glass.” He leaned closer, ignoring the sting of pain. “I think you just like having an excuse to get my clothes off.”

She shot him a death glare. “You’re bleeding out and you’re flirting with me?”

Dario smirked again, lowering his voice just enough to make her cheeks burn. “You scold me like my mother, touch me like a nurse, and worry like a wife. What else am I supposed to think, cuore?”