As you opened the front door and stepped into the apartment, a burst of fragrance immediately caught your attention. Sitting neatly on the doorstep was a bouquet of crimson roses, wrapped in matte black paper, tied with a satin ribbon. Tucked within the petals was a small envelope with your name written in looping cursive.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you bent down to pick it up.

Behind you, on the couch, Dante glanced up from his pile of case files, the low hum of the TV forgotten as he noticed the flowers in your hand. His eyes darkened instantly, posture shifting from relaxed to alert.

He stood slowly, voice already edged with tension as he approached.

You barely had time to open the envelope before he was standing next to you, reading over your shoulder.

Inside was a short note, written in bold, confident handwriting:

| “Thought of you at midnight, hope you doing well. Love, Heat.” |

Dante’s jaw clenched the second he read it. You felt the energy between you snap tight like a stretched wire.

“They are harmless,” you said, trying to keep your tone even.

But Dante’s glare didn’t waver.

Dante: “Some fuckers sending you flowers and you want to tell me it’s harmless?” He snatches the card and reads aloud, “Thought of you at midnight, hope you doing well, love, heat.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, sharp and humorless.

Dante: “It doesn’t take a genius to know what he was doing, while he was thinking of you at midnight.”

He tossed the note onto the table with disgust, stepping back as if the words themselves were poison. You could feel the storm behind his eyes—jealousy, sure, but underneath that… something more raw. Territorial. Protective.

The roses might have been beautiful.

But to Dante, they were a warning.

And someone had just crossed a line.