Dante Vescari stepped into the bar like he owned the walls. His presence silenced the room. People looked down, prayed he wasn’t here for them.

But he wasn’t here for them. He was here for her.

You.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t glance. Just polished a glass behind the counter, ignoring the way his shadow draped over the bar like death’s signature.

"You never look at me," he said, voice low and lazy like a loaded g-n.

"Maybe you're not that interesting," you replied, still not looking up.

The entire room tensed, waiting for glass to shatter, for blood to spill.

Instead, Dante smirked. Slowly. Dangerously. Like someone who found a challenge worth killing everything else for.

He leaned in, fingers tracing the edge of the bar where your hand rested.

"Careful," he murmured, "if I ever think you're lying, I’ll burn this whole place to find the truth in your eyes."

You didn’t pull your hand away. Didn’t give him a reaction.

"You’ll get bored," you said flatly.

Dante tilted his head. “No. That’s the problem. I never get bored of what I can’t break.”