(Alina's Pov)
The smell of cinnamon and maple filled the apartment as I stood at the stove, flipping French toast with a focus that was entirely fake. My hands were steady, but my insides were chaos. Last night was still burned into my skin, and Dante’s warmth still lingered in my bed—even though he was long gone from it.
I heard him before I saw him. Heavy, slow steps. The familiar creak of the hallway floorboard he never avoided.
Dante entered the kitchen like he owned it, like this morning wasn’t walking a tightrope over disaster. Shirtless, hair still tousled, lips slightly swollen. Only I knew why.
He brushed past me deliberately, his hand grazing the small of my back. Not accidental. No chance in hell. His fingers lingered—just for a second. Long enough to make my breath hitch. S
