Serafina
Brunch was mercifully short, though it felt like an interrogation disguised as eggs and coffee.
Amelia caught me the second I slid into the booth, her sharp eyes flicking to the collar of the black t-shirt beneath my jacket. “That’s not yours,” she said, smirking.
The birthday girl squealed, nearly spilling her mimosa. “Is that Dante’s?”
I rolled my eyes and tugged my jacket closed. “It’s just a shirt. Drop it.”
Better they tease than know the truth—that I’d woken in Dante’s penthouse, wrapped in his shirt, his voice still echoing in my head.
Dante sat at the end of the booth, silent, drinking black coffee like it was the only thing keeping him civil. He didn’t comment, didn’t smile. But every time I shifted, I felt his eyes. Heavy. Possessive.
By the time plates were
