"The details," she repeated, her heart doing a slow, sweet sorsault. "Like learning to drive. And finding a dress for . And..." She gestured around them. "...renting the sky."
He nodded once, a simple confirmation. "Yes. Those details."
The waiter glided forward silently. "May I tell you about our specials this evening?" His voice was a soft, polite murmur.
Dante held up a hand, a gesture so subtly commanding that the waiter froze mid-breath. Dante’s eyes never left Alina’s. "Give us a mont. Alone."
The waiter bowed and vanished as quietly as he had appeared, the violinist pausing his lody and following suit, leaving them alone.
In the silence, the sounds of the city far below felt like a distant ocean. The fairy lights twinkled above them, reflections dancing in Dante’s dark eyes.
"I am not used to this," he admitted, his voice lower now, stripped of its formal edge. He looked down at his hands, then back at her. "Choosing from a nu. Sitting still. Making... conversation that is not about duty or danger." He seed to be confessing a flaw. "I may do it... incorrectly."
Alina’s smile softened into sothing unbearably tender. She reached across the small table. Her fingers did not quite touch his, but they rested near his hand on the crisp white linen. "Dee," she said, and the silly nickna now felt intimate, a secret key. "There is no ’incorrect’ way. Just... talk to . Tell what you’re thinking. Right now."
He was silent for a long mont, his gaze locked on her hand so close to his. When he spoke, his voice was rough yet soft.
"Right now," he said slowly, "I am thinking that the city lights look like scattered starlight. But they are not as bright as the ones in your eyes." He paused, as if surprised by his own words. He cleared his throat, his eyes lifting to et hers. "I am thinking... this is better than silence. And I have always preferred silence."
She looked at him and placed her hands over his larger one, and Dante smiled, feeling her soft, warm hands resting on him.
She looked at him, and sothing inside her lted completely. Without a second thought, she gently placed her palm over the back of his larger hand, her fingers soft and warm against his cool skin.
The contact was electric in its simplicity. Dante’s breath caught, just for a second. He looked down at their joined hands on the white tablecloth, her small, delicate one covering his rougher, larger one. He felt the warmth of her seep into him, a grounding, gentle heat that seed to travel straight to his core.
And then, he smiled.
He turned his hand over beneath hers so their palms t. His fingers curled, not to trap her hand, but to cradle it, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.
Finally, with a slight, almost reluctant movent, Dante lifted his free hand to signal the waiter. The spell of their silent connection eased, but he did not let go of Alina’s hand.
The waiter reappeared, his posture deferential. Dante gestured toward Alina with a slight incline of his head.
"What would you like?" he asked her, his thumb still making soft, absent circles on her skin.
Alina, her mind still floating sowhere between the fairy lights and the feel of his hand, managed to order sothing, her voice a little breathless. When the waiter turned expectantly to Dante, he simply said, without even glancing at the nu, "I will have what she is having."
The waiter bowed and vanished again.
A few minutes later, it was not the waiter who returned with their first course, but a young waitress. She was graceful and efficient, but from the mont she approached their table, her eyes kept flickering to Dante. They held a bright, fascinated gleam. The story of the mysterious, devastatingly handso man who had bought out the entire exclusive restaurant for a single evening was clearly the most romantic tale the staff had ever encountered, and she was drinking in the sight of him.
As she carefully set the beautifully arranged plates before them, her gaze lingered on his profile, on the sharp line of his jaw, on the way his attention was wholly consud by the woman across from him. A small, dreamy smile touched her lips.
Alina saw it. A sharp, hot little pang, unexpected and fierce, stabbed through her chest. She watched the waitress’s admiring look, the clear thrill it gave her to be near him. Without thinking, Alina’s fingers tightened slightly around Dante’s. Her own smile faded, and a dark, possessive look clouded her hazel eyes. She bit the inside of her lip, the taste of her rosy lipstick suddenly bitter.
The waitress, oblivious, picked up the bottle of white wine that had been chilling beside the table. She leaned in, her movents fluid, to pour it into Dante’s glass first.
"Sir," she said, her voice sweet and a touch too familiar. "What else can I get for you?" Her eyes were fixed on him, full of open, hopeful curiosity.
The air at the table seed to grow several degrees colder.
Dante felt the sudden, fierce grip of Alina’s fingers around his and sensed a sharp aura radiating from her that was utterly unexpected. He knew her warmth, her gentle light, her patient calm. This was different. This was a winter chill emanating from the sumr sun.
His eyes snapped to her face. The soft, tender expression she had worn monts before was gone, replaced by a tightened jaw and a stormy darkness in her gaze that was fixed not on him, but on the waitress leaning toward his wine glass.
The realization hit him with a delightful, startling clarity.
Is she jealous?
A wave of profound, incredulous amusent washed over him, so powerful that it was all he could do to keep his expression neutral. He, who commanded legions and navigated the politics of hidden courts, was suddenly the cause of a silent, seething jealousy from the one person whose opinion mattered more than any other. The thought was absurd, thrilling, and deeply satisfying. He did not even glance at the source of the disturbance. The waitress with her hopeful eyes ant nothing, less than nothing. His entire world had narrowed to the possessive fire in Alina.
"Sir?" the waitress prompted again.
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