He finally turned his head, his movent slow and deliberate. When his eyes t the waitress’s, any trace of the softness Alina inspired was gone. His gaze was flat and impenetrable, a wall of polished obsidian. It held no interest, no acknowledgnt of her as anything other than a function.
"You may leave," he said, his voice not loud, yet carrying a finality that seed to freeze the very air around their table. "We require nothing further from you tonight."
The waitress’s dreamy smile vanished, replaced by flustered confusion and a dawning fear. She stamred a quiet, "Of course, sir," set the wine bottle down with a faint clink, and practically fled from the rooftop, the romantic fantasy dissolving into professional panic.
The mont she was gone, Dante turned his full attention back to Alina. The cold detachnt vanished from his expression, replaced by sothing intensely focused and warm.
"...Lina?" he called softly, testing the waters.
She kept her eyes firmly on her plate. Carefully, she cut a small, neat piece of the elegantly arranged food and lifted it to her mouth. She did not look at him.
Dante was thoroughly taken aback. Is she ignoring ?
Before he could process this novel experience, another waiter, an older man with a kind, professional smile, approached to ensure their dishes were perfectly placed. He murmured a polite, "Enjoy your al," and retreated without a single lingering glance.
The table was quiet again, save for the distant violin. Dante leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze fixed on her downcast face. A slow, fascinated smile began to curl at the edges of his mouth.
"Are you ignoring ?" he asked, his voice a low, intrigued rumble.
Another side of Alina, he thought, utterly amused and captivated. He had seen her gentle, her strong, her patient, her flustered. He had just witnessed her fiercely, coldly jealous. And now this. A silent, pointed disregard aid directly at him. It was fascinating. He loved it.
"No, I am not," she said crisply. She took another bite, chewing with deliberate focus, still refusing to et his eyes.
A quiet chuckle escaped him. She was a terrible liar, and the contradiction was adorable.
It’s not his fault, she thought logically, pushing a piece of food around her plate with her fork. He didn’t even look at her. Not really. He sent her away imdiately. I’m being completely irrational.
But then the real, petty heart of the matter rose up, bitter and undeniable.
But still... she sighed inwardly, finally taking a slow sip of water to calm the heat in her cheeks. Who told this man to be so... so... The word handso floated up, but it felt cheap, insufficient, like calling a hurricane breezy. It did not capture the powerful presence he carried, the way he commanded the very air in a room without trying. It was more than looks. It was an energy, a gravity that pulled at everything around him, and apparently at every woman with working eyesight. Handso was too simple. It did not do him justice at all.
Suddenly, a warm fingertip slipped beneath her chin, tilting her face upward. She had no choice but to et his eyes. They were dancing with open affection and completely undisguised delight.
"What is going on in that head of yours, my jealous little star?" he murmured.
"Nothing," she said, the word rushing out on a wave of fresh embarrassnt. Her cheeks burned. He knows. He knows I was jealous. She hated the thought of him seeing her as petty, as possessive, as soone who could not control a simple, silly feeling.
He watched the blush spread across her skin, saw the way she could not quite et his eyes. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, and gave a single, unhurried nod.
"Fine," he said calmly, accepting her evasion.
He saw her embarrassnt, the vulnerable set of her shoulders, and decided not to press. He would not poke or tease her further. The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable in this space he had created for her joy. A small, silent sigh of relief escaped her, and she seed to unclench just a little.
He let the quiet settle for a mont, the violin weaving through the night air. Then, without taking his eyes off her, he spoke again, his voice dropping into a low, serious register that vibrated with certainty.
"But you should know," he said clearly, powerfully, "I am all yours. No one has a right to as you do."
The statent was simple and absolute, and it landed in the center of her chest with the force of a physical touch. Alina’s breath caught. She bit down on her lower lip as a frantic flutter of butterflies erupted in her stomach. The directness of it, the uncompromising possession in his tone, was overwhelming.
Needing to do sothing, anything, to steady herself, her fingers fumbled for her wine glass. She lifted it and took a quick sip, the cool, crisp liquid doing little to calm the sudden warmth spreading through her.
It had been a long ti since she had last tasted wine. The familiar, slightly sharp flavor grounded her in the present, a contrast to the dizzying sweetness of his words. She set the glass down carefully, the crystal ringing softly against the table, and finally found the courage to lift her gaze back to his. He was still watching her.
She took another, slower sip, feeling its gentle warmth smooth the ragged edges of her embarrassnt and soothe the frantic butterflies. Calmness, soft and steady, began to seep back in.
Dante picked up his own fork and began to eat, his movents asured and precise. But his attention was not on his food. His gaze remained fixed on her, a quiet, intent study. He watched the fairy lights catch in her hair, the subtle shift in her expression as the wine relaxed her, the graceful curve of her neck as she took another drink.
He did not touch his own wine glass. It sat untouched beside his plate, the pale liquid reflecting the ambient glow. For him, the only intoxication he desired was the sight of her settling back into herself, the tension easing from her shoulders, a faint, natural smile finally returning to her lips.
He was content to simply watch.
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