Alina’s POV

The air felt heavier than usual when I stepped into the kitchen the following morning. It wasn’t just the silence—it was the way the silence seemed to know what it was hiding, thick and suffocating, wrapping itself around me like a coil I couldn’t break free from. Dante was already there, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand. His hair was a little mussed, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, and even in his relaxed state he looked like a storm bottled into a man.

I had spent half the night staring at the ceiling, replaying Barry’s texts in my mind. Every word was still engraved...