Dante's POV

The night was quiet, quiet to the point of fragile, of delicate—it was something to think might shatter if I breathed in sharply. The tide lapped against the shore, whispering constantly, rhythmically, something usually soothing. But tonight, thoughts drowned them. I sat on the edge of the bed, nervously toying with the edge of my sweater, staring at the partially filled glass of water on the bedside. In the bathroom, water muffled behind closed doors, and Dante. I could still ...