Dante’s POV

The morning stretched into a quiet, easy rhythm—one I had never known before. No urgency. No weight pressing down on my shoulders. Just Lia. Just us. She moved through the kitchen with familiar ease, pouring coffee, humming softly under her breath, while I leaned against the counter, watching her. She wore one of my shirts, the sleeves too long, the hem grazing her thighs, and I swore I had never seen anything more captivating. She glanced up and caught me staring. A knowing ...