CHAPTER 72 — Arrival (Dante & Auri)
Dante stood as the cabin lights brightened for landing, loosening his stiff shoulders after hours of forced composure. He just wanted to go home. To breathe something that wasn't corporate pressure or expensive cologne or relentless temptation.
But Celestine wasn't finished.
As the passengers disembarked, she slipped something into his hand—smooth, small, intentional.
A calling card.
Name, number, a handwritten note on the back:
"If you ever need company… call."
He felt her presence lean closer—too close—her whisper brushing his cheek.
"You look like a man who carries too much tension, Mr. Moretti."
Her lips nearly grazed his skin.
"You should let someone help you with that… someday."
His muscles locked.
Dante didn't flinch.
Didn't react.
Didn't let a single ounce of heat show.
He only met her eyes with a calm, frigid stare that could freeze a wildfire.
"Thank you," he said flatly, "but I don't need company."
She didn't believe him.
She smiled like she could still win.
His body, traitorous, reacted—heat low in his core. A tightening. The exhaustion didn't help; it clouded his restraint. Made every sensation sharper than it should be.
He hated it.
Hated that his body even acknowledged temptation.
He shoved the calling card into his pocket—not because he wanted it, but because throwing it away in front of her felt like giving her a reaction. And Dante Moretti never gave anyone that satisfaction.
He left the aircraft with a cold, unbothered expression.
But inside?
He was furious with himself.
Back Home
Auri opened the front door before he could even knock—like she sensed him. Like she'd been waiting at the sound of every car outside.
Dante didn't speak.
He just pulled her into his arms—hard, tight, grounding. He buried his face into her hair, inhaling the scent he'd missed more than sleep, more than peace, more than anything.
Auri froze for a second, then melted into him.
"Dante…" she whispered, voice trembling with relief.
"You're finally home."
He tightened the embrace, almost lifting her off the ground.
"I missed you," he said, voice deeper, rougher than he intended.
Too honest.
Too raw.
Auri smiled softly against his chest. "You saw me almost every day through video call."
"I missed this," he corrected. His fingers ran through her hair.
"I missed holding you. Breathing you. Making sure you're okay with my own eyes."
She leaned back enough to look at him.
And Dante felt his chest squeeze painfully.
Because she was healing.
He could see it.
Softer eyes. A calmer aura. A bit of color in her cheeks again.
"You look… better," he said quietly.
Auri nodded. "I'm trying."
Dante cupped her cheek, thumb brushing gently.
"And I'm grateful," he whispered.
"I'm grateful you're slowly finding your way back. We lost so much… but you're here. You're fighting. And I'm so damn proud of you, Auri."
Her eyes watered—not with pain this time, but with the relief of being seen.
"I'm doing better," she murmured.
"And Marcela helped. I met her at the park. You'll like her—she's chaotic and funny and too talkative, but in a good way."
Dante guided her to the couch, still holding her hand like he couldn't break physical contact after so long.
Auri sat beside him, legs tucked close, bright and animated as she talked.
"And then—oh my god, Dante—Marcela started arguing with a DUCK. Literally. A duck. Because it stole her biscuit. She said it was 'emotional damage theft.' And then—"
Dante watched her.
He didn't hear half the details.
He just watched her.
Her smile, the lightness in her voice, the small laughs he hadn't heard in weeks. His chest warmed, expanded, tightened. This… this was what he wanted. What he fought for every day.
But halfway through her story, as she described Marcela slipping on grass while taking selfies with geese—
Celestine flashed into his mind.
Her perfume.
Her bold smile.
The way her body had leaned too close.
The handwritten note.
The heat in his gut during the flight.
The heat he still felt—unwelcome, uninvited.
Dante's jaw clenched.
His fingers curled slightly on the couch.
He inhaled slowly, trying to reset.
Trying to erase.
But the image lingered like an intrusive stain.
Focus on Auri. Not her. Not that.
But his body—damn his body—responded again with that low, restless ache from the flight.
Auri continued happily, waving her hands in the air while mimicking Marcela's chaotic energy.
"And then I told her she can't fight geese—Dante, are you listening?"
Her question snapped him back.
His chest tightened with guilt.
"Yes," he said quickly. Too quickly.
Auri tilted her head, studying him. "You look tense."
He swallowed.
Tense was an understatement.
He was on fire.
From exhaustion.
From restraint.
From the conflict clawing inside him.
Her smile, innocent and pure—and the fact that he had even let another woman cross his mind—made guilt slam him hard.
He reached over and pulled Auri onto his lap in one motion, hugging her tight again.
She let out a little gasp, surprised.
Then she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
"Are you okay?" she whispered.
Dante didn't answer immediately.
Because no—he was not okay.
He was furious with himself.
Because his body betrayed him earlier.
Because he had even felt tempted.
Because now, with Auri smiling in his arms, the guilt was suffocating.
His voice dropped low, almost pained.
"I'm fine," he lied softly.
"I just missed you. More than I know how to explain."
He pressed his forehead to her shoulder, breathing her in again—like he needed her presence to scrub the filth out of his mind. To drown out that stupid, unwanted heat.
Auri stroked the back of his neck gently. "I missed you too."
Dante held her tighter.
He wouldn't let temptation win.
Not ever.
Not when Auri had suffered so much.
Not when all he wanted was her.
He buried the guilt deep inside, forcing it down with a harsh internal command:
Control yourself, Moretti.
She's your only focus.
Your only want.
Your only release.
Auri kissed his temple softly, unaware of the storm inside him.
"I'm glad you're home," she whispered.
And for the first time in hours, Dante's mind quieted.
He kissed the side of her head gently, holding her like an anchor.
"I'm home," he murmured, voice low and sincere.
"And I'm not going anywhere."
But inside—
a knot of guilt burned, tight and unresolved.
Tomorrow, he would deal with it.
Tonight, he would hold Auri like she was the only thing keeping him sane.
Because she was.