“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” you pout, holding a pink disposable razor in your hand limply.
“It’s not like I’m forcing you,” Dante teases, amused by the wide eyed look you give him. “Go sit down if you don’t want to.
He’s never really had anyone to ask for help which means you should be grateful but all you feel is sullen imagining him with a hairless chest you aided in creating.
Sitting down means leaving the cramped bathroom of the loft above his just opened business, dingy in light and both the color of the tile yet undeniably cozy. You like the warmth of his body, mostly bare in nothing but his oversized boxers, this close to yours far too much to pass up this opportunity anyway.
Sighing, you stick your lower lip out further.
“I dunno…I just like it when you have a little hair.”
You lean in close to him, curling your index finger and dragging it through the sparse hair and scratchy regrowth covering his chest. A blush-colored path bursts to life under your fingers and you giggle, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Come on, there’s no reason to shave it.”
Hair could prevent him from chafing as he runs around fighting in nothing but his crimson leather jacket, a leather band secured across his chest, and cargo pants. You consider even pleading this case to make him understand you’re only thinking of his comfort.
Unfortunately he responds quicker than your mind can conjure up something persuasive to say.
“Yes there is,” he reaches around you in an attempt to hide how flustered he is, turning the faucet on. “Now are you gonna help or not?”
“I feel like I should be singing Amazing Grace like it’s a funeral or something,” you continue to lament aloud, refusing to dip the blades of the razor beneath the running faucet.
Groaning in frustration, he reaches to turn the water off and looks down at you. It’s impossible for him to stay aggravated for long, though. Your warm, playful expression evaporates whatever irritation swims inside of him like a charm every time.
“Fine,” he relents, plucking the razor from your fingers and dropping it in the sink, tangling his fingers with yours. “If you like it the way it is so much, come get up close and personal.”
Using the tangle of your fingers to his advantage, he pulls you against him until your chin is against his pecs, the hair you were so disappointed to envision saying goodbye to tickling your cheeks.
You giggle and then let out a contented sigh, wrapping your other arm around his hip to slide your fingers down the waistband of his boxers, exploring what the hair just beneath them feels like against them.
it’s the beginning of the stickiest part of summer.
the large, impressive public library is the last place you wanted day even if the air conditioning is a friend and reprieve from the heat you can see rising from the sidewalk as soon as you step outside.
sitting with your legs tucked beneath you, flipping through the pages of art history books, your ever wandering mind leaves the thoughts of sweltering heat behind and frolics to what’s coming next now that your freshman year of college has concluded.
in two weeks, you’ll finally be able to move into your own apartment. you had to beg and plead and promise grandpa and grandma both that you wouldn’t get into any trouble in exchange for the rent money necessary to get the hell out of your miserable, gray college dorm. somehow, you pulled it off.
maybe he could tell how miserable the past year made you, stuck inside walls with someone who barely tolerated you for the sake of civility.
in less than two months, your classes will begin again. you’re spending the summer studying in an effort to get ahead of your competitive classmates, eager to actually impress at least one of your professors with your knowledge. it’s the sort of acknowledgment the most childish part of you has always longed for, not just pretty or not just polite, but smart. capable. talented.
it’s selfish of you to want something like that, you know. you’ve been raised well and impeccably mannered and at the end of the day, what you know matters less than who.
sighing, you lean back into your chair.
approaching footsteps make your ears perk up and you look around, hiding your face when you realize who is approaching — that incorrigible man you haven’t been able to shake since you met him at the diner in september.
your heart pounds and you bury your face in the book hoping he didn’t see you. unfortunately, his footsteps stop right as you tilt your head downward.
“don’t see many princesses around here. did i take a wrong turn or something?” dante asks playfully as ever.
you scoff to cover up that you’re hiding a smile behind the book, leaning further forward to conceal your joy in response to his flirtation.
“what are you talking about?” you whisper, acutely aware that the library is near empty this afternoon.
dante pulls out the chair across from you, slumping into it and shrugging as casually as ever. like he knows you and has his entire life.
“i dunno, i’m just saying that you look like you’d be in a tower talking to birds or something if you weren’t here.”
now you laugh in spite of how badly you want to appear nonchalant and unaffected by this swaggering, smirking stranger. it isn’t exactly honest to anyone and certainly not yourself to keep insisting he’s such (a stranger, a no one, a nuisance who certainly never causes that shimmery eruption of butterflies in your belly) but you know if you surrender, you’ll keep doing it.
something about him disrupts your carefully crafted facade of perfection, a ripple across the waters of your soul.
you promised you’d stay out of trouble and he practically shouts that’s all he is, from the top of his moonlight crowned head to the twinkle in his blue eyes.
you place the book down on the table, choosing to prop your chin up with a single fist. appraising the man who appeared in your life like a plume of smoke although he’s lingered for far longer than one ever would.
he looks tired, like he stayed up far too late. he slumps like a delinquent but hey, at least he has a real shirt on today.
“i’m just a common girl doing a little reading is all,” you nod toward the book, shifting in your seat.
“sounds boring.”
shaking your head, you point at him with your free hand. “have you ever read a book in your life?”
“once or twice but i’m out of practice,” he shoots back easily though you can tell he’s probably lying because he looks away a little too quickly.
he’s far smarter than he lets on. that’s what your gut always says.
“why not start today? if you pick one i’ll read it to you and everything, free of charge.”
laughing at your generous offer, he leans forward, extending his arm across the table to tap the back of your hand with his pointer finger.
“ah, so you’re the benevolent type of princess.”
“i’m not…” you trail off, exhaling through your nose sharply, fighting the urge to withdraw your hand and hold it against your body.
he chuckles, watching every move you make. it amuses him to see how far he can tempt you, almost too proud of himself about drawing these little pieces of your true nature out bit by bit.
cutting you a break from his teasing and appraising, dante follows your lead and props his chin up with his fist in tandem, switching gears on your offer.
“how about i go get a book and we take it over to the park to read outside?”
“it’s hot out there!” you whine, suddenly realizing your volume is a little too high, your cheeks heating as warm as the temperature.
there’s no disagreeing with that. it’s hot and bright and well, there’s no reason to disrupt whatever you have going on in here.
“fine,” he acquiesces, standing up and pushing his chair out behind him. “we’ll stay here.”
now he’s the one being appraised, your eyes following every move he makes from the way he stands to the way he pushes his hair off of his face.
he’s something else and you breathe a sigh of relief watching him retreat into the shelves. that is until he turns on his heel and comes back briefly, leaning over you.
“has whining always managed to get you what you want?”
you look up at him with furrowed brows, wrinkling your nose in that adorable way that tells him he’s getting on your nerves.
clicking his tongue and tapping the fist that’s on your chin, you hear him sing the word you wish he’d stop saying under his breath.
“princess….”
you swat out at him as he retreats, for real this time, and remember the one rule you agreed to.
stay out of trouble.
unfortunately, dante is trouble you can’t seem to get your fill of.
Dante's words make you laugh, taken aback by his honesty beneath shabby diner lighting.
the conversation between the two of you has been casual this evening. what did you do today? where did you go? he asked you how your classes were, if your roommate is being any nicer, so you aren't quite sure how you ended up on this exact topic. it's a little heavier than niceties or him teasing you for chewing on the straw that bobs in your watered down coke and you swallow, wiping your damp palms against the sweatpants covering your legs.
he always makes you nervous like that. you can't make direct eye contact with him because you feel your face heat in real time when you do, so you've mastered the art of figuring out how to dodge those blue eyes appraising you through too-long, moonbeam colored hair.
tonight, though, you feel his eyes on you and they haven't moved an inch.
"so what do you think about then?" you dare ask, almost afraid of what he'll answer.
you wipe your palms again, internally cursing yourself for being so nervous. he's just some guy.
since the day he showed up this alleged "demon hunter" has shown up, you've found yourself indescribably curious about what lies beneath that independent, boisterous facade. he's funny and charming but you know he's undeniably violent, your first meeting ever showcasing such after he bragged about taking out a demon that was watching you from across the exact diner you now sit in.
what is he hiding and who is he really? you'll walk back to your dorm pondering the question until daylight starts to streak the horizon, just like you do every time, every meeting.
"well lately, I've been thinking about when I'll see you next."
your cheeks warm but he simply cannot get one over on you that easy. you avert your eyes, staring at the tiny bubbles that surface and pop in your glass.
"isn't that kind of like thinking about tomorrow?" you answer, mustering a tone as innocent as you can despite the slight shake in your voice.
he's just some guy. he's just some guy. he's just some guy and now he's reaching for the plate in front of you, helping himself to the long since cold fries you disregarded when he showed up and slid into the vinyl seat across from you.
"hey! those are mine," you huff, halfheartedly, no longer looking at the bubbles in your glass but at him.
he grins at you and shrugs, eyes twinkling with mischief and mystery and all of these things that undeniably keep drawing you back to this exact booth, in this exact diner, hoping to run into him again and again.
"and now they're mine," he teases in return, expertly changing the subject rather than admitting you were right.
