Just Sleeping
Valeria
The moment Dante steps through the door, the air seems to thin in the room. Before I can even say a word, he drops his duffel bag—the dull thud of leather hitting the hardwood floor makes me flinch—and pulls me into his arms.
His embrace is abrupt, heavy with everything left unsaid.
My mind screams that he’s moving too fast, that there are still too many ghosts between us, but my traitorous body remembers him—his warmth, the strength of his arms.
I should push him away, but I just stand there, my hands hovering uselessly at my sides, unable to decide what to do.
Stephen and Mara talk quietly among themselves, giving us a semblance of privacy.
When he finally lets me go, I immediately fold my arms across my chest, as if trying to hold on to his warmth.
To break the awkward silence, his gaze sweeps across our improvised “headquarters.” He studies every corner of the room, from the open kitchen to the leather couch, as though he’s searching for a security flaw.
Or maybe a way to reclaim my space.
“I packed enough clothes for a few days,” he says, his voice still a little rough.
He picks up his bag. I motion for him to follow me upstairs. My legs feel unsteady. I stop in front of one of the doors.
“This is it.”
Dante steps into the small bedroom. He takes in the bed, the window overlooking the street.
“It’s perfect, thank you. What about you? Where are you sleeping?”
The question lingers in the air, carrying an implication I refuse to examine too closely. Without a word, I point to the room on the right.
His gaze lingers in that direction for a moment before returning to me, intense and unreadable.
He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something more.
Then he thinks better of it.
“How about we meet up with the others after your shower?” he suggests.
I settle for a nod before slipping into my room, my heart beating far too fast.
Was I right to let him back into my life so quickly?
I’m not sure.
But we’ve already lost so much time, and life is so short.
If something were to happen to me tomorrow, I don’t want to have any regrets.
So be it if having him here hurts as much as it heals.
As I slip beneath the hot water, images of him invade my mind.
His perfect body. His skin against mine. His hands on me. His mouth consuming me.
I miss his touch. His absence has become almost physically painful.
Part of me wants to go to him...
But my heart resists.
The memory of Bianca lingers stubbornly, like a shadow refusing to fade.
I need time.
Time to accept how close I came to losing him.
Time to accept that he chose me and called off his wedding before even learning the full truth about her involvement.
When I step into the living room, the spicy scent of Thai food has already filled the space. Dante is sitting between Mara and Stephen, helping them unpack the takeout containers with disarming ease—as though he has always belonged here, part of this place, part of this team.
The moment he sees me, his expression brightens. Without interrupting his sentence, he smoothly pulls out the chair beside him in an almost instinctive gesture. That mix of natural presence and quiet protectiveness affects me more than I want to admit.
I sit down, and he immediately starts filling my plate.
His movements are calm, attentive—every gesture charged with a silent intimacy that doesn’t escape Mara and Stephen.
I catch their amused looks, but I’m too busy dealing with my own emotions: the warmth of his shoulder against mine, the brush of his hand when he passes me a glass.
The quiet is broken by the buzz of a phone on the table.
Andrea.
Dante switches on the speakerphone. In an instant, his voice becomes that of the CEO again.
“We’re listening.”
“Good evening, everyone. So, you’re throwing a party without me?”
Smiles spread around the table.
“I’ve got two pieces of news. Which one do you want first?”
Dante lets out a mock-exasperated sigh.
“The good one,” Stephen replies, waving a fork in the air.
“What flawless instincts. A real bloodhound, that Stephen.”
I let out a small laugh.
“The trackers have been activated,” Andrea continues, suddenly more serious. “And guess what? The logs lead directly to a Ciphera Corp subsidiary.”
Silence settles around the table. Dante doesn’t look surprised, but his eyes harden.
“We extracted everything from the servers: precise timestamps, internal transfers, IP addresses. It’s legally actionable. The digital traces are solid enough to establish attempted intrusion.”
I straighten in my chair, my heart pounding.
“So we can file a joint complaint against Ciphera and Wald?”
Under the table, Dante’s hand slides over mine. His fingers tighten—an anchor in the storm.
“For industrial espionage, yes,” he replies. “But it’s still not enough to tie Wald directly to the attempted murder. He has too many buffers between himself and the hitman.”
“I know. But it’s the first crack in the wall. We start there, then tighten the noose.”
Dante gives me an admiring look.
“That’s exactly the mindset I like to hear,” Mara says, raising her glass.
“Stay on your guard,” Andrea warns us. “If he realizes we’re tracing this back to him, Wald won’t stay passive.”
No one answers.
We all know it.
“And the second piece of news?” I ask, trying to break the tension.
“Bianca called Hector Wald. Short call. Extremely tense.”
A pause.
“And by the way, Dante… excellent timing.”
A dark smile crosses Dante’s face.
As always, he had known exactly where to strike. The timing was precise. Too early, and they wouldn’t have had time to open the files. Too late, and Bianca would never have risked contacting Wald directly.
She had to feel cornered—had to believe she still had a chance to salvage the situation.
“When she warned him that the files contained a tracker, he lost it,” Andrea continues. “Then he hung up on her.”
“He’s going to realize we know,” Mara says.
She turns to Dante and adds,
“Unless you can convince Bianca that Valeria doesn’t trust you. That she’s withholding information.”
“That could work,” Dante says. “At this point, Bianca is desperate to get back in Wald’s good graces. She’ll jump at any excuse to make that happen.”
The call ends.
The silence afterward feels heavy, almost suffocating.
This is no longer just an investigation.
It’s a war.
Dante turns toward me. His dark eyes search mine.
“This is only the beginning.”
He leans slightly closer, his voice dropping lower for me alone.
“I promise you—they won’t win.”
*
After dinner, Mara and Stephen head home, leaving us under Galen’s protection.
At 9:00 p.m., Hugo checks in on me.
HUGO: So, how was your day?
VALERIA: Emotionally exhausting. I talked to Dante.
HUGO: And?
VALERIA: He’s sleeping here tonight.
The response comes instantly.
HUGO: In that case, I won’t keep you any longer. Try not to get up to anything naughty, you two.
I send him an eye-roll emoji.
A low laugh escapes Dante.
I glance up.
“Are you spying on my messages now?”
“I just wanted to know if I needed to eliminate the competition.”
He says it casually before adding,
“That text message probably just saved his life.”
I roll my eyes.
“Arrogant.”
“Realistic.”
He settles across from me at the kitchen counter.
“Tell me about Hugo.”
Despite myself, I smile. I tell him about my friend, about Bernadette and Arnaud, about their estate in Sarthe, about the studio they built for me there.
His gaze softens.
“I’d like to thank them.”
“I’m sure you’ll like them.”
He nods. Then his expression changes.
“Something’s bothering me,” he says.
“What? Tell me.”
“Did you really believe I could choose Bianca over you?”
I brush an invisible speck of dust from the counter before answering.
“She was your fiancée. Your future wife. What was I supposed to think? I had no proof. It was my word against hers.”
He absorbs the blow without protesting.
“I failed you,” he says quietly, almost like a confession, “if I ever made you believe our love was replaceable. Interchangeable.”
Then his eyes lock onto mine.
“That won’t happen again. I will never again give you a reason to doubt us. One day, you’ll understand that I’d move heaven and earth for you.”
When bedtime finally comes, neither of us knows how to behave anymore.
In the end, I mumble a shy goodnight before slipping into my room.
Once I’ve changed into pajamas, I crawl into bed. But my mind is somewhere else.
With him.
This distance between us is becoming unbearable.
I toss and turn again and again. Impossible to sleep.
After half an hour, I give in.
I throw back the covers, sit up, and leave my room.
The hallway is silent.
I stop in front of his door, my hand hovering in midair.
Part of me is screaming to turn around. The other part only wants to curl up against him.
What if he’s asleep?
What if I destroy this fragile balance between us?
I close my eyes.
The truth is simple.
I need him. His presence.
And we’ve already lost too much time.
I knock softly.
The room is drowned in darkness. Moonlight slips through the curtains, drawing a pale line across the floor.
He’s lying on his back, eyes open.
His eyes lock onto mine with that calm intensity that disarms me every single time.
He says nothing. Neither do I.
I walk toward him slowly and stop beside the bed.
Our eyes lock.
I missed him in a way that was almost unbearable. But I need to be clear about what I want.
“I just want to sleep with you.”
My voice is low. Almost fragile.
Without a word, he shifts aside and lifts the covers.
A silent invitation.
I slide in beside him.
And immediately, his warmth envelops me, unsettling and familiar all at once.
I move even closer.
We adjust naturally to each other, as though two years had never separated us.
As though everything always leads us back here.
To him. To me. To us.
To this moment.
His nose brushes my neck, and a shiver runs through me. He breathes slowly, deeply, as if trying to absorb me into himself. His hand strokes my back without ever crossing the line. And somehow, that’s what undoes me the most.
I curl against him, and for the first time in a very long time... I feel safe. Not completely at peace...
But enough to close my eyes.