VISITORS

DANTE'S POV

Dante watched Emilio stand and move toward the drawer like he'd done it a hundred times before. There was a quiet familiarity in the way he pulled it open, took out some tissues, and walked back to the bed. Dante didn't say anything, just lay there, letting his eyes follow Emilio.

Emilio crouched beside him again, his expression unreadable, brows slightly drawn as if his thoughts were miles away. He gently began wiping Dante's stomach—slow, careful motions. The tissue moved across his skin, light but lingering. Dante's muscles tensed beneath the touch, but he didn't stop him.

There was no teasing, no playful remark. Just silence.

Emilio finished, but his hand didn't move. It stayed there, resting against Dante's stomach, warm and still. His eyes didn't leave Dante's face.

"Dante," he said quietly, voice barely louder than a breath.

Dante turned to meet his gaze.

"I think..." Emilio's voice wavered, "I think I'm addicted to you."

The words settled into the air like something too dangerous to touch.

Dante's jaw clenched. His gut twisted.

"Fuck off," he muttered, swatting Emilio's hand away like it burned. He sat up too fast and winced, but didn't slow as he pushed off the bed and made his way toward the balcony.

The night breeze hit his face the moment he opened the doors. He reached into the pocket of his shorts, pulled out a cigarette, and flicked his lighter. The flame sparked to life. He lit the tip and took a long drag, his chest rising.

The smoke helped. It always helped. More than people did.

He leaned against the balcony rail, staring down at the city. The silence in the room behind him lingered. Emilio wasn't coming after him. Wasn't yelling or chasing. That was new.

He took another drag and thought of earlier—Emilio straddling him, flushed and breathless, whispering his name. His cock buried deep into him making him feel hot and cold all at once.

The feelings overwhelmed his senses. It was too good. Too close. And too damn terrifying.

He didn't let people touch him like that. Didn't want them to.

But Emilio? He was slipping through cracks Dante didn't even know were there.

When the cigarette was done, he flicked it into the night and stepped back inside. The lights were off, except for the dim lamp by the bedside. Emilio lay there, unmoving, eyes open and staring at the ceiling.

Dante moved to his bed and lay down without a word, turning to face the wall.

And then—an arm slid around his waist.

"Fuck off," Dante grumbled, not even looking back.

But Emilio only moved closer, pressed against his back, whispering, "Please... let me stay here."

Dante went still. The air between them pulsed with something too real.

He didn't answer.

But he didn't push him away either.

He let the silence hold them. Just this once.

After a while Emilio's palms found his cock again, stroked, and the next thing he flipped Emilio to the side, Emilio pulled his shorts down knowing what he needed and impatiently he shoved his dick into Emilio's hole.

" Ah," Emilio moaned and Dante heard his pains, not a pleasure.

"Am I hurting you?" Dante asked, his voice low.

Emilio let out a soft moan, eyes half-lidded.

"Don't worry... it's nothing," he breathed, his tone laced with something between reassurance and desire.

Gently, Dante continued. The tightness of Emilio overwhelmed him. He pushed in and out of Emilio and his release splashed out with force.

He lay on his back, breath ragged, eyes chasing the ceiling shadows—

and all he could think about was how addictive this was.

Emilio's hands stayed on him, persistent, possessive—like he didn't plan to let go. He moved closer, lips brushing Dante's ear as he whispered, voice low and wrecked, "Oh, god... you are so good with your thing"

Dante's heart clenched hard at the sound of Emilio's voice—low, breathless, wrecked with need. Emilio was so being so bold and vocal that night and those stupid words he said excited him.

Dante stared at Emilio, his mind racing as he wondered how this man, who appeared so helpless and vulnerable, could be the one to make him lose his control, writhing and raggedly breathing everywhere they sucked each other off.

——

The knock came just as sunlight filtered through the half-closed blinds. Dante stirred, groaning softly as he pushed himself up. His body still ached, but not as badly as the day before. He blinked the sleep away and dragged himself to the door, scratching the back of his neck.

Emilio was in the bathroom—the sound of water hissing faintly behind the door.

Dante opened up.

Luca stood there, arms crossed and brows pulled together in that mix of curiosity and quiet disapproval. Beside him was Sofia, her heels clicking against the floor as she stepped past Dante without asking.

"Oh my God, Dante," she gasped, eyes sweeping over the faint bruises still visible on his chest and the bandage peeking beneath his shirt. She threw her arms around him, the scent of her perfume clinging too fast. "Why didn't you call me? Look at you—was it painful?"

Dante barely managed a word before the bathroom door clicked open.

Steam followed Emilio out.

He stepped into the room with only his shorts, low on his hips, hair damp, and skin flushed from the heat. The room fell quiet. Even Sofia's fussing paused.

Emilio didn't speak. He barely glanced at the guests before walking straight to the balcony, sliding the door open, and stepping out into the crisp morning air.

Dante watched him go, jaw tight.

Then Luca's voice cut the silence, sharp and loaded. "What's going on, Dante? You guys besties now?" He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing in on the situation.

Dante didn't answer at first. He stared out at Emilio's back through the glass door. The shorts still clung to him like a second skin. His posture was relaxed, but Dante could read the tension in his shoulders.

Luca's voice dropped lower, more intense. "You seriously gonna tell me what's happening here?"