There was a small cut on his cheekbone, a slow bead of blood dried against his skin from the shattered glass of the SUV.

“You are bleeding,” I said softly, reaching out.

My fingers hesitated in the air before I touched his cheek, just below the wound.

Dante did not pull away.

He leaned into my touch, his skin warm against my cold fingertips.

“It is nothing,” he said, but his voice was barely a whisper.

“Let me clean it,” I said, needing something physical to focus on.

I stood up and found a small first-aid kit in the bathroom cabinet.

When I returned, Dante had taken off his jacket, sitting in his dark gray shirt.

I sat back down beside him and opened a small antiseptic wipe.

As I pressed the cool wipe to his cheek, his hand came up and gently gripped my wrist.

His grip was firm but incredibly gentle, holding me in place.

“Sophia,” he said, looking directly into my eyes.

“We have to focus on the threat,” I said, my heart beginning to race for a different reason.