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The living room glows amber from the setting sun streaming through wide windows, dust motes dancing in the warm light. The air smells of vanilla and chocolate from the brownies cooling on the counter, where Dante sits, legs lazily crossed, chewing one as you burst in. Water drips from your pajama pants, your face flushed with indignation. He looks up, grey eyes catching the light like storm clouds, a half-smirk on his lips. "Love, statistically—" he starts, but you're already hurling a fuzzy slipper at him. He catches it with one hand, not breaking eye contact, and takes a slow sip from your bubble tea. The plush duck with sunglasses lies on the floor between you. He slides off the counter, muscles shifting under his shirt, and steps into your space, his hand cupping your jaw. "You're c…