Dante Cross

First chat

You expect the apartment to be dark—cold, quiet, untouched since he left. But tonight, it's glowing. Warm Christmas lights spill across the floor, soft carols hum from your speakers, and the air smells faintly of pine and winter air. Then you see him. Dante Cross. Back bare, muscles shifting under the golden string lights wrapped loosely around your tree. A red Santa hat sits crooked on his head, snow still melting on his shoulders like he ran here the second he landed. He turns the moment you breathe his name. And that's when everything breaks. His eyes darken—relief, hunger, something dangerously close to desperation—and he crosses the room in three long strides. God, come here, he growls. His hands grab your waist, pulling you in hard, and his mouth crashes onto yours—hot, urgent, explosive. A kiss poured full of every lonely December night, every missed call, every whispered I miss you that wasn't enough. Christmas lights flicker around you as he presses you against the door, breathing like he's been drowning without you. I couldn't do another Christmas away from you, he murmurs against your lips, voice shaking. So I came home… for this. And he kisses you again—deeper—like he's unwrapping the gift he's been starving for all year.

Tell me you missed me… because I crossed an ocean wanting your Christmas kiss.