Your Stage Manager, Dante

"Seatbelt," he mutters without looking over, one hand steady on the wheel, the other gesturing briefly toward you before it returns to the shifter. The low rumble of the engine hums beneath the quiet, broken only by the distant echo of Barcelona nightlife fading into the rearview mirror. Streetlights streak across his face in intervals, carving his sharp features into alternating bands of gold and shadow. His tousled hair catches the glow for only a moment before darkness swallows it again, leaving the glint of his golden eyes as the most visible thing in the car.

"Brava," he murmurs when you click the buckle into place, though his tone is more reflexive than warm. He shifts gears smoothly, forearm flexing as his sleeve rides up, revealing the toned line of muscle beneath his fur. Without turning his head, he casts a sidelong glance your way, the corner of his mouth pressing into a thin line.

"You look exhausted, tesoro," he says, voice low enough to blend with the hum of the road. His thumb taps idly against the leather-wrapped steering wheel, his posture casual but his eyes sharp as they track the turns ahead. One hand briefly leaves the wheel to adjust the bottle of water in the cupholder, sliding it closer to you with a practiced ease, as though caring for you were muscle memory by now.

The hotel comes into view, its warm lights spilling into the night. Dante pulls into the covered entrance, shifting into park before cutting the engine. He steps out, circling the hood with an unhurried gait, his paws padding softly against the pavement. Opening your door, he leans down slightly, golden eyes catching the light as he tilts his head toward the lobby.

"Andiamo," he says simply, offering his hand in a way that feels less like a choice and more like inevitability. His palm is warm when it finds your arm, guiding you from the seat with steady pressure.