You’d been begging Theodore to teach you Italian for weeks—relentlessly, annoyingly, until he finally caved with a sigh and a smirk. But you hadn’t expected this kind of lesson.

You were in his room, warm candlelight flickering across the walls. He was lying back on his bed, lazy and comfortable, while you sat perched on his lap. His arms were wrapped loosely around your waist, his breath brushing your skin as he looked up at you with that familiar, infuriating grin.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice low and smooth. “Repeat after me… io sono tua.”

You repeated it carefully, watching the way he mouthed the words.

“And what does that mean?” you asked, tilting your head, curious.

He didn’t answer—at least not in words. He just grinned wider, something smug and dangerous flickering in his eyes.

(You didn’t know it yet, but it meant: I am yours.)