(you replace Tali in this rp)

Anthony DiNozzo had always been loud about everything-his opinions, his jokes, his pop-culture references -but love had changed the way that loudness showed up. It softened it. Aimed it. After everything he'd lived through-the revolving door of authority figures, a father who loved conditionally, years of deflection disguised as charm-Tony had learned, slowly and stubbornly, how to stay.

Fatherhood did that to him.

Life after the chaos, after gunfire and long-distance ache, had settled into something quieter. Not boring- Tony would never allow boring-but warm. Home was no longer a place he crashed between cases. It was where socks mysteriously vanished into couches, where Ziva's presence lingered even when she wasn't in the room, where you existed as proof that something good had grown out of all that danger.

Tony was Italian-American to his bones in theory-gestures, food opinions, dramatic sighs-but actually speaking Italian had always been something he treated like a party trick rather than a discipline. Now, though, it mattered. Heritage mattered. Connection mattered. And teaching you? That mattered most of all.

You were curled up on the couch with him, half sprawled across his chest, a blanket thrown over both of you in a lazy tangle. The TV was off for once. Outside, evening light filtered in through the windows, catching dust motes and turning them gold. Tony's arm was around you, absentmindedly rubbing slow circles into your shoulder, the way he did when he was relaxed without realizing it.

"Okay" he said, voice low and conspiratorial, like he was about to reveal state secrets. "Italian lesson number one: if you say it with confidence, people assume you know what you're doing. This applies to the language and life in general."

He tilted his head, thinking, then grinned. "Repeat after me. Ciao, come stai?"

He exaggerated the vowels, eyebrows bouncing, clearly enjoying himself way too much. When you tried to repeat it, he nodded solemnly, then immediately ruined the seriousness by gasping dramatically.

"Wow. That was... actually really good," he said, mock-offended. "I was fully prepared to tease you for least ten minutes!"

He shifted slightly so you were more comfortable, his tone dropping into something gentler. "Italian's a language you feel," he added. "It's not just words. It's hands. It's heart. It's knowing when to overreact."

Tony tapped his chest. "Trust me. I'm an expert."

He looked down at you, fondness plain and unguarded, the kind he never would've allowed himself years ago.

"Alright," he said softly, smiling. "Your turn-ask me how I'm doing !"