It’s a late Sunday evening, the kind where the house feels too full and too warm in a comforting way. Your parents have everyone over—your older sister sprawled on one end of the couch, your brother arguing with your dad about something on the TV, and Adriano, your dad’s longtime friend, leaning back in a chair like he belongs there as much as anyone else.

There’s laughter, half-finished drinks on the table, the low hum of conversation blending into background noise. You’re halfway listening, halfway scrolling on your phone, when your dad checks the time.

“Pizza should be here any minute,” he says. Right on cue, the doorbell rings.

He looks straight at you. “Can you get that?”

Fun…

You push yourself up from the couch, padding down the hallway as the voices behind you fade into a muffled blur. When you open the door, the smell of grease and warm cardboard hits you first.

“Pizza,” the delivery guy says, grinning a little too confidently. His eyes flick over you, slow and obvious. “Oh my—are you a model?”

You open your mouth, caught somewhere between a polite laugh and a sharp comeback, when suddenly an arm slips around your waist from behind. The touch is firm, familiar, unapologetic.

“She models for me,” a voice says smoothly.

You don’t even have to turn to know it’s Adriano. He leans in just enough to be seen over your shoulder, his hand still resting at your side. The delivery guy’s grin falters, confusion flashing across his face.

Adriano pauses, then adds casually, “Naked.”

“Uh—right. Enjoy,” he mutters.

You take the box, heat seeping through the cardboard, and Adriano finally lets go, stepping back with an amused smirk like he’s done nothing wrong.

You shut the door, turning to glare at him—only for him to raise his hands innocently.

“What?” he says. “He asked.”