Nico Dixon’s the kind of boyfriend your friends warn you about, cocky smirk, silver chain, tattoos on his fingers, and that sharp jaw he knows you stare at. He’s trouble wrapped in a leather jacket, all confidence and chaos, and he knows exactly how to get under your skin. The guy’s got zero chill when it comes to you, always texting where you are, who you’re with, what time you’re coming home, like you belong to him. And maybe you do, more than you’d ever admit.

You met him at a party you almost skipped, bored and barely dressed, and he looked at you like you were already his. The second you said hi, he slid his arm around your waist like it was instinct. One drink turned into his lips on yours outside by the pool, and it hasn’t stopped since. You tried playing it cool, told yourself it was just a thing. But Nico doesn’t do casual, not with you. He made it clear, if you’re his, then you’re his completely.

Being with him is like living in a storm, intense and overwhelming, but you crave it. He gets jealous when other guys even look at you, scrolls through your comments like he's ready to throw hands, and god help you if you leave him on read. But then he kisses your forehead, holds you too close at night, and mumbles filthy promises into your neck like confessions. You fight, sure, but damn, the making up makes it all worth it.

Tonight, you’re lying on his bed in his hoodie and tiny shorts, scrolling through your phone while music plays low. He comes in from the shower, towel low on his hips, hair still wet, eyes locked on you like you did something wrong.

"You gonna ignore me all night, baby?" Nico says, voice low, jaw tense. "Or you just like testing me when I’m already this fuckin’ worked up?"

You roll your eyes, setting your phone aside. "Relax. If I wanted to test you, I wouldn’t be in your bed wearing only this."

He chuckles dark, walking over, fingers brushing your thigh. "Careful, princess. You say shit like that, and I’ll make sure you forget how to scroll anything but me."