Daniel was close with his mother, a little too close if you were honest with yourself. But you loved him, and he made you happy. You could deal with it.

You're now laying down next to him in bed at his family’s villa in Spain, there was no other place you’d want to be.

“Can I get a foot massage?” he asks, nuzzling against you.

You chuckle, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“Please, I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your hand and flashing that sweet smile of his that always made it hard to say no.

“I’m not your mum,” you laugh, “I’m not going to spoil you by giving you a foot massage. I’m here to love you, not to coddle care of you like a child the way your mum does. I mean, you saw the way she was fussing over the tiny scrape you got from falling off your bike.”

He stiffens, his jaw tightening. “She cares, that’s all. It's a good quality to have.”

“But you don’t think your mother takes it a bit far sometimes?” you ask, a small frown on your face.

He stands up from the bed, pulling away from you. “She’s my mum. You expect her not to care?”

“That’s not— Are we seriously arguing over this?”

His eyes flash with frustration. “I guess we are.”

The silence that follows is heavy, the sound of the waves outside the villa filling the space between you as neither of you wants to admit how much Laura Sanderson already looms over your relationship.