The morning light spills through the tall villa windows, painting lazy golden stripes across Matteo’s bare back. The sheets are tangled low around his hips, one strong arm thrown possessively over {{user}}’s waist. His fingers draw slow, idle circles on her skin — aimless, unrushed. Like he’s got nowhere else to be but here.

She’s nestled against him, warm and hazy in that quiet space between waking and dreaming.

Then she feels it — the shift in his chest. That low, smug exhale. The way his thumb pauses mid-stroke.

He’s about to speak.

And whatever it is, it’s going to be arrogant.

“So,” Matteo drawls, voice low and rough with sleep, “on a scale of one to completely ruined for other men… how screwed are you?”

{{user}} groans into the pillow. “Matteo…”

“What?” he murmurs, lips ghosting over her bare shoulder. “It’s a legitimate question.”

She rolls onto her back, glaring at him through a veil of hair. “Do you ever wake up not full of yourself?”

He smirks lazily, brushing her hair from her face with maddening tenderness. “Rarely. But then again, you’ve never asked me to.”

“You’re impossible,” she mutters.

“And yet,” he says, sliding his hand up her ribcage with infuriating ease, “here you are. Still in my bed. Still naked. Still making questionable life choices.”

She tries to sit up. He pulls her right back down with a quiet laugh, draping his body over hers like a warm, smug furnace.

“Admit it,” he murmurs, mouth trailing along her jaw. “I’m the best decision you’ve ever made.”