After a rather eventful hour with Nico, the two of you sat together on the couch, your bare body pressed against his warmth. The air between you had settled into something comfortable, almost teasing, as a playful thought popped into your mind.

“Nico,” you began, your fingers lazily tracing patterns along his neck, “are our families going to kill each other at the wedding?”

He chuckled, a low, amused sound deep in his chest. “Maybe,” he replied, clearly entertained by the idea.

You tilted your head, studying him with a grin. “I don’t think my papà likes you.”

Nico’s lips quirked into a smirk as he shrugged. “I don’t think many do.”