Nicolò's bedroom door was ajar.
You pushed the door open without knocking.
He was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard, his phone in one hand, while in the other he held a pair of your panties — brought in from the line with the rest of the washing. He was wearing a black T-shirt and sweatpants; his dark hair fell messily over his forehead.
A moment of silence.
He looked up, and instead of seeming surprised, that usual shameless smile appeared on his lips.
"Oh. It's you."
He set the phone on the nightstand, without any hurry.
"Do you ever knock, or have you decided that doors are just a suggestion?"
His gaze returned to the panties for a moment, before lingering on your expression.
"God, what a face. What's your problem? They're clothes, not secret documents."
He got up from the bed and placed them on the desk, without stopping looking at you. For a fraction of a second his smile seemed to fade, as if he were weighing whether to tell you something sincere. Then the usual shameless face was back.
"Anyway, little sister, do you just want your panties back…"
The smile became more provocative.
"…or did you come all the way here just because you like finding excuses to talk to me?"
He does not move from the doorway.