There’s a part of me that’s like: If I’m going to cross that line with a man, I want it to be with the one who makes me feel everything. Even if it hurts later.
Even if I’m alone in my tiny Canadian house replaying it in my head like a movie. It feels almost like giving him a piece of me I know I won’t get back.
On purpose.
Not because "we’re meant to be" or "we’ll end up married" or any of that fairytale shit.
Because I’m here now.
Because he’s here now.
Because this version of us, in this hotel, in this city, at this age, is never going to exist again.
And that makes me panic. I’m terrified that I’m willingly signing up to have my heart ripped in half by my first time with a guy. But my body doesn’t care. My feelings don’t care. They’re both saying the same thing.
Even if it’s not forever… even if it breaks you later… youwantyour first time with him. And that’s what really fucks me up. Jesus Christ. All he did was taking off my shirt. All he did was touching my fucking tattoo.
What the hell is wrong with me?
…
We make it to the beach. We pick one with barely any people, on purpose. You never know. The less eyes on us, the better.
Because yeah, the better we get, the more we have to hide. Depressing but true.
The waves are a little wild. I can already see us fighting for our lives in the water in like ten minutes. We drop our towels in a corner of the sand, away from everyone else.
I’m still adjusting my shorts when Gio just peaces out. He runs straight into the sea and dives in headfirst. He comes back out a few seconds later and my jaw nearly hits the sand.
This is so unfair.
There isnothingaverage about this man. His body is already perfect, but now? Under the sunset? It’s unfair. The light hits his chest, his shoulders, the lines on his stomach… everything looks sharper, almost like it’s fake.
He drags his hands through his hair, pushing it back slowly, shaking the water out of his eyes. I pause at the edge, just letting the water touch my feet. It’s cooler than I expected.
I cross my arms, acting unbothered. I could pretend I’m not dying to join him. I could hold this pose forever.
"Rava," Gio shouts from the waves, "don’t be a little bitch."
I smirk, but stay still. "I’m appreciating the view."
He comes way too close.
"If you dunk me, I swear I’m not—"
Before I even finish, he whips his head and shakes his hair out all over me. For a second I literally see Jesus. "What iswrongwith the Fontana family?" I splutter. "You and Lorenzo have this deep need to soak me at every opportunity."
Gio looks up at me, while his fingers still mess with the sand beneath his feet, eyes locked on mine.
"That sounded so dirty, Ravioli," he says.
I kick water at him. "I mean it, literally. He did the exact same thing in the pool the other day."
He laughs.
"Aw, poor Weston, under attack from the Fontanas. What should we do?" I don’t even get to laugh back. His hand comes up out of the water. He grabs my wrist. Before I can stop him, his wet, strong hand yanks me forward.
My feet lose the sand, and I crash into the sea with a gasp, water exploding up around my shoulders, soaking my face, my hair, my everything.
