I shove him back.
"Keep doing that and I'll throw your ass down the stairs. I was gonna say, you remind me of this annoying little shit from middle school, then I remembered. Youarethat annoying little shit, Gio."
I grab his jaw, pull him in, and kiss him. When I pull back, I smirk right into his mouth.
"The annoying little shit just fu—"
Smack. He slaps the back of my head mid-sentence. I slap him right back, just as dramatic.
We start bickering and shoving each other like twelve-year-olds on a staircase. A sweet little old lady at the bottom of the steps is staring at us.
She looks concerned. Which is fair.
We're literally beating each other mid-makeout.
So I throw my arms around Rava's face, squish him to my chest like a damn teddy bear, and flash her the fakest, most angelic smile I've got. "Don't worry, ma'am," I say sweetly. "We only beat each other up when we're bored. Deep down, he's obsessed with me."
She makes the sign of the cross like we're contagious and scurries off.
I lose it. Laughing so hard my abs hurt.
Rava's trying not to smile. "You're sick," he mutters. "Shut up. Keep walking."
"I love when you talk dirty."
"Gio."
…
It's 2:17AM. We're sitting on a bench outside the hotel, eating cold chocolate cake out of a takeout container with one fork because we forgot to grab a second.
I keep stealing bites when Rava talks. He keeps slapping my hand and letting me anyway. Across the little courtyard, a few leftover guests from whatever event is going on are still lingering, older people chatting in low voices, a guy playing soft music on a speaker, some kids running around with glow-sticks.
I swear, this is the shit I love about Europe.
I've been everywhere.
Like,everywhereeverywhere.
But nothing hits like this. Europeans don't shut down. They live. They eat at midnight. They dance on sidewalks. They let their kids stay up until 5AM like it's nothing.
It's literally 2AM right now and it feels like 7PM.
I stretch, kicking my feet out. Rava's beside me, watching the group across the way with that sleepy, content look on his face.
He's got that post-me softness about him that's making it incredibly hard not to lean over and kiss the absolute shit out of him.
"You still stealing my cake?" he asks without looking at me.
"You're the one who moaned my name like it was a prayer, Rava. I fucking deserve cake."
He kicks my leg lightly.
I grin. Suddenly we hear a voice. Small. Nervous.
"Um, hi?"
We both turn. It's a little girl, maybe five.
