He flips me off. "That is disgusting. What even was that?!" "No idea," I say through laughter. "But your face? Worth it."
He glares harder, still wiping his mouth, and then he smiles… with a weird smile. Not a real one.
"You’redead, Gio."
I hold out my arms. "Come on, baby. I die for less every day."
He lunges.
I run.
We crash into each other seconds later in the middle of the crowd, laughing, moving through people.
For a moment, nothing else exists. Not the ride. Not the drink. Not the past. Just me and that little fucker.
Suddenly, the music changes.
Fucking nostalgia.
"‘Sara perché ti amo’… Damn, I haven’t heard this song in years," he says under his breath. The entire square loses its mind.
People start screaming. Old ladies toss their purses aside.
A group of teenagers grab each other and immediately start spinning.
And then, a woman appears, this glorious woman, late fifties maybe, glowing with sweat and way too much perfume.
She points straight at Rava. "TU!"
He blinks. "Me?"
"SI, BELLO. VIENI!"
Before he can argue, her hand is on his wrist, tugging him toward the middle of the chaos. He turns to me, wide-eyed.
"Gio help me—"
I take a bite of my dessert.
"Goodbye, Rava." I nod solemnly. "Duty calls." He glares, but he doesn’t fight it. With a dramatic sigh and the world’s most reluctant shuffle, he lets himself be pulled into the dance floor. And then he just dances with them.
I don’t know if it’s the wine, or the adrenaline, or just the perfect storm of music, lights, and fried sugar in the bloodstream, but Rava transforms.
There’s no awkward "what’s happening" moment.
One second he stands next to me, holding his wine like a confused tourist, and the next he’s in the circle, surrounded by five women easilytwiceour fucking age, clapping, laughing, spinning around him like satellites.
He moves with the rhythm, clapping his hands, laughing with his whole face.
The older women adore him.
They cheer for every move, drag him by the wrists to spin, shout "bravooooo!" like he’s headlining the damn show. And he doesn’t hold back. Doesn’t fake-shy. Doesn’t glance around to see if anyone judges.
He lets go. His hands are in the air. His hair is wild. He looks alive for once, not the stiff, polite version of himself. Not the quiet, careful one.
He’s glowing.
And I…Goddamn, I’m staring.
