Chapter 8 #14
Between I hope he moves on and if he moves on, I'll never forgive him.
I don't know why I'm doing this to myself. We literally just had sex. But maybe that's the reason I'm dying inside.
I look at him, smiling, and he smiles back.
Please don't let me be just a chapter you skip over when you talk about your life, Gio.
Please don't let me be the boy you forget as soon as someone closer, easier, safer shows up.
Gio
We finish cleaning up ourselves, and then we step out of the bathroom. I collapse onto the bed with all the grace of a dying man. Absolutely wrecked.
And completely, fully, disgustingly fucking happy. My heart pounds like I ran ten miles. My thighs shake.
I think my soul is levitating somewhere above the ceiling fan. I glance over.
He's beside me all flushed. His hair is messy, strands falling over his forehead in the most obnoxiously perfect way possible.
I grin. "You have sex hair."
He turns his head, eyes half-lidded.
"You literally gave it to me."
"I know. And you're welcome."
He groans, throws a pillow at me, but he's smiling. Like really smiling. I catch it midair and throw it aside, rolling toward him.
"Hey," I murmur. "You don't regret doing this, right?" I stop.
He's looking at me. "Not even a bit."
I kiss him. Quick at first, just a press of lips.
Then again.
Deeper this time. Slower. He kisses back. Fingers sliding into my hair.
Our legs tangle. My hand finds his waist.
How am I supposed to let him go away now?
We pull away eventually, breathless and grinning. "I think you might've blacked me out," I say. "I mean it. I saw some kind of celestial event."
He snorts. "You're such a dumbass."
"A dumbass who rocked your entire existence."
He smirks. "One time. Let's not get cocky."
"Oh baby," I laugh.
"I was already cocky. Now I'm historically legendary."
He slaps my chest. I catch his wrist, kiss the inside of it just to be annoying.
He rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "You are unbelievable."
"I'm unforgettable."
"Unbearable."
"Unbutton me again and say that."
"Gio."
I grin and kiss him again, his jaw, his cheek, everything. I've probably kissed this man more times than I've kissed anyone else in my entire life. I grab the back of his head and pull him down onto my chest.
I run my fingers through his hair. If before I felt like he is mine, now it's double.
Triple. Off the fucking charts. I don't care if he feels the same. I like living in my own version of reality.
In my head, he's mine. End of story.
This right here is my heaven. I used to think nothing could beat the feeling of flying down the road on the Ducati. Thought that was peak happiness, that rush, that insane speed.
But look at this.
Something this slow, just beat it. Him breathing against my chest. This feels better than any highway, any race, any night ride.
Everything is perfect right now.
But my stomach growls. Loudly.
Rava lifts his head. "Was that you?"
"I'm starving," I say, without shame.
He squints. "We just had sex."
"Exactly. I burned calories."
"You're impossible."
I sit up dramatically. "I need food. Real food. Or I'll perish." He groans, flopping onto his back. "There's nothing up here."
I grin. "Then we go downstairs."
His head snaps toward me. "What?"
"Maybe the kitchen's still stocked. I bet there's something."
"Gio. It's the middle of the night."
"Which is exactly when snacks hit hardest."
"You're not serious."
I sit up and start getting dressed. Yeah, okay, feelings are cute and all, but I don't play games when it comes to food. I'll go out to eat even if it's four in the morning and snowing.
If my stomach says move, I move. End of discussion.
"Oh my god. You are serious."
"I'm a man of action," I declare, grabbing his shirt off the chair and tossing it at him. "Put this on and come with me." He stares at me. Then at the shirt. Then back at me. "You drag me to emotional hell and back and basically kinda take my virginity, and now you want me to put on clothes?"
"First of all," I say, pulling my hoodie over my head, "you came willingly to emotional hell. You fucking dove. Second, if I go alone, I might end up eating pickles and ketchup. Do you really want that on your conscience?"
He sighs, covers his face with both hands, then peeks out at me. "You're actually the worst."
"And yet, here you are, getting dressed for me."
"I hate you."
"Sure, ravioli."
He groans dramatically but slips into his pants anyway. Now he's standing in front of the mirror, staring at himself.
"I look like a corpse," he mutters.
"Yeah, well, you're a fine ass corpse then," I say.
He laughs. And because he laughs, I laugh too.
That's the annoying part. How automatic it is.
I feel weird around him now. Not in a bad way.
It's like my heart clocks in for a shift instead of just our bodies.
Before, it was all touch and heat and tension.
Now there's this extra layer on top of everything, like someone slapped a label on him.
I don't know if it's because I'm carrying the title of his first now, but I feel like he's under my protection.
Like I owe him something just for trusting me with that.
Does it bother me? No.
Is it gonna be a problem for our future? Hundred percent.
As we sneak into the hallway, I lean close to him. "Don't worry. If someone sees us, I'll just say you got hungry after ruining my entire life."
"Shut up," he hisses, but he's smiling. Blushing.
We're making our way down the stairs, slowly.
"Is your ass alright?" I ask. "Need a break? Want me to carry you bridal-style or piggyback?" He doesn't even let me finish the joke.
He elbows me in the side. "You dumb fuck."
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. You are that 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, everywhere everywhere.
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.
Wearing bright purple leggings and a glittery unicorn hoodie that's too big for her.
Her curls are wild and her glasses, silver, oversized.
They look exactly like Rava's.
So cute. Behind her, a woman stands a few feet away, clearly her mom, encouraging her forward with a gentle nudge and a whispered "It's okay, go on."
The girl takes two very hesitant steps toward us, clutching something to her chest.
"Sorry," the mom says, hurrying forward to close the gap.
"I'm so sorry. We didn't mean to bother you. It's just that my daughter noticed you earlier, your glasses, and she just got hers too, and she drew you!"
Rava straightens. "She what?"
"She drew you," the mom says. "Well, both of you, actually. For her people who look cool journal. You're the first person she's seen with glasses like hers."
The girl holds out the paper, shy but proud.
Two stick figures.
One with a mess of curls and glasses. The other with messy hair and what looks like a chain necklace. They're holding hands. There are stars around them. Hearts, too. Big ones.
Rava takes it carefully, like it might disintegrate in his hands. "This is," he says, and his voice cracks a little. "This is amazing. What's your name?"
"Lila," she whispers.
"Lila," he repeats. "Oh, wow! That's a beautiful name. You're really talented, sweetheart. You know that?"
She nods, wide-eyed, cheeks pink.
"And your glasses?" He leans in a little, drops his voice like it's a secret. "I think they're way cooler than mine."
She lights up. Absolutely beams. He crouches, right there in front of the bench, so they're eye-level.
So he's not towering. So she feels seen.
He asks her questions. About the drawing.
Her crayons. Her sparkly hoodie. He listens.
Genuinely listens. Like she's important.
Like she matters. And she looks at him like she's in love.
I'm just eating and watching him talk softly to this tiny, bright-eyed stranger.
And then he hugs her when she shyly leans in, carefully, gentle with it.
One arm. Safe. The mom thanks him again and again, a little flustered, saying stuff like "She's just little," and "She doesn't understand yet," but Rava just smiles and says "She understands enough."
And he folds the drawing like it's priceless and tucks it into his shirt pocket.
And I fucking break. Not visibly.
But inside? My brain splits in half. Because suddenly all I can think is he's gonna be the best teacher those kids ever have. He's gonna stand in front of a classroom and smile like that every day.
He's gonna go to parent-teacher nights with papers in his bag and stickers on his hands and maybe one day, if the world doesn't ruin him, he's gonna be a dad and be so fucking good at it.
My stomach drops.
My heart tries to climb out of my throat. He turns to me as he sits back down. And he laughs. "God, that was adorable," he says.
And I say nothing.
Because in my head, something's screaming.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
Fuck. Fuck.
I love him. I love him.
I fucking love him.
It's real. I sit forward, hands in my hair. He looks over. "You okay?" I don't answer. I can't.
Because it's over. I can't unknow it now.
I want everything. I want all of him. And that is never the deal.
"Shit."
Then again. "Fuck."
Then louder. "Jesus Christ."
He blinks. "Are you… okay?"
"I need to I just—"
I stand up. Pace once. Sit down again.
My hands are shaking.
He raises an eyebrow. "Gio."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"I'm great."
"You're freaking out."
"Not freaking out. Just having a moment."
"A moment?"
"Of clarity."
He stares at me. I stare at the courtyard. And in my head?
It's just three words.
Over and over and over again.
I love him. I love him. I love him.
Fuck me sideways.