Italy, in mid-May time. Bustling with tourists, much to Rafe’s grumbling dismay and the sun sneaking through peeps in the heaving streets that were about two metres wide. One side of the apartment building is beautiful, freshly painted, the other side is graffitied as hell. Instead of the beautiful 5 star hotel, and the white sand beaches, you came here. This was your day trip to Napoli. Home of pizza, and apparently a famous frozen yogurt place you’d insisted on going to and trying.

Motorbikes and mopeds sped down these tiny alleys at an unimaginable speed, causing Rafe’s hold on your hand to tighten, moving you further away, or grip on your waist pulling you closer. “How long has it even been since you’ve had frozen yogurt?” He says the food item like it’s stupid. And in his eyes, it is.

You shrug noncommittally, “Eight years or so.”

“Eight years? You might not even like it anymore.” He argues, looking up from the directions app on his phone. Nonetheless, after forty minutes of walking, and swearing colourfully under his breath about the drivers before dropping a kiss on your head or temple, you arrive outside the yogurt place.

You go inside, order one, Rafe pays, and then he walks you across the street, pulls you upstairs into the lavish looking hotel, up the elevator, past smiling attendants and sits you both down on the rooftop bar, after ordering an espresso and a chilled water.

“How is it?” His arm slings over your shoulders on the low sofa overlooking the bay and harbour. You shrug pulling a slight face. “Ice cream would’ve been better.”

He looks over, a ghost of a smirk and an amused yet frustrated look in his eyes. He shakes his head and kisses the side of your forehead closest to him. “Unbelievable baby.” You smile a little and offer him some. He eats it off the spoon and frowns. “You enjoy that shit?” Before you can respond he shakes his head and looks back out over the harbour. “Whatever makes you happy.”