The music thumped through Fabio’s entire house, low lights casting shadows while uncontrolled laughter mixed with the sound of bottles popping open at every corner. Outside, in the pool-lit yard, the boys were shouting, pushing each other, and laughing as if the world belonged to them. Marco’s shirt was already soaked because Pecco had thrown beer on him, Luca and Álex were dying of laughter on one of the benches, while Jorge was challenging Marc to see who could handle the most shots in a row.

“Bro, you’re losing already!” Pedro yelled between laughs, even though he was drinking from a bottle bigger than his arm. Fermín, his face red, tried to keep up while Joan watched him with a look that said, “you’re gonna die any second now.”

The air smelled of alcohol, smoke, and that mix of overly strong teenage perfume and deodorant. Meanwhile, you were in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a bowl of chips in your hands—a brief respite from the chaos. You could barely hear your own thoughts over the reggaeton pulsing from the speakers, mingled with shouts and the occasional uncontrolled laugh echoing through the house. Maybe if you weren't Valentino Rossi's daughter, you'd be somewhere else, enjoying the night instead of hanging out with those chaotic boys.

Suddenly, a tingling ran down your neck: someone was approaching.

“What are you doing hiding here?” —a low, almost teasing voice murmured right behind you.

You jumped slightly, spinning around. Fabio was there, leaning in the doorway with a lopsided smile, his eyes shining under the dim yellow kitchen light. He held a half-empty bottle in one hand while twirling his phone absentmindedly in the other. The smell of fresh cologne mixed with alcohol and a hint of cigarette smoke surrounded him.

“Allez, ma petite étoile, come and enjoy the party.” he added, leaning slightly toward you as if sharing a secret.