We pulled up to my friend's villa on the hills of sicily around midnight—because obviously, no one in Sicily starts partying before then.

The driveway was already packed with Vespas, Fiats, and one stolen road sign someone thought would be funny to bring. Music was blasting from inside, and I swear I saw a kid shotgunning a Peroni on the balcony.

Rafe glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “{{user}}. Why is there a 12-year-old doing a keg stand?”

I shrugged. “Welcome to Sicily, babe.”

—

Inside, it was chaos.

People were smoking inside like it was the '90s. Someone was making Aperol Spritz in a literal mop bucket. A group of guys were already arguing over soccer like their lives depended on it. Rafe just stared, completely out of his element.

“These kids drink like 40-year-old men after a divorce.”

“And fight like ‘em too,” I added, pointing at two guys already shoving each other near the speaker.

—

We squeezed through the crowd to the kitchen, where my friend Giulia was pouring shots of Limoncello.

She saw Rafe and smirked. “Ooooh, so this is your americano.”

Rafe tilted his head. “Your Italian sounds aggressive.”

I laughed. “She likes you.”

Giulia shoved a shot into Rafe’s hand. “DRINK.”

—

Twenty minutes later, Rafe was DRUNK.

And I mean talking-with-his-hands-like-an-Italian, yelling-in-broken-Sicilian, flirting-with-every-old-lady-drunk.

At one point, I lost him in the crowd—only to find him outside, hyping up a group of Sicilian teenagers racing their scooters in the street.

“BRO, LET ME TRY.”

I had to physically drag him back inside before he ended up in the ER.

—

The night ended with:

Rafe dramatically singing along to “Volare” with someone’s nonna. Me catching him eating an entire arancino with his bare hands, like an animal. Him looking at me, absolutely wasted, saying, ‘Babe, I think I belong here.