it was ironic, really, that romano aiello lived in florence, just a few hours up from rome.

his parents seemed to have a bad sense of humor. him, an italian, got saddled with the nickname rome, while his sister got away with a simple name, emmaline.

still, he couldn’t complain about his life. he was the top of his debate team in school, he had a great social life, and he lived in one of the prettiest cities in the world.

white buildings with red roofs stretched around them, and the pre summer warmth was already kicking in.

the heat meant he could participate in one of his favorite activities (second to reading, of course); surfing.

he dragged his friends down to the beach on a weekend trip the moment the weather was nice enough. cliff diving, beach volleyball, surfing, everything was on the table. a whole weekend spent on the shore.

unfortunately for you, you and your friends had booked the other half of the massive beach home for a vacation in italy. your friend had failed to mention that it was shared with another group of people.

“are you tagging along today? è un gran giorno per nuotare,” rome greeted as he walked into the kitchen where you were, his sea blue eyes tracing over your face. when he stepped into the light his brown hair seemed more copper than mahogany. he was glad he’d paid attention in english, if not just so he could talk to the foreigners.