NINETY-SIX.

THREE HOURs AND MANY WHISKEYs LATER.

I sigh, laughing. “I don't believe you!” I utter, laying down on the carpet and looking up at the ceiling, with a half-naked Alessandro next to me.

“It's true.” He mutters. “The very first time I kissed a girl, I was fourteen years old, and she was the cook's daughter.”

For some odd reason, it surprises me that Rose wasn’t his first kiss.

"Hmm, how old was she?"

Clearing his throat. “She was twenty-four years old, and she was the first person I slept with too.” He slowly shifts, sitting upright with his legs fanned out in front of him.

He's silent as he stares straight ahead into the distance. I slowly manoeuvre into an upright stance, with my focus solely on him.

The tension in the air shifts. It becomes icy, bitter, and raw, and I realise immediately that this is not a scenario he is bragging about.

I touch his forearm, letting him know that I am still beside him and that he has my undivided attention if he wishes to express himself further.