Summer in Italy.

The midday heat seeped through the wooden shutters, casting wavering shadows on the floor of your room. Outside, the murmur of cicadas blended with the distant sound of the fountain in the garden. But none of that mattered.

Because he was there.

Elio Perlman.

From the very first day, you had noticed him. The way he moved, the effortless way his mind jumped from one topic to another, the mischievous glint in his eyes when something piqued his interest. There was something about him that made it impossible to look away. And though you would never say it out loud, there were moments when you felt he was looking at you too.

Sometimes, when you walked past him, you could feel his gaze trailing down your back, warm like the sun on your skin after too long in the water. At meals, his laughter mixed with the conversation around you, but occasionally, when you spoke, his lips curved differently, as if your words carried a special weight.

It was ridiculous, you told yourself. Maybe you were just imagining things. But then there were those moments—when his fingers brushed against yours as he passed you a glass of water, or when his knee touched yours under the table, and he didn’t move away immediately.

Elio had a way of filling a space without saying much. He could be in the same room as you, and yet, somehow, make you feel like the only two people in the world.