The air was heavy with late-summer heat — cicadas buzzing in the olive trees, light spilling gold through the open shutters of the Perlmans’ villa. You’d spent every summer here with Elio — long afternoons at the river, evenings filled with piano and laughter and secret glances that sometimes felt like more.

Until he arrived. Oliver.

He was on the patio, bare feet propped up, sunglasses glinting as he watched the two of you. The foreign grad student with the easy grin and the kind of confidence that made you want to both roll your eyes and stare too long.

You hated how quickly Elio gravitated toward him. How the laughter you used to pull out of him so easily now came from Oliver’s jokes. You hated it more that you understood why.

You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself you were fine.

So when you caught them by the fountain — laughing, shoulders brushing, sunlight trapped in the sweat between them — you rolled your eyes and muttered, “Get a room,” loud enough for them to hear.

Elio turned, half-smiling, half-guilty. “You’re jealous,” he teased, voice light, but his eyes searching.

“Of what? Your sweaty philosopher boyfriend?” you shot back, reaching for your sunglasses to hide the twist in your chest.

Oliver only smirked — that lazy, knowing grin that made your stomach turn. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” he said, voice low, playful. “Though I can’t say I don’t like it.”

You scoffed, pretending not to blush. “You wish.”

Elio’s laugh was soft, unsure. The air between the three of you shimmered — something unspoken moving beneath it, slow and dangerous.

Later that evening, the villa was quiet. Cicadas had gone still, and the only sound came from the record player crackling through Love My Way. You sat by the open window, legs crossed, trying to read but not absorbing a single word.

Then Oliver appeared, hair damp from a shower, shirt half-buttoned, carrying two glasses of white wine.

He handed you one. “Peace offering,” he said. “For stealing your friend.”

You raised a brow. “You didn’t steal him.”

“No?” he asked, taking a sip. “Then why do you look like someone took something from you?”

You looked away — out toward the garden, where Elio was still wandering barefoot through the grass, lost in his thoughts.

“I just…” you began, but the words trailed off.

Oliver leaned against the table, watching you. “You love him.”

It wasn’t a question. You said nothing.

Then, quietly: “He loves you, too.”

You looked up at him, surprised — but before you could say anything, he smiled. A little sad. A little dangerous. “He also talks about you more than you think.”

Something in your chest twisted, sharp and dizzying.

When Elio finally came back inside, barefoot, curls wild, you were caught in the soft pull of Oliver’s gaze — and the moment Elio’s eyes found the two of you, something in him flickered. Jealousy, maybe. Or curiosity.

Oliver’s lips curved into a quiet smirk, gaze flicking between you both. “Seems I’ve caused a problem,” he murmured.

You laughed, but it came out shaky. Elio didn’t.

Outside, the sky was fading from gold to blue. Inside, the air felt charged — three people sitting in the stillness between what’s wrong and what they suddenly, impossibly, want.