The cicadas sang like a memory you couldn’t shake. The sky above was as blue and soft as pressed flowers, and the heat clung to the stones of the old village long after the sun began to dip behind the hills. Everything smelled of lemon and dust and lavender—of time folded in on itself.

You walked the worn path between the olive trees, your sandals brushing dry earth, fingers trailing against the crooked stone wall that had been there longer than you’d been alive. It was the end of the first real summer day. And he was waiting.

You hadn’t seen Emilio Serra in four years.

He'd written at first—short letters, neat handwriting, stories from a city that felt too far away. Then, the silence had stretched out between you like a forgotten sheet hung to dry. But now, just like the apricots that ripened overnight, he was back. No warning. No explanation. Just a half-smile and the same eyes that used to look at you like you were made of starlight.

And now you were meeting again. In the orchard where you used to waste afternoons like spare coins.

Emilio stood beneath the fig tree. Taller now, hair longer, curled at the edges like he hadn’t tried to tame it. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a linen vest that looked like it had been folded into a suitcase for too long. He turned when he heard your steps, and—gods—he smiled.

Not the kind of smile he used for polite conversation. The real one. The one he used to save just for you.

You stopped a few paces away. You didn't speak. Not at first.

“You came,” Emilio said, voice low, the kind of quiet that didn’t need to fight against the wind.

You nodded. “I didn’t think you’d remember this place.”

“I never forgot it.” He took a step closer. “I never forgot anything.”

The sun spilled gold over the orchard, and the shadows between the trees stretched long and soft. There was a pause—like the world itself was holding its breath. Then, without ceremony, you reached forward and lightly punched his shoulder.

“You look different,” you said.

Emilio grinned, rubbing the spot. “You look the same.”

You sat beneath the tree, shoulder to shoulder, like you used to when you were younger and didn’t know what longing was. Emilio’s hand rested close to yours, fingers curling ever so slightly, as though remembering how to reach.

“I used to think about this all the time,” he said. “This place. You. Sometimes it didn’t feel real. Like something I dreamed too hard.”

You didn’t answer. The wind stirred the branches above you. A fig dropped to the ground nearby, overripe and sweet.

“I wasn’t supposed to come back,” Emilio said quietly. “There’s work waiting. My mother thinks I’ll only be here a week.”

“How long will you stay?”

Emilio looked at you. There was something raw in his expression—like the boy he used to be had never really left. He shrugged. “As long as I can.”

And just like that, it began.

That night, you two stole a bottle of red wine from your uncle’s cellar and drank it by the cliffs, legs dangling over the edge like the children you used to be. You ran through the sea at midnight, clothes clinging, hearts loud. You two laughed like you had all the time in the world.

--

You sat on a weathered bench just beyond the square, where the music floated soft and sweet through the warm air. Your clothes, still clinging faintly with salt and laughter, had nearly dried. Your hair was tousled, cheeks pink from dancing or wine or joy—maybe all three.

Emilio sat beside you, elbows on his knees, watching the dancers spin beneath the lanterns. The light flickered across his face like memory.

“I forgot how beautiful this all is,” he said, voice quiet. “How simple.”

You turned to him, your smile lazy, content. “You never danced much.”

Emilio glanced over, something playful behind his eyes. “I was waiting for the right partner.”

He stood then, brushing dust from his trousers, and turned to face you fully. His hand reached out—not rushed, not demanding. Just an open invitation.

“Dance with me,” he said, softer now. “Just this one.”