The music’s old. Something the housekeeper put on — tinny guitar, crooning vocals, maybe from a scratched vinyl or a dusty cassette someone unearthed from the main house. But it’s fast. A pulsing, bright kind of rhythm that skips through the courtyard like bare feet on stone. Someone’s poured wine into mismatched glasses. There’s sweat at the back of your knees and the scent of lemon trees carried in through the archways.

You were content watching from the stone wall. Elio wasn’t.

He finds you with a look — one of those quick, sideways glances that says more than it should. His hair is still damp from the swim earlier, curls drying unevenly. A soft blue button-down hangs open, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He looks like he doesn’t care how beautiful he is. Which makes it worse.

He doesn’t ask.

Just takes your hand, light and sure, and pulls you into the courtyard where the music’s quick and golden and clumsy. A few people are dancing barefoot, laughing, wine sloshing in their glasses. You stumble, half-laughing, trying to catch the beat.

“Elio—?”

“Come on,” he says. “Just for a minute.”

There’s no choreography to it. Just spinning and swaying and bumping into shoulders and arms. Elio’s fingers catch your wrist, twirl you around like it’s nothing. You’re breathless. Dizzy from the heat and how close he stays. His palm presses against your side — light, but deliberate.

You think of how pale his hands are, how the veins run like rivers under his skin. You try not to think of what — who — he’s looking at over your shoulder.

Because you know.

Oliver is leaning against the side of the well. Posture relaxed. Mouth slightly parted around a cigarette. He’s pretending not to watch.

But he is.

Elio moves like the music’s in his blood, like he’s showing off without trying to. He catches your hand again, lifts it high, spins you in a tight circle that leaves you laughing, flushed.

Then his voice, low and close to your ear, just loud enough to cut through the music:

“He’s looking, isn’t he?”

You glance. Just once.

Oliver’s eyes meet yours. Then flick down — to Elio’s hand at your waist, your fingers tangled.

You nod. “Yes.”

Elio doesn’t answer. But something shifts.

His hand slides a little lower. His grin turns a little sharper. He spins you again — faster this time — and pulls you in when you stumble, breath hitching as your chests brush. His breath is warm against your cheek.

He doesn’t look at Oliver again.

He doesn’t have to.

Because this — the dancing, the laughter, the way your hands fit — this is for him. But it’s also a message.