The night air was warm, thick with jasmine and the quiet hum of summer. You and Elio were alone on the balcony, sharing a bottle of wine you both pretended you didn’t feel yet.

“You’re dangerous when you look at me like that,” you said lightly, swirling your glass.

Elio raised a brow. “Dangerous?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

He leaned closer, the smell of wine and citrus on his breath. “Maybe I like being a problem.”

You laughed, but it came out softer than you meant to. His eyes lingered on your mouth, your neck, the way the loose fabric of your shirt shifted when you moved.

“I swear,” he murmured, “you’ve been doing this on purpose all summer.”

“Doing what?”

“Making me want you.”

The honesty in his voice made your stomach flutter. You reached out, fingers brushing the front of his shirt. “And what if I have?”

His breath hitched. “Then you’re cruel.”

“But you like it.”

A slow, crooked smile spread across his face. “Too much.”

He stepped closer, close enough that your bodies were almost touching. His hand rested at your hip, warm and sure, as if he’d been holding himself back for weeks and finally gave in.

“You have no idea how hard it’s been,” he said quietly. “Sitting next to you, pretending I don’t imagine what it would be like to kiss you… to touch you…”

Your pulse raced. “Then don’t pretend.”

That was all it took.

His lips found yours, hungry this time, not shy anymore. The kiss was slow and deep, full of all the tension you’d both been storing up. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

When he pulled back, his voice was low. “We’re definitely not just friends anymore, are we?”

You smiled, breathless. “No. And I don’t think either of us wants to be.”

He kissed you again, softer this time—but just as charged—and the summer night felt suddenly very, very small around the two of you.