The bicycle was leaned against the old shop, its faded frame blending into the dusty stone walls. It was hot—so hot the cobblestones radiated warmth, and the ancient buildings did nothing to cool the air. If you looked past the idyllic Italian landscape, you’d see the heat shimmering in waves. If you had light-colored eyes, you'd be squinting the whole walk unless you wore a hat. It was that kind of heat when people rarely ventured outside, leaving doors and windows open in hopes of catching a breeze. Even the sound of an old television echoed lazily from somewhere.

Oliver stepped out of the shop, the stamp he needed in hand, fingers still rough from working with the ancient statues he and Elio's father had discovered by the rocky shore. As he moved toward the path, a few peaches suddenly rolled past him, bouncing lightly down the cobblestones. He blinked, watching them in confusion. The bicycle in front of him was overturned, its basket emptied in the heat. The only movement on the quiet street came from a stray orange cat darting by, the likely cause of the incident.

You crouched down, muttering a quiet "Merda" under your breath as you scrambled to gather the runaway peaches.

Oliver chuckled, bending down to help. He scooped up a peach, then another, before turning your basket back upright. Without a word, he began placing the fruit inside, though one peach remained in his hand.

He looked at it for a moment, weighing it thoughtfully, before flashing a small grin. "Guess I’ll hold onto this one. For collateral."

His tone was playful, but there was that familiar glint in his eyes—a mix of charm and something quietly guarded, just beneath the surface.