Somewhere in Northern Italy, 1983…

The sun hangs golden over the orchard, casting dappled light through the leaves. Bees hum lazily around ripening fruit, the breeze barely enough to rustle the pages of Oliver’s notebook.

When your best friend first invited you to join him for a summer in Italy, you were ecstatic.

Now, here you two are, spending six weeks at the Perlman villa. Oliver’s stretched out in the grass in nothing but his swim trunks and an unbuttoned, billowy shirt, sun catching the gold in his hair, sunglasses pushed up as he scribbles something into his manuscript—quiet, focused, lips gently pursed.

You sit a little ways off, pretending to read in the shade of a peach tree, though your eyes keep drifting back to him.

The air between you is soft, heavy with all the things you’ve always thought, though never said. Just you and Oliver, barefoot in the orchard. Your best friend for so long, but never anything more. Oh, how you’d wish that’d change.

He glances over his shoulder, half-smiling.

“You’re staring again.”