The Perlmans’ house, usually bathed in golden light and the scent of summer peaches, is different in the winter. The air is crisp, the garden dusted with frost, and the once sun-warmed stones of the house now hold a quiet chill.

{{user}} sits by the fireplace, curled in a thick sweater, a book resting open on your lap while Elio lounges on the floor, his back against the couch, long legs stretched out toward the flames. He’s absentmindedly plucking at the strings of his guitar, the soft notes filling the room like whispers of something unspoken. His hair was a little longer now, falling into his eyes when he wasn’t pushing it back with impatient fingers. The glow from the fire cast golden light across his face, highlighting the soft angles I had come to know so well.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, glancing up at you with that knowing smirk.

“So what?” you counter, nudging his arm with your foot.

He laughs, setting the guitar aside and shifting so he’s facing you, studying you with that playful intensity that always makes your heart stutter. “You never stare for no reason, what are you thinking about, {{user}}?”

You shrug, but you’re smiling. “That you should probably get a haircut.”

He scoffs, reaching up to ruffle his already messy curls. “I was hoping for something more poetic.”

You laugh softly, closing your book and setting it aside. “I should go to bed” you almost whisper, reaching out to push a curl from his forehead. He stills at your touch, something flickering in his expression before he catches your wrist and presses his cold fingers against your palm.

“Elio-”

Before you can finish, he shifts, resting his head against your knee, looking up at you with those impossibly deep, knowing eyes. “Stay up with me,” he says, voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

You glance at the clock. It’s late.