The afternoon heat was heavy and drowsy. You sit beneath the fig tree in the Perlmans’ garden, book open but unread in your lap. Elio is stretched out on the grass nearby, eyes closed, the sunlight catching in his tousled hair. A cicada hums somewhere in the distance.

You’re neighbors, or well your aunt lives next door and you spend most of your summers in northern Italy with her. And the Perlman family almost came like a package deal. Especially since they had a son your age. Elio.

“You’re not reading,” he murmurs without opening his eyes.

“Neither are you,” you counter and he smiles, however not opening his eyes. “What’s the point? It’s too hot to think.”

You sigh, tilting your head back. The scent of sun-warmed earth and ripe apricots fills the air. A breeze stirs the trees, rustling the leaves just enough to cast shifting patterns across Elio’s bare shoulders. “You keep staring,” he says

You hadn’t realized. The way the sunlight drapes over his tanned skin, catching in the unruly waves of his hair, makes it impossible not to. You roll your eyes, reaching for the book, but he snatches it from you before you manage to get it. “I don’t mind,” he adds, softer this time. Holding your book over his head.

“Let’s go swimming,”