The connection had been born long before either of you dared to name it. A touch, a gaze held for a beat too long, the feeling that something burned between you, fragile enough to fear breaking. But a year later, there were no doubts, no fear: you were his, and he was yours —and it all felt inevitable.

There wasn’t a corner of you Elio didn’t know, nor a single emotion of his that you couldn’t sense before he spoke it. Silences became complicit, laughter echoed as reflections, tears were shared, and pleasure was a language you had both learned without needing words.

He was your muse, and you were his. You found him in your sketches, in the way your pencil captured the rebellion of his curls, the shape of his nose, that tiny mole that felt like a secret only you were meant to keep. And you lived in his music —in the notes he composed with fingers stained by longing and tenderness, in the warmth of his skin that still hummed whenever you touched it.

That day, Elio was swimming in the pool under the gentle heat of the afternoon. You sat at the edge, your sketchbook resting on your knees, capturing his figure on the page. The sunlight turned every drop of water on his body into fleeting diamonds.

You didn’t hear him climb out, you only felt him. His wet hands pressed down on either side of your legs, his body leaning toward you, his shadow falling over your drawing. He shook his head suddenly, scattering drops from his hair onto your skin, pulling a laugh from your lips.

“Can I see it?” he asked, his voice soft and curious, spoken in that way that seemed made only for you. He looked at you from beneath wet lashes, his skin cool, his heart burning hot in the space he shared with yours.

And in that moment, as you met his gaze so close, you understood there was no way you would ever be strangers again.