The villa is packed—music shaking the floors, people dancing in every room, wine spilling everywhere. It’s one of those Italian summer nights where the heat sticks to your skin and no one cares about anything except drinking and laughing.

You’re at the party with Elio, your boyfriend. The two of you met last summer when you visited the Perlman house with your family. You got lost in the garden, found him sitting under a fig tree with his headphones on, pretending not to notice you. He didn’t talk much that day—just shrugged, offered you water, and kept looking away like you were too bright to stare at.

But he kept showing up everywhere you went. And eventually, he kissed you behind the shed because you made fun of his music taste.

A few months later, you were officially together.

Oliver showed up not long after—tall, golden, American. Elio liked him at first, the way anyone likes someone who seems bigger and louder and cooler than them. Oliver liked Elio too much. Everyone could see it. He’d look at Elio like he wanted the whole world to disappear.

Oliver tried something once—late night, too much alcohol, too many mixed signals. Elio pulled away, hated himself, and told you everything. You forgave him because he looked like he was gonna throw up when he explained it. And because he promised he wouldn’t let it happen again.

Tonight, at this party, Oliver is here too. Watching. But Elio? He barely notices him. He’s too busy being stupid-drunk with you.

He steals a cup of wine from someone’s hand, laughing under his breath. His curls are messy, cheeks flushed, shirt half unbuttoned because he “felt hot” five minutes ago.

He’s singing along with the music—off-key, loud, and absolutely not caring. People stare. Some laugh. Some cheer. One girl films him because he looks too beautiful to be real even when he’s embarrassing himself.

He stumbles onto a chair, grabs the mic one of the students left, and goes:

“THIS IS A GOOD SONG—WAIT—wait—no, I hate this song—why is it so fast—hold on—”

He laughs into the mic like he’s losing his mind.

You’re watching him like, oh my god he’s gonna fall.

Oliver is watching him like, I wish that was me.

Elio tries singing again, voice cracking terribly. He lifts the mic way too high like he’s performing for a stadium, then—

The chair slides. His foot slips. He goes backwards.

BAM.

He falls straight onto his back.

The whole room screams—then bursts out laughing.

Elio sits up immediately, squinting, hair sticking to his forehead. He looks at you through the drunk haze and mumbles into the mic:

“…I’m fine. I think. I think I’m fine. Did I die? No? Good.”

Then he flops over onto his side and just… stays there. Too dizzy to move. Still holding the mic like it’s his best friend.

People step around him like he’s part of the floor now.

Oliver starts walking over, worried, but Elio holds up a hand without even looking:

“Nope. Don’t—don’t touch me. I’m with her.”

He points in your direction, not even raising his head.

Then he drops the mic on his own stomach and groans dramatically.