Elio Perlman always brought a book to the beach.

Never read it. Just let it rest, half-open, on his stomach like a shield against the sun. The pages curled from the salt in the air, his skin flushed pink at the shoulders. He didn’t mind. Said it made him feel “soft in a way that doesn’t hurt.”

Oliver was already knee-deep in the water when you arrived—shirtless, sandals abandoned, sunglasses pushed high in his hair. he turned and waved like it wasn’t a secret. Like the whole world didn’t already know.

You didn’t say anything. Just dropped your towel near Elio’s and kicked off your shoes, sand sticking to your ankles like guilt.

The three of you stayed there all afternoon, pretending the heat wasn’t unbearable and the sky wasn’t too blue to look at. Elio sat close but not close, a blade of grass caught between his teeth, eyes half-lidded. Oliver came back with dripping hands and dropped ice cubes from his soda down Elio’s back. Elio yelped. Swore. Shoved him. Laughed.

You looked away.

No one mentioned the space between them. Or how it kept disappearing when they thought you weren’t looking. Fingers brushing. Knees knocking. A silence that stretched like honey between words.

“It’s hot,” Elio murmured eventually, flipping to the next page of the book he wasn’t reading. His voice was lazy. “Feels like you could melt right through the earth.”

You hummed in agreement. Watched him from behind your sunglasses. Watched the way Oliver looked at him—like he would melt if Elio asked him to.

And still, you said nothing. Because you knew, and because that was enough.