POV: Alexandro
I start looking for her the way people look for signs.
Not urgently. Not desperately. Casually, as if I don’t already know the shape of her absence.
The capital wakes early. Merchants set up stalls near the outer square while servants scrub yesterday’s dust from stone steps that will be dirty again by noon. I ride out with a light escort under the excuse of inspection, but I leave them behind the moment the streets narrow and the smells change from polish to bread.
“You have an hour,” the guard says uncertainly.
“I won’t be long,” I reply, already dismounting.
I walk.
I tell myself that is the point—that I want to walk like everyone else, unmarked, unnoticed. I pull my cloak lower, ignoring the familiar itch of recognition that follows me even when I try to forget who I am.
She isn’t hard to find.
She’s exactly where she was last time—near the spice stalls, laughing with a woman I don’t recognize, her basket resting against her hip like it belongs there. She wears the same plain linen dress, patched now at the elbow. Her hair is tied back, practical and unadorned.
She doesn’t look at me.
That is the first thing I notice.
I stand there longer than I should, waiting for her to glance up, to sense me the way people always do. When she doesn’t, something tightens in my chest—not anger, not hurt.
Challenge.
I step closer.
“Good morning,” I say.
She turns then, startled just enough to be real. Recognition flickers, brief and unreadable.
“You again,” she says.
“Alexandro,” I remind her.
“I didn’t ask,” she replies calmly.
I blink. “Most people do.”
“I’m not most people.”
I nod, pretending that doesn’t sting. “I was hoping to speak with you.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “About?”
I gesture vaguely. “Life.”
Her mouth twitches. “That’s ambitious.”
The woman beside her snorts. “Lina, you’ve customers.”
“I know,” she replies, eyes still on me. “Give me a moment.”
The woman moves away, throwing me a look somewhere between amusement and warning.
“You shouldn’t linger,” Lina says. “People like you attract attention.”
“You don’t even know what kind of person I am,” I say.
She shrugs. “I know enough.”
“That I wear better fabric?”
“That you don’t know how to stand without announcing yourself,” she says evenly.
I glance down, realizing my posture is still rigid, trained. I loosen it deliberately.
“Better,” she says. “Still obvious.”
I laugh despite myself. “You’re blunt.”
“You’re bored,” she counters. “Bored people ask strangers about life.”
I tilt my head. “What do you think life is?”
She considers me for a moment. “Work. Heat. Noise. Small joys that don’t belong to anyone else.”
“And love?” I ask.
She snorts. “Luxury.”
“Not for everyone,” I argue.
“For most,” she replies.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “You don’t want more?”
“More of what?” she asks.
“Comfort. Security.”
She looks past me at the square. “Those things always come with strings.”
“I wouldn’t tie them,” I say quickly.
She finally meets my gaze fully. “You already have.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
“I don’t even know your name,” I say, almost defensively.
She hesitates. “You don’t need it.”
“I want it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
I swallow. “Lina.”
She sighs. “Yes?”
“I’d like to see you again.”
She studies my face like she’s weighing something invisible. “You already are.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
I wait.
She doesn’t fill the silence.
“Will you?” I ask.
She shifts her basket. “If you’re here, I’m here. That’s as much as I can promise.”
It’s not enough. It should be enough.
I nod anyway. “All right.”
She turns back to her stall without ceremony.
I stand there a moment longer, heart beating too fast for such a small exchange, before forcing myself to leave.
I tell Evangeline about her that afternoon.
We sit on the low wall near the gardens, the one spot where servants don’t hover. Evangeline listens without interrupting, her expression thoughtful.
“She didn’t ask who you were,” Evangeline says finally.
“I told you that already.”
“She didn’t care,” she clarifies.
“That’s what I like,” I insist. “She sees me as… just a person.”
Evie hums softly. “Or she sees you as trouble.”
“You’re always cautious.”
“And you’re always romantic,” she counters. “That’s a dangerous combination.”
“She’s free,” I say. “She doesn’t belong to this place. She chooses where she stands.”
Evie watches me carefully. “You’re projecting.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You want her freedom,” she says. “Not her.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” she asks gently. “You talk about what she represents more than who she is.”
I bristle. “I know who she is.”
“Do you?” Evie asks. “Or do you know how she makes you feel?”
I open my mouth, then close it.
Evie sighs. “I’m not trying to stop you. I just want you to be careful.”
“She’s not a trap,” I say sharply.
“I didn’t say she was,” Evie replies. “I said you might be.”
***
Weeks pass.
I find Lina whenever I can—never planned, never announced. Sometimes she talks. Sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes she lets me walk beside her through the square. Sometimes she tells me to leave.
She never asks for anything.
That’s what makes it unbearable.
“You don’t need to come,” she says one morning as I trail her toward the river. “I won’t be offended.”
“I want to,” I reply.
She glances at me. “Why?”
“Because I like you.”
“That’s vague.”
“Because I think about you,” I say, frustrated. “Because when you’re not there, everything feels heavier.”
She stops walking.
“Don’t say things like that,” she says quietly.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t know what they mean,” she replies.
“I do.”
“No,” she says. “You know what you want them to mean.”
I step closer. “And you?”
She looks away. “I don’t want anything.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s practical,” she says. “Wanting leads to disappointment.”
I laugh bitterly. “You sound like my father.”
“Then listen,” she replies. “Because men like him don’t learn twice.”
Something sharp twists in my chest.
“You think I’ll become him,” I say.
“I think power changes people,” she says. “And you have more of it than you know what to do with.”
I shake my head. “Not with you.”
She meets my gaze, steady and distant. “Especially with me.”
That night, I lie awake replaying her words.
I imagine a life without schedules, without stone walls and inherited expectations. I imagine her beside me, unafraid, untouched by the rules that shape every breath I take.
I imagine choosing her.
The thought feels like oxygen.
The next morning, I skip lessons.
I go to her.
“I want to build something,” I say without preamble.
She looks up from her work, unimpressed. “Houses fall down.”
“Not like that,” I insist. “I mean a life. With you.”
She stares at me for a long moment.
“You don’t even know my name,” she says quietly.
“I know enough,” I reply.
She shakes her head. “That’s what scares me.”
“Why?” I press. “Because I won’t leave?”
“No,” she says. “Because you think staying is enough.”
I step closer, voice low. “It can be.”
She exhales, tired. “You’re turning this into something it doesn’t need to be.”
“And you’re pretending it’s nothing,” I counter.
She looks at me then—not annoyed, not amused.
Just wary.
“I never promised you anything,” she says.
“I’m not asking for promises,” I reply. “I’m offering them.”
Her jaw tightens. “That’s worse.”
I don’t understand her caution. I don’t want to.
All I know is that the more she pulls away, the more I need her not to.
And that realization—quiet, intoxicating, terrifying—settles deep in my chest. Not love. Not yet. But something dangerously close.