Chapter 8 Estella #2
“Das werde ich sicherlich. I certainly will,” he says smoothly. The words wipe the grin right off my face—for the millionth time this day—and I stop mid-step, staring at him as he shakes his head with a small smile.
“I only said that to impress you,” he justifies, probably sensing the murderous urge that grows inside me. “My father had German roots, so I know a few phrases. Still, your reaction was worth it. But, my question is… Do you actually know Liki?”
I move my lips from side to side, a futile attempt at control, while my foot bounces unevenly on the pavement, betraying my restlessness. After a moment, I shove my hands into my pockets and pick up the rhythm of our walk again, expecting him to fall into step behind me.
“Sure,” I say, tasting the uncertainty in my voice and hating it. Lying has never been a problem for me, never—yet with him, after the ridiculous amount of fun he’s dumped into my day, it feels like betrayal, like something small and sacred has shifted.
“You and that seller seem to be in a pretty good relationship,” he observes casually, changing the course of the conversation with ease.
I snort. “Well, not anymore. Now, thanks to you, he thinks I’m some kind of pervert.”
He shakes his head slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, light amusement dancing across his features. “Out of the two of us, trust me,” he begins, his voice softening, almost conspiratorial, “I am the main pervert.”
A fresh wave of heat crashes over me, sudden and relentless, tightening my chest until it feels like I’m trapped under its weight. I gape at him, caught off guard, the air between us thickening in an almost physical way.
Realizing he’s gone too far, he frowns, his jaw tightening, and turns his face to the side. A rosy blush spreads across his cheeks, subtle but undeniable, and the pull in my core returns with renewed intensity—as if an invisible hand has found its grip, tugging sharply and refusing to let go.
Swallowing hard, I force the tension down, shoving the thoughts away, trying to redirect them toward anything—literally fucking anything—else. My mind claws at the edges of distraction, but the heat lingers, a stubborn echo I can’t quite shake off.
My eyes drift across the sun-bathed stalls until they land on one near the start of the street, its racks filled with vintage clothes we passed before. Clinging to the tiny chance at distraction, I stop and glance at Dante, taking him in from head to toe.
His outfit is painfully dull. I can tell he’s tried—probably influenced by something I said—since he’s traded his usual serious look for something lighter. The cigarette pants give off a touch of old-money charm, but the rest?
Boring.
“Come on,” I say, tilting my head toward the stall. “We’re getting you some decent clothes.”
“Do I really need this?” he asks, feigning weariness, though there’s a spark of thrill in his voice. “I like my clothes.”
“Well, I don’t,” I reply, biting down on the lollipop until it cracks between my teeth. The sugary shards slice against my tongue, sharp and sweet. “And yes—if you don’t want me wanting to kill you twenty-four seven, then you need this.”
He lets out a short laugh as we come closer to the front of the first stall. I shift the shards of candy around my mouth, pressing the sharper ones against my inner cheek until they sting.
A woman with dark, messy curls greets us with a smile so wide her thin lips almost vanish. I don’t reply—my attention is already elsewhere, scanning what hangs in front of us.
I narrow my eyes, pressing the unmelted candy harder into my cheek until a brief spark of pain shoots through me. As I inhale, the shards finally dissolve, and I swallow the fading sweetness with a twinge of disappointment.
It’s strange—hurting myself doesn’t feel the same anymore. The pain gives me something for a split second, then slips away, leaving the same hollow space behind.
Just like everything else in my life.
“You okay?” a deep voice rumbles beside me.
“I’m fine,” I cut flatly, rolling my tongue to chase what’s left of the sugary taste.
Without glancing at him, I step closer and nearly bump into the table.
Every stall here looks like a treasure chest cracked open under the city’s sun, but this one—this one feels alive.
A chaos of colors, textures, and eras spills in every direction.
The air hums with the faint rustle of fabric as I run my fingers along the hangers, each creak whispering of another time.
Clothes—especially old, vintage ones—were never just fabric to me. They’re a language, a declaration. There are millions of choices, and somewhere in that chaos, you can find the one that screams your truth.
It’s fascinating.
“What do you think of these jeans?” I ask, tilting them by the legs so Dante can see the worn pattern in the soft, lived-in weave.
A woman behind the stall begins to explain where the piece came from, but I’m not listening. I’m watching him, curious about what he’ll say and choose. It feels like a new game we’ve started.
“I’m not comfortable in denim,” he says, his hand reaching for a pair of khaki cargo pants. He asks if he can feel the fabric, and the woman nods, so he carefully presses the cloth between the pads of his fingers. “What do you think about these?”
He unfolds them, and I lean in, my own fingertips ghosting across the cloth. I let the corner of my mouth lift. “Still boring, but comfortable. I like the loose fit.”
“Loose, huh?” He smiles, setting the pants back on the stall. “I was thinking of wearing my skinny jeans for the next mission.”
A cold slip of panic snakes down my spine, icy fingers tracing each vertebra as if marking their territory. I press my eyes shut, tuning out the world for a fraction of a second, and draw a slow, deliberate breath through my nose, letting it hiss quietly past my clenched teeth.
“Then don’t complain if you never even make it to the target,” I threaten.
He laughs before moving to the next rack, eyes flicking over jackets. He plucks a brown-and-green plaid fleece and holds it out to me. “Will this work?”
I shrug. “Maybe in the mountains.”
He studies the jacket as if the answer could be read from its stitching. “What if the next mission truly is in the mountains?” he probes softly. “But since you don’t have that scary gleam in your eyes, and your lips aren’t pursed in that thin line, I’ll assume I did well.”
“Tan observador. So observant,” I tease. “But you’re right. This one works for the start.”
Hope flickers across his face, a bright, almost na?ve light that makes him look impossibly young. He casts me a lingering glance, a silent acknowledgment passing between us, before shifting his focus to the woman behind the stall and the ritual of paying for his new clothes.
The sun softens into that honey-colored haze Barcelona wears so well, the kind that melts the edges of buildings and makes everything look dipped in gold.
By now, the city hums with a slower rhythm; the afternoon rush has faded, replaced by the lingering voices of people who, like us, aren’t ready to go home just yet.
What was supposed to be a quick shopping trip has turned into an entire day of wandering and buying anything that catches our eyes.
Our bags are heavier now, proof of our lack of restraint.
I can never stop myself when it comes to clothes and trinkets—if something calls to me, it’s mine.
And once it is, I can’t help but admire it.
I peek into the first bag, my heart lifting with the same curiosity I felt while shopping, as if I might discover surprises I hadn’t chosen myself: a silk blouse with tiny pearl buttons, a pair of mismatched gold earrings, and a linen blazer I didn’t need but couldn’t leave behind.
A smile tugs at my lips, a thread of hope vowing inside me that this happiness will last longer than it usually does, that it won’t become another fleeting moment I’ll fold away and forget.
The sky slowly deepens to mauve as we sit across a quiet street in a small square lined with palm trees and balconies draped in ivy. One by one, the streetlights flicker on, their soft glow brushing the pavement, still warm from the sun.
My feet dangle under the table as I stretch my shoulders, feeling the ache from walking all day.
We’ve stumbled onto a small restaurant, its tables spilling onto the street beneath an awning striped in sun-faded terracotta.
The scent of grilled seafood and lemon drifts through the air, tangy and warm, and I close my eyes, letting it wrap around me.
Dante’s fingers trace the chalk-written menu, even though our order was sent off long ago. I watch him, studying the way the light catches his jawline and the faint shadow under his eyes. He looks different from this morning—softer somehow, or maybe just more tired.
The city has left its mark on both of us.
A thin veil of weariness hangs in our eyes, a subtle glow clinging to our skin.
The clinking of glasses, the laughter of neighbors at nearby tables—it would normally irritate me, grind my patience down, but now, I don’t have the energy to fight it. I just want to watch.
A thought drifts through me, stubborn and sharp. Dante’s exhaustion isn’t just from today. It’s from everything he’s carrying, all the things still unfolding in his life. Maybe that’s why he’s so quiet, so observant—watching the world instead of letting himself dive in.
I can understand that.
I lift my glass of wine and take a sip as the day folds around us, smooth and heavy like silk.
The bitter taste washes over my tongue, lingering for a heartbeat before I swallow.
My hand tightens around the glass, holding it close as if performing some quiet, private ritual.
I raise it to my lips again, the liquid sliding down with familiar warmth.