Today we’re just another couple, brushing shoulders as we move between stalls filled with handwoven blankets, potted herbs, glazed pottery, and rows of vegetables still dusted with soil.
Leo moves easily through the crowds, exchanging friendly hellos with vendors and asking questions as he peruses their offerings.
He buys a crusty loaf of olive-studded bread, a wheel of soft cheese that smells strongly but tastes delicious, and a small jar of honey labelled “From Bee to Me – Cold-Pressed and Local.”
“Building quite the picnic,” I observe as he adds a bottle of wine to his growing collection, its label handwritten and peeling slightly in the sun.
He hands me one of the tote bags, already bulging. “That’s the idea.”
He hands me one of the tote bags. “That’s the idea.”
We pass a bakery stall, where the air smells like sugar and cinnamon, and then stop at a flower vendor’s cart brimming with wild blooms—baby’s breath, cornflowers, golden wattle, and dusky lavender. Leo hesitates, his hand hovering over a messy bouquet of sun-warmed colour before laughing softly.
“Too much, right?”
I reach over picking up the bunch he’d been considering, and shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
The vendor, an elderly woman with sun-weathered skin, beams at us. “Special occasion?”
“Just a day away,” Leo replies, with a boyish grin.
“Been together long?” she asks, wrapping the flowers in brown paper.
“Not long enough,” he says, pressing a note into her hand.
The woman’s smile widens as she holds out the bouquet. “Well, you make a handsome pair. Enjoy your day, loves.”
As we walk away, I nudge his shoulder. “Not long enough?”
He shrugs, a hint of colour touching his cheeks. “Is it a lie?”
“No,” I agree softly.
His hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining as we continue our leisurely stroll.
The breeze carries the scent of citrus and woodsmoke as we stroll hand in hand past the fudge stall and a woman selling second-hand books from crates. Music drifts through the air, mingling with birdsong and the distant bark of a dog.
We follow a path leading away from the village, climbing gently into rolling hills dotted with ancient oak trees. and low stone walls half-swallowed by bramble. The chatter of the market fades behind us, replaced by the quiet hush of rustling leaves and the crunch of gravel beneath our boots.
The security detail is nowhere to be seen, though I have no doubt they’re monitoring from a distance. Still, it feels like we’re alone.
“How did you find this place?” I ask as Leo leads us toward a secluded hilltop overlooking a patchwork of farmland and forests, the fields stitched together in greens and golds.
“I used to come here as a teenager when palace life became too suffocating,” he says. “There’s a perfect spot under that tree where you can see three counties on a clear day.”
The oak stands like a sentinel, thick-limbed and sprawling, its leaves flickering in the light like a thousand little flags. Beneath it, the ground is soft and shaded, the grass thick from decades of shelter.
Leo pulls the blanket from the tote and spreads it out with a practiced flick. It lands unevenly, one corner folding under, and I lean down to tug it straight, our hands brushing. The contact lingers a heartbeat longer than it needs to.
“You take blanket duty,” he says with a grin. “I’ll unpack the provisions.”
I watch as he pulls out the produce then rearranges the items three times until everything’s just so.
“Very anal of you,” I tease.
“I like symmetry,” he replies with a shrug. “Also, I refuse to let a loaf of bread overshadow the wine.”
He holds out two tumblers—borrowed from somewhere—and pours a careful splash of wine into each before handing me one.
