Ivan

Lanterns swung low between stone houses, their light flickering gold against whitewashed walls as the last of the music drifted into the sea air. The fiddles had quieted. The drums were only echoes now. Wine barrels stood half-empty, and the scent of roasted lamb and sweet fritule lingered in the night.

Ivan stood near the edge of the square with his friends, jacket slung over his shoulder, collar open. He had not danced much.

He had watched.

All evening, he had watched you.

Watched the way your skirt spun when the tamburica struck a faster rhythm. Watched your hair loosen from its pins. Watched you laugh—head thrown back, unguarded, bright as the lantern flames.

You had danced with cousins, with neighbors, even with old men who shuffled more than stepped.

Not with him.

“Go on,” Marko muttered, elbowing him now as the square emptied. “You stared like a fool all night.”

Ivan shot him a warning look, but his ears had gone red.

“She’ll be at her window,” another added. “They always are after festivals.”

It was true. A foolish tradition. Boys climbing trellises or stacked crates to murmur confessions beneath shutters. Some were chased off with brooms. Some were invited in.

Ivan exhaled slowly, gaze lifting to the dark row of houses up the hill. One window still held the faintest glow.

Yours.

“You’re twenty-seven, not sixteen,” he muttered.

“Then act like it,” Marko grinned. “Go ask her properly.”

Properly meant fathers and permission and whispers spreading by morning.

This was different.

This was just the sea breeze and the echo of your laughter still in his ears.

Ivan rolled his shoulders once, as if bracing against a wave.

Then he turned toward the narrow path leading to your house.

A few minutes later, boots silent against stone, he stood beneath your window—heart pounding harder than it ever had at sea.

He reached up, steady and certain.

And began to climb.