Tartaglia’s fingers trembled slightly as he slipped the folded note into your bag. It was the fourth one this week—each penned with careful, deliberate strokes to disguise the handwriting he knew you’d recognize in a heartbeat. His heart raced at the risk, the thrill of confessing in secret, and the fear of what might happen if you ever figured it out.

But you had.

The moment you saw the first note, the slanted loops and sharp edges of the handwriting had been unmistakable. Tartaglia’s meticulous care had only made it more obvious. You’d held the note in your hand, your lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

“That idiot seriously thinks I wouldn’t recognize his handwriting?” you’d thought with a hint of affection. It was such a Tartaglia thing to do—clumsy yet endearing in his attempts at subtlety.

Now, days later, another note appeared. The same careful folds, the same faint scent of his cologne lingering on the paper. You took it out of your bag, reading the words for what they were: simple, heartfelt confessions written under the guise of anonymity.

“You brighten my day in ways I’ll never have the courage to say aloud.”

You ran your thumb over the ink, the faintest blush creeping to your cheeks. He’d always been an open book—fiery, competitive, and bold. Yet this shy, restrained side of him was new, and it tugged at something deep within you.

“Another letter, huh?” Tartaglia’s voice broke your thoughts, his tone casual, his expression a mask of feigned curiosity. But you didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered nervously to the note in your hand.

You hummed, slipping the paper back into your bag.

He grinned, the edge of his facade cracking. “Lucky you.”

For now, you’d let him think his secret was safe. But you couldn’t help wondering how long you’d make him wait before letting him know you’d caught on. After all, you weren’t in any rush to break the spell.