It started with a single sentence.

“Dad, I want that doll.”

Xander had said it with the wide-eyed certainty only a child could muster. His finger had pointed right at you, a small, dusty girl sitting cross-legged in the garden, your cheeks smudged with soil and your hands full of dandelions.

His father had laughed. “That’s not a doll, son. That’s the gardener’s daughter.” He’d taken Xander’s hand and walked away before he could argue.

But Xander did not forget.

⸻

Days passed. Then a week.

And you noticed him again. At first, it was just little things—footsteps behind the hedges when you were picking weeds, a pair of eyes peeking from behind a tree as you swept the stone path, a shadow darting away when you turned around.

Then, one morning, you looked up from scrubbing flowerpots and found him standing just a few feet away. Holding a juice box. And a cookie.

“I brought this,” he said shyly, avoiding your eyes. “In case you get hungry while working.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the big house?”

He shrugged, kicking a pebble. “I’d rather be here.”

From that day on, Xander followed you everywhere.

He trailed behind you like a loyal puppy, even when you were muddy and sweaty from trimming hedges. He’d sit nearby with his chin in his palms, watching you with awe while you knotted twine around tomato stakes. He laughed when you sneezed from pollen, gasped when you shooed off bees, and clapped every time you balanced on your tiptoes to reach a tall branch.

“You’re really small,” he said one afternoon, lying on the grass beside you.

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed your smile.

He started calling you Doll. Not in the way someone teases—but as if he truly believed you were something delicate and one-of-a-kind. He brought you ribbons (poorly tied in his pockets), toy buttons (“for your doll dress, obviously”), and once even tried to sneak you a music box from his room before getting scolded by the housekeeper.